When she returned, shortly after, I had regained my strength. She
found me with my hat on and sitting in the rocking-chair. The woman
drew up her own, and began in a matter-of-fact voice:
"Now we 'll proceed to business. I 've been thinking like chain
lightning ever since that clap of thunder, and I can tell you the storm
's cleared up more 'n the air. I ain't the kind to dodge round much
when there 's business on hand. Straight to the point is the best
every time; so I may as well tell you that this place,"--she held out
the advertisement,--"is made for you and you for the place, even if you
ain't quite so strong as you might be."
I felt the tension in my face lessen. I was about to speak, but the
woman put out her hand, saying:
"Now, don't say a word--not yet; let me do the talking; you can have
your say afterwards, and I 'll be only too glad to hear it. But it's
laid on me like the Lord's hand itself to tell you what I 'm going to.
It 'll take long in the telling, but if you go out to this place, you
ought to know something why there is such a place to go to, and to
explain that, I 've got to begin to tell you what I 'm going to. You
're different from the others, and it's your due to know. I should
judge life had n't been all roses for you so far, and if you should
have a few later on, there 'll be plenty of thorns--there always is.
So just you stand what I 'm going to tell you. This was n't in the
bargain when I told Doctor Rugvie I 'd see all the applicants and try
to get the right one,--but I can make it all right with him. It's a
longer story than I wish 't was, but I 've got to begin at the
beginning.
"And begin with myself, too, for I was country raised. Father and
mother both died when I was young, and I brought myself up, you might
say. I come down here when I was nineteen years old, and it wasn't
more 'n a year 'fore I found myself numbered with the outcasts on this
earth--all my own fault too. I 've always shouldered the blame, for a
woman as has common sense knows better, say what you 've a mind to; but
the knowledge of that only makes green apples sourer, I can tell you.
"I mind the night in December, thirty years ago, when I found myself in
the street, too proud to beg, too good to steal. There was n't nothing
left--nothing but the river; there 's always enough of that and to
spare. So I took a bee line for one of the piers, and crouched down by
a mooring-post. I 'd made up my mind to end it all; it did n't cost me
much neither. I only remember growing dizzy looking down at the foam
whirling and heaving under me, and kinder letting go a rope I 'd
somehow got hold of...
"The next thing I knew I was hearing a woman say:
"'You leave her to me; she'll be as quiet as a lamb now.' She put her
arms around me. 'You poor child,' she said, 'you come along with me.'
And I went.
"Well, that woman mothered me. She took in washing and ironing in two
rooms on Tenth Avenue. She never left me night or day for a week
running till my baby come. And all she 'd say to me, when I got sort
of wild and out of my head, was:
"'You ain't going to be the grave of your child, be you?' And that
always brought me to myself. I was so afraid of murdering the child
that was coming. That's what she kept saying:
"'You ain't going to be so mean as not to give that innercent baby a
chance to live! Just you wait till it comes and you 'll see what life
's for. 'T ain't so bad as you think, and some folks make out; and
that child has a right to this world. You give it the right, and then
die if you think it's best.' So she kept at me till my baby come, and
then--why, I got just fierce to live for its sweet little sake.
"'Bout six months after that I got religion--never mind how I got it; I
got it, that's the point, and I 've held on to it ever since. And when
I 'd got it, the first thing I did was to take my baby in my arms and
go down to that pier, clear out to the mooring-post, and kneel right
down there in the dark and vow a vow to the living God that I 'd give
my life to saving of them of His poor children who 'd missed their
footing, and trying to help 'em on to their feet again.
"And I 've kept it; brought my girl right up to it too. She 's been my
mainstay through it all these last ten years. I took in washing and
ironing in the basement of this very house,--my saving angel helped me
to work,--and when it was done, late at night between eleven and
twelve, I 'd go down to the rivers, sometimes one, sometimes t' other,
and watch and wait, ready to do what come in my way.
"At first the police got on to my track thinking something was wrong;
but it took 'bout two words to set 'em right, as it did every other man
that come near me; and soon I went and come and no questions asked.
