Edward Lindsay and his wife were unmistakably favorites of Fortune. They
were happily married, their love for each other being firmly established
on a basis of sympathy and respect; they were young and blessed with sound
health; they were very popular among their friends, of whom they had many;
they were clever, Edward in a literary, his wife in an artistic way; they
were prosperous, far beyond the expectations they had formed when, shortly
before their marriage, Edward left his position in the Crescent Bank and
went into real estate on his own account. It is hardly to be wondered at
that they were regarded with envy by more than a few of their
acquaintances in the comfortable city of St. Louis.
But there was, after all, a cloud that cast a shadow upon the happiness of
the Lindsays,--a cloud of which they rarely spoke, but about which each of
them thought a great deal: they were childless. In the early months of
their married life they had been wont to talk of their prospective
children, and to say what they would do and what they would not do when
_they_ had a child; but when the months lengthened into years, and still
there was neither son nor daughter to carry out their plans, they
gradually left off alluding to these things, though they never ceased to
hope that they might some day have a child.
At first the cloud was very small, so that they refused to recognize its
presence; but every day it lengthened and broadened, until at last it
darkened the brightest moments of their life. For each knew that the
thoughts of the other ran much upon this one thing, and each was troubled
that the other should brood upon it. And then, in course of time, they
grew to be a little morbid. It seemed to them as if by their friends who
had children they were regarded with an ill-concealed, patronizing pity.
They felt an unreasonable antipathy toward young parents who loved to
discourse of the ailments and accomplishments of their babies, and they
even avoided the houses of many acquaintances wherein, they knew from
experience, the conversation must be principally devoted to some young
hopeful.
But after three winters had come and gone since their marriage, Edward
began to reflect more and more seriously upon a scheme of which he had
often thought as a relief from this unsatisfactory state of things, and
one April morning he broached it at the breakfast-table.
"Ellen," he asked abruptly, "how would you like to adopt a child?"
His wife arrested the coffee-pot over a half-filled cup and gazed at him
with sparkling eyes.
"Oh, Edward!" she exclaimed, as if a reply were quite unnecessary. "Why
have we never thought of that before?"
"I can't imagine," he rejoined shamelessly. "But I happened to think
yesterday of the unlimited possibilities before such a child as we should
adopt. You see, we could make sure of a vigorous constitution, of sturdy
and respectable parents, of physical beauty, of any combination of good
qualities, if we only exercised proper care in our selection. And then,
with the training and education we should give a child of ours--"
"Of course we should always consider it our own child," said Ellen.
"Of course," assented her husband. "Perhaps," he added, "it would be
better that he should never know the facts of the case."
"Oh, no! I should never be happy myself if I felt I was deceiving the
child," she protested.
"Well, it would be rather a difficult thing to manage, anyway, his--"
"Or her," interrupted Ellen.
"Whichever you may prefer," Edward returned, with prompt liberality. "I
was thinking of a boy, simply because I realize that a boy's chances of
reaching distinction are much greater than a girl's."
His wife sent him a glance of obviously feigned reproach, and thereupon
confessed that she should be as happy with one as with the other. But
Edward felt that he ought to represent the matter in its proper light, and
affirmed that every girl anxious to work goes into life handicapped, and
that nine times out of ten when a girl marries she reaches the goal of her
ambition. In adopting a girl, therefore, while they might contribute much
to their own happiness, they could not reasonably hope to enrich the world
greatly. On the other hand, from a boy properly selected, carefully reared,
and soundly educated, they might with good reason expect the very highest
results. Ellen took some mental exceptions to this argument, on behalf of
her sex, but she deemed it unnecessary to express them. | She entered
enthusiastically into his project, and they speedily agreed that Dr.
Kreiss, their titular family physician,--they had never yet had occasion
to consult him,--should be requested to look about for a suitable boy.
Edward hailed the doctor on Fourth Street the next day, and presented his
case.
"I see exactly what you want, said the doctor. "Must be 'young, sound, and
kind,' I reckon we can fill the bill. You would rather have an orphan, I
suppose?"
"Oh, by all means! There might be some unpleasant results otherwise."
"Likely enough," replied the doctor. "But it will not be so easy to lay
our hands on a first-class orphan _baby_. I could get you plenty of boys
four or five years old."
But Edward explained that infancy was a _sine qua non_. They especially
wished that the child should be too young to have acquired tastes or
habits of any kind, whether good or the reverse. They did not seek to
gratify a mere whim of the moment,--simply to provide themselves with a
plaything,--but hoped to aid in shaping a life of more than ordinary
usefulness and worth. The doctor made answer that he would gladly do his
best to find such a child as they wished, that he had no doubt of ultimate
success, but that they must be prepared to wait.
This interview having been reported to Ellen, the life of the Lindsays at
once assumed a brighter character. Edward went to his business with
greater zest, and in his wife's eyes was a light he had not seen there for
many a day. They now revived their old-time theories of education and
physical training. They dispassionately reviewed the respective advantages
of European and American universities. They spent a good deal of time in
discussing the eligibility of the professions as well as of the sciences
and arts. Edward argued that business of any kind was practically out of
the question, because, with real estate in its present favorable condition,
a few more years would render mere money-getting wholly unnecessary for a
child of theirs. They speculated, of course, upon the personal appearance
of their expected heir, but they wisely deferred any expression of
preference in this respect to the time of his arrival. Names were debated
upon daily, until, after many discussions, they made choice of "John," a
title which had done honorable service in Ellen's family, and which,
Edward said, commended itself as being simple and strong. Meanwhile,
though a month passed away without word from the doctor, they waited in
confidence. They had no wish, they told each other, that he should act
hastily: it was merely a question of time; they could afford to be
patient. And at last the doctor sent them a laconic note,--"Come and see
me."
Dr. Kreiss had a deservedly large practice, and when the Lindsays
presented themselves at his office they were obliged to wait until the
numerous company of invalids that preceded them could be attended to. A
dead silence prevailed in the room, and both Edward and his wife began to
feel uncomfortable after a few minutes had elapsed. They endeavored to
amuse themselves by studying the faces of the doctor's patients and
guessing at their complaints; but this was not enlivening, and Edward at
last essayed conversation. He whispered several things which he thought
quite bright and appropriate, but Ellen took them all very seriously and
vouchsafed only monosyllables in reply. It being evident that she was not
in a mood for pleasantry, he relapsed into silence. But he went on to
think of sundry occasions upon which he had waited in a certain dark
little anteroom at Primary No.--until the principal might find leisure to
flog him. Having exhausted this subject, he looked about for something to
read, and descried some books on a table at the farther end of the room.
He shrank, however, from the idea of walking over to them and back again
in a pair of shoes which he knew very well would squeak. After vainly
searching his pockets for a newspaper, he resigned himself to the
inevitable, and occupied himself with his watch-chain and in tracing
figures on the carpet with his cane.
Finally the doctor got through with the patients who were before them, and
the Lindsays were ushered into his presence.
"I've got you a splendid boy," he said, with enthusiasm; whereat they
glanced furtively about the room. "Oh, he isn't here," he laughed, "but
ready for delivery whenever you say the final word. I only wish to make
sure that you are satisfied with the prospect. It's a short story. The
mother died at the child's birth, about a year and a half ago. Less than a
week ago the father, who was a fine, broad shouldered young fellow engaged
in some sort of a shipping business, got an ugly fall on one of the
steamers and used himself up pretty thoroughly. I was called to attend the
case, and did my best for the poor fellow; but it was no use. He died
yesterday morning."
The doctor paused, as if for a leading question. Ellen was mute, and
Edward felt constrained to say something: so he asked, "Did you know the
mother?"