"One night I 'd been down to one of the North River piers. It was in
December, and a howling northeaster had set in just before sundown. It
was sleeting and snowing and blowing a little harder than even I could
stand. I had just crossed the street from the pier and was thanking
God, as I covered my head closer with my shawl, that, so far as I knew,
no one of His children was tired of living, when something--I did n't
see what for I was bending over against the wind--went by me with a
rush, and I thought I heard a groan. I turned as quick as a flash, and
see something dark running, swaying, stumbling across the street,
headed for the pier. That was enough for me.
"I caught up my skirt and give chase. How the woman, for it was one,
could get over the ground so fast was a mystery, except that she was
running with the wind. She was on to the pier in no time. I cried
'Stop!' and 'Watch!' I don't think she heard me. Once she nearly
fell, and I thought I had her I was so close to her; but she was up and
off again before I could lay hand on her. Then I shouted; and the Lord
must have lent me Gabriel's trump, for the woman turned once, and when
she see me she threw out her hands and fairly flew.
"The Sound steamer had n't gone out, the night was so thick and bad,
and the cabin lights alongside shone out bright enough for me to mark
her as she dodged this way and that trying to get to the end of the
pier.
"She knew I was after her, and I was n't going to give up. But when I
see the make-fast, and all around it the yeasting white on water as
black as ink, and she standing there with her arms up ready to jump, my
knees knocked together. Somehow I managed to get hold of her
dress--but she did n't move; and all of a sudden, before I could get my
arms around her, she dropped in a heap, groaning: 'My child--my child--'
"I 've always thought 't was then her heart broke.
"A deck-hand on the steamer heard me screech, and together we got her
on the floor of the lower deck. We did what we could for her, and when
she 'd come to, they got me a hack and I took her home, laid her on my
bed, and sent the hackman for Doctor Rugvie. He 's been my right-hand
man all these years. He stayed with her till daylight. He told me she
'd never come through alive; the heart action was all wrong.
"After he 'd gone, she spoke for the first time and asked for some
paper and a pencil. I propped her up on the pillows, and all that day
between her pains she was writing, writing and tearing up. Towards
night she grew worse. I asked her name then, and if she had any
friends. She looked at me with a look that made my heart sink; but she
give me no answer. About six, she handed me a slip of paper--'A
telegram,' she said, and asked me if I would send it right off. I
could n't leave her, but when the Doctor come about eight, I slipped
out and sent it. The name on it was the one you say was your mother's
husband's and the message said:
"'I am dying and alone among strangers. Will you come to me for the
sake of my child,' and she give me the address.
"Come here, my dear," said the woman suddenly to me. I was staring at
her, not knowing whether I drew breath or not; "come here to me."
I rose mechanically. The woman drew me down upon her knee and put her
two strong arms about me. I knew I was in the presence of revelation.
"At midnight her child, a girl, was born--the third of December just
twenty-six years ago. Doctor Rugvie fought for her life, but he could
n't save her. At one she died--of a broken heart and no mistake, so
the Doctor said. She refused to give him her name and he left her in
peace--that's his way. But before she died she give him an envelope
which she filled with some things she 'd been writing in the afternoon,
and said:
"'Keep them--for my daughter. I trust you.'
"Oh, my dear, my dear, the sorrow in this God's earth! I ain't got
used to it yet and never shall. That dying face was like an angel's.
Doctor Rugvie said he 'd never seen the like before. She spoke only
once to him in all her agony, then she said: 'The little life that is
coming is worth all this--all--all.'
"The next morning there come a telegram from somewhere in New
England--I forget where--'Will be with you at two.'
"And sure enough, a little after two, a young feller come to the door.
He did n't look more 'n twenty, but it seemed from his face as if those
twenty years had done something to him 't would generally take a man's
lifetime to do, and said he 'd come to claim her who was his wife.
That's just what he said, no more, no less: 'I've come to claim her who
was my wife. Where is she?' And he give me the telegram.