"Very well," answered the doctor, "She was one of the sweetest girls I
ever met anywhere. She was a teacher in one of the public schools before
she married, but she was capable of better work than school-teaching, and
if she had lived she would have proved it. She had some very bright ideas,
I assure you. She was uncommonly pretty, too, with a lot of dark-brown
hair, fine eyes, and rather classical features. You'll see it all in the
boy. He's his mother from head to heels."
"How does it happen that his relatives are willing to part with him?"
Edward asked.
"Because his father was an orphan himself, and his mother's family is so
poor that the child would be a serious burden to them. For all that, I had
to make use of some eloquence to get possession of the baby, and only
succeeded after representing the many excellencies of the young people who
wish to adopt him."
The doctor bowed gracefully. Ellen then found words to say that he had
been more than kind, and that if he was satisfied of the child's good
health there was no reason for hesitation. Edward, who wished to terminate
these preliminaries as speedily as possible, added, "Most certainly not."
"Very well, then," said the doctor: "we will consider the thing settled.
The boy is as sound as a dollar, has a splendid digestion, sleeps like a
top, and cuts his teeth as if he enjoyed it. Now, if you will call with a
carriage to-morrow about this time, I will go with you--for that will be
necessary--to get the little fellow."
But Ellen would not take Edward from his business again the next day,
and--to his relief, it must be admitted--declared that she could attend to
further arrangements without his assistance. This she did, and Edward
found her in an ecstatic state when he came home to his dinner in the
evening.
"We can never thank the doctor enough," she exclaimed _imprimis_, meeting
her husband at the door. "I have never seen such a beautiful baby. _Such_
a sweet little face, and such dear little ways! You must come up into the
nursery immediately. I should have brought him down to welcome you, but it
is just his supper-time, and Mrs. Doly thought he'd better not wait."
And Edward was forthwith hurried up-stairs into the room which his wife
composedly designated as "the nursery," where, in the arms of a
middle-aged, motherly-looking woman, reposed the little waif chance had
intrusted to his care. He was certainly a very handsome boy, and his fine
head, big blue eyes, and clear, rosy complexion justified enthusiasm. As
Edward appeared in the door-way, the child regarded him intently for a
moment, and then, whether by accident or by some working of intelligence,
with a little jump of emphasis ejaculated, "Da-da," which everybody knows
to be early English for "papa." Of course Edward capitulated on the spot,
and, like a child with a new toy, he could scarcely be torn away at the
sound of the dinner-bell.
"Little John," as they came to call him,--because his grave and dignified
manners seemed to render inappropriate both "Johnny" and "Jack,"--had
securely established himself in the affections of his foster-parents
before the end of a week. He was a mine of entertainment. Literature and
art languished in the house, while the Lindsays amused themselves in
playing with their baby or in discussing his good qualities and in
planning for his future. And now when they went about among their married
friends they not only felt themselves _en rapport_, but considered that
they occupied a position of decided superiority, for everybody conceded
that there was no more lovely and winning child in St. Louis than little
John Lindsay; and when people spoke only of other children than their own,
they frankly admitted that they never had seen such a wonderful boy. It
was one of his characteristics that he never cried in good, sober earnest.
Upon rare occasions he would sob a little over a delayed repast, a bumped
nose, or some other tribulation incident to his age, but he was extremely
susceptible to argument, and could always be restored to his normal
tranquillity by a proper explanation of the case. To be sure, he was a
picture of health, and seldom had occasion for tears on the score of
ailments; but it should be remembered, as Mrs, Doly, the nurse, proudly
claimed, that babies are very apt to cry when there is nothing the matter
with them.
"Oh, Mrs. Doly," Ellen exclaimed one morning, when by some means or other
Little John had specially excited her admiration, "what a lovely woman his
mother must have been! How I wish I might have known her before she died!
Sometimes I feel as if it cannot be right for me to have this dear little
baby without her consent."
Not long after this it suddenly occurred to her that some legal steps
ought probably to be taken in order that Little John might be secure
against all demands. She went to Edward in alarm, and felt no peace again
until he reported compliance with every necessary formality.
When hot weather arrived, Edward decided to allow himself a short vacation,
--an indulgence which the exactions of business had hitherto prohibited
every year since his marriage. As to where the precious time should be
spent there was but one opinion in the Lindsay household: they would go
East and rent a little cottage on the sea-shore at Marant, where they had
passed several summers as children, and where the salt air would do much
for Little John's development, as it had done for their own not so very
many years ago. Edward wrote to one of his correspondents at Boston,
requesting him to secure suitable quarters; and, when June was a fortnight
old, they moved into a comfortable cottage at Marant, after a flying trip
without incident from St. Louis.
Little John fell in love with the sea at first sight, and his constancy
never wavered so long as he remained at Marant. He was at his happiest
when his perambulator was pushed to the edge of the water so that the
waves flowed about the wheels. In such a position he would remain
perfectly content for hours, usually in silence, but at times softly
soliloquizing or addressing the waves in earnest but incomprehensible
baby-language. In the mean time, Mrs. Doly, seated in a camp-chair behind,
could devote an almost uninterrupted attention to her knitting, rising
only at intervals to see that the carriage occupied a proper position with
respect to the movements of the tide, while Ellen reclined in idleness
upon the sand. To so great an extent was her office a sinecure that once,
when the water was very calm, Mrs. Doly fell asleep in the warm sun,
during Ellen's temporary absence, and awoke as the water wetted her toes
to find Little John completely surrounded and pretty nearly in his element
literally. Far from being alarmed, however, he was in a state of exalted
bliss, and emphatically protested against being removed to a more secure
position. But when the tide was going out he was not so content to remain
_in statu quo_, and, partly rising to his feet, would indicate by most
forcible remarks and gesticulations that he wished to be moved farther
down the beach. He manifested an ardent desire to accompany Edward on his
rowing expeditions, whenever he witnessed the start; but Ellen would not
consent to this, and Little John was never initiated into the charms of
boating.
It was not long before Ellen's fears were aroused that her boy might grow
up with nautical tastes.
"Ought we to permit him to become so infatuated?" she asked Edward.
"Why, what can we do?" he returned.
"We can give up Marant and spend the rest of your vacation at the
mountains."
"That would be useless, dear, granting that Little John has been born with
a taste for the sea. You can't eradicate an inborn proclivity."
"But, Edward, you surely do not wish--would not permit Little John to go
to sea?"
"I should never attempt to prevent him from doing so if he wished to. A
born sailor can't make a good lawyer, or a doctor, or anything else,--at
least until he has satiated himself with the sea. All the evidence of
history shows that, you know. Of course we both hope that Little John will
not develop a sailor's taste, and I don't think there is any reason to
fear that he will: all babies are fond of the sea."
"Yes, Edward; but," tremulously, "you know Dr. Kreiss said his father was
in a shipping business."
"Very true: some sort of a broker or agent, probably. They never go to sea;
and it isn't to be expected that the child inherits any taste for it from
_him._ Still, we mustn't forget, Ellen, that none of our wishes are
perfectly sure to be realized. We will do our best to further them, but,
after all, you know, _Dieu dispose_"
Ellen had never brought herself fully to realize the application of this
trite saying to the case of Little John, but she now went away to her room
and thought the whole question through. She saw all at once the long
series of temptations to which he must be subjected before he became a
man. Yes, it was possible that this sweet child might grow up to
disappoint her bitterly, to be far worse than an honest sailor,--a useless
idler, or even a criminal. She shuddered at the very thought of the last,
and with a great leaping of the heart she resolved that, if God should see
fit to spare the child, her own life should be devoted to shaping his. She
would forget herself entirely; her little ambitious projects should be
wholly thrown aside, that no effort might be spared for the accomplishment
of her one great duty. Tenderness and sympathy and example should do their
utmost, but she would not spoil her boy: there should be sternness if it
were needed; and she felt that this would try her devotion most of all.
Life at Marant thoroughly agreed with Little John. Every day left upon him
its mark of development and improvement. Other babies in the neighborhood
suffered more or less from "prickly heat," whooping-cough, and cholera
morbus, and ailed upon the advent of teeth. Not so Little John. He seemed
proof against everything. One day Ellen was called from the beach to
attend to some detail of housekeeping, and upon her return was horrified
to find the child playing with some poison ivy, which Mrs. Doly, in
metropolitan ignorance of its qualities, had gathered from the adjacent
bluff. He had rubbed it all over his face and crushed it between his hands,
and was in the act of stuffing some of it down the back of his neck. With
her gloved hands Ellen snatched the leaves away, upbraided poor Mrs. Doly,
subjected Little John to violent ablution, and then sat down to await
disaster. But it never came. The only inconvenience Little John ever
experienced from the incident was the loss of a certain degree of liberty;
for thence-forth Ellen would not suffer him to be separated from her for
an instant. Mrs. Doly, however, did not escape so easily. The noxious
_Rhus_ produced its most evil effects upon her face and hands, and for a
week she led a life of physical torture enhanced by humiliation of spirit.
Upon another occasion a neighbor's child dropped a small marble in front
of Little John, who unhesitatingly picked it up, put it into his mouth,
and swallowed it before anybody could interfere. Again was Ellen aroused
to the highest degree of alarm; but this time, expecting nothing less than
speedy death for the unfortunate baby, she despatched the entire household
in search of a physician. None was to be found at Marant, the sole local
practitioner having gone to Boston for the day. With great presence of
mind, Ellen then instituted a course of treatment herself, up to the
successful termination of which Little John maintained his usual excellent
spirits.
He was backward both in walking and in talking. Twenty months had passed
over his curly head before he could fairly stand alone; and then his
vocabulary was much more limited than is usual with children of that age.
But Edward construed this into a favorable sign. "Your precocious children
rarely amount to anything," he said. "They wear themselves out before they
come to the real work of life. I should really feel disappointed if Little
John should grow up a model school-boy. He would be sure to develop into a
pedagogue, or a book-worm, or something of the sort. Thanks to Providence,
he promises better."
His foster-parents rarely thought of him as an adopted child, so
effectually had he possessed himself of their love. From time to time,
however, in some moment of enthusiasm, Edward would declare that the more
he thought about it the more he was led to believe that it was better to
have found Little John than to have had a child of their own. "You see,
Ellen," he would say, "we both have an active, nervous temperament. A
child would be very apt to inherit this in an exaggerated degree, and
consequently to lead a life unhappy in itself, besides causing us a great
deal of sorrow and disappointment. But what a wonderful reserve of
nerve-force Little John has! Whether he turns out a judge, an artist, or a
sailor, it will count for more than his _physique_, and _that_ is
priceless." And then Ellen would smile contentedly. In those days the
Lindsays were very happy indeed.
The charms of Marant are well known, and it is not surprising that the
Lindsays should have protracted their stay to the utmost, and that autumn
should have arrived before they turned their faces westward. Doubtless
Little John would have strongly protested against quitting the sea-side,
had he been aware that he was about to do so. For several days after
returning to St. Louis he was certainly almost inconsolable. He begged
constantly, in his peculiar, abbreviated language, for the beach and the
ocean, with especial earnestness whenever he was taken for a promenade in
his perambulator. But in time, of course, the grand impression faded from
his memory,--to the secret delight of Ellen, who had never become quite
reconciled to his adoration of the sea.
As the child acquired words and accomplishments, he lost nothing of his
sweetness and strangely mature dignity. When the tan disappeared from his
cheeks, he looked a little less robust; but this was to have been
expected. Such confidence had the Lindsays in the invulnerability of his
constitution that they were not alarmed when he experienced his inevitable
first indisposition of a serious character. Mrs. Doly and Ellen agreed
that it was a natural consequence