"It was 'bout the hardest thing I 've ever had to do, but I had to tell
him just as things was. I thought for a minute he was going to fall he
shook so; but he laid hold of the door-jamb and, straightening himself,
looked me square in the eye just as composed as Doctor Rugvie himself,
and says:
"'In that case I have come to claim the body of her who was my wife.'
"Those are his very words. I took him into the back room and left 'em
alone together. I did n't dare to say a word for his face scairt me.
"When he come out he said he would relieve me of all further
responsibility, which I took pains to inform him included a day-old
baby, thinking that would fetch some explanation from him. But he did
n't seem to lay any weight on _that_ part of it. He made all the
arrangements himself, and I took a back seat. I see I was n't any more
necessary to him than if I had n't been there. He went out for an hour
and come back with a nurse; and at six that afternoon he drove away in
a hack with her and the baby, an express cart with the body following
on behind.
"I told him the last thing 'fore he went that his wife had given an
envelope with some papers to Doctor Rugvie, and that they were for his
child. He turned and give me a look that was beyond me. I never could
fathom that look! It said more 'n any living human being's look that I
ever see--if only I could have read it! But he never spoke a word, not
even a word of thanks--not that I was expecting or wanted any after
seeing his face as he stood hanging on to the door-jamb. I knew then
he did n't really see me nor anything else except the body of his wife
somewhere in that basement. He did everything as if he 'd been a
machine instead of a human being; and when I see him drive off I did
n't know much more 'n I did when I took the woman in, except that she
was married."
She was silent. I drew a long breath.
"Is that all you know?" I felt I could not be left so, suspended as it
were over the abyss of the unknown in my life.
She sighed. "My dear, this great city is full of just such mysteries
that no human being can fathom. I, for one, don't try to. I can only
lend a helping hand, and ask no questions; 't ain't best. Well, I 've
been talking a blue streak for a half an hour, but I 've had to. When
you laid there on the cot, you was the living image of that other, only
thinner, smaller like. You told me you was born in this city
twenty-six years ago come the third of next December; that you did n't
know who your father was, but that your mother was married. Her
husband's name was the same as the one on the telegram. I 've put two
and two together, and perhaps I 've made five out of it. Anyway it's
your right to know. I 'm sure Doctor Rugvie will back me up in this."
For a moment I made no answer. Then I spoke:
"Are you sure there is no more? You can't recall anything that Doctor
Rugvie said about that paper in the envelope?"
"Well, yes, I can; a little more. After all, it's what will help you
most--and yet I ain't sure--"
"Tell me, do--do." My hands clasped each other nervously.
"Why, it's just this: Doctor Rugvie was called away out of the city on
a case as soon as he 'd got through here, and meantime the young feller
had come and gone. When the Doctor come back I told him what had been
going on while he was away, and I give him the envelope. He told me he
found her marriage certificate in it--but not to the man whose name was
on the telegram. I never could make head nor tail of it."
"Married--my mother married--" I repeated. I drew away from the
woman's restraining arms and slipping to my knees beside her, buried my
face in her lap and began to sob. I could not help it. I was broken
for the time both physically and mentally by the force of my unpent
emotion.
The woman laid her hand protectingly, tenderly on my quivering
shoulders, and waited. She must have seen spring freshets before, many
a one during the past thirty years, and have known both their benefit
and injury to the human soul. Gradually I regained my control.
"Oh, you don't know what this means to me!" I exclaimed, lifting my
face swollen with weeping to the kindly one that looked down into mine.
"You don't know what this means to me--it has lifted so much, so
much--has let in so much light just at a time when I needed it so--when
everything looked so black. Sometime I will tell you; but now I want
to know when, where, how I can get hold of that marriage certificate.
It belongs to me--to me."
I rose with an energy that surprised the woman and, stooping, took her
face between my hands and kissed her. I smiled down into that face.
She sat speechless. I smiled again. She passed her hand over her eyes
as if trying to clear her mind of confusing ideas. I spoke again to
her:
"The tempest is over; why should n't we look for a bright to-morrow?"
I could hear the vibrant note of a new hope in my voice. The woman
heard it too. She continued to stare at me. I drew up my chair to
hers and, laying my hand on her knee, said persuasively:
"Now, let's talk; and let me ask some questions."
"To be sure; to be sure," the woman replied. I know she was wondering
what would be the next move on the part of her applicant.
"Don't you want to know my name?" I said. "That's rather an important
matter when you take a new position; and you said the place was mine,
didn't you?"
The woman smiled indulgently. "To be sure it's yours; and what is your
name?" she asked, frankly curious at last.
"Marcia Farrell, but I took my great-grandmother's maiden name. There
are none of the family left; I 'm the last."
"What was you christened?"
"I never was christened. And what is your name?"
"Delia Beaseley."
"And your daughter's?"
"Jane."
"And when does Doctor Rugvie return?"
"The last of November. You want that certificate?"
"I must have it; it is mine by right." I spoke with decision.
"Well, you 'll get it just as soon as the Doctor can find it; like
enough it's locked up in some Safe Deposit with his papers; you mustn't
forget it's been nearly twenty-six years since he's had it.--I can't
for the life of me think of that name."
"Never mind that now; tell me about the place. Where is it? Who are
the people? Or is there only one--it said 'an elderly Scotchwoman'.
Do you know her?"
"No, my dear, I don't know any one of them, and Doctor Rugvie does n't
mean I should; that's where he trusts me. I can tell you where the
place is: Lamoral, Province of Quebec; more 'n that I don't know."
"But," I spoke half in protest, "does n't Doctor Rugvie think that any
one taking the position ought to know beforehand where she is going and
whom she 's going to live with?"
"He might tell you if he was here himself, and then again he mightn't.
You see it's this way: he trusts me to use my common sense in accepting
an applicant, and he expects the applicant to trust his name for
reference to go to the end of the world if he sends her there, without
asking questions."
"Oh, the old tyrant!" I laughed a little. "What does he pay?" was my
next question.
"Doctor Rugvie! You think _he_ pays? Good gracious, child, you _are_
on the wrong track."
"Then put me on the right one, please." I laid my hand on the hard
roughened one.
"I s'pose I might as well; I don't believe the Doctor would mind."
"Of course he would n't." I spoke with a fine, assumed assurance.
Delia Beaseley smiled.
"You know I told you that young feller who come here went away without
saying so much as 'Thank you'?"
I merely nodded in reply. That question suddenly quenched all the new
hope of a new life in me.
"Along the first of the New Year, that was twenty-five years ago, I got
a draft by mail from a national bank in this city; the draft was on
that bank; it was for five hundred dollars. And ever since, in
December, I have had a check for one hundred in the same way. I always
get Doctor Rugvie to cash them for me, and he says no questions are
answered; after the first year he did n't ask any. The Doctor 's in
the same boat. He 's got a draft on that same bank for five hundred
dollars every year for the last twenty-five years. He says it's
conscience money; and he feels just as I do, that it comes either from
the man who claimed to be the woman's husband, or from that other she
was married to according to the certificate.--I can't think of that
name!
"He don't care much, I guess, seeing the use he 's going to put the
money to. He 's hired a farm for a term of years, up in the Province
of Quebec, somewhere near the St. Lawrence, with some good buildings on
it; and when he knows of somebody that needs just such a home to pick
up in he is going to send 'em up there. And the conscience money is
going to help out. This is the place where you 're to help the
Scotchwoman, as I understand it. Now that's all I can tell you, except
the wages is twenty-five dollars a month besides room and keep. I
s'pose you 'll go for that?"
"Go! I can't wait to get away; I 'd like to go to-morrow, but I must
stay two or three weeks longer in the library. But, I don't
understand--how am I to accept the place without notification? And you
don't know even the name of the Scotch-woman?"
"I 'll tend to that. My girl writes all the letters for me, and the
letters to this place go in the care of the 'Seigniory of Lamoral',
whatever that may mean. They get there all right. You come round here
within a week, and I 'm pretty sure that the directions will be here
with the passage money."
I felt my face flush from my chin to the roots of my hair; and I knew,
moreover, that Delia Beaseley was reading that sign with keen
accustomed eyes; she knew there was sore need for just that help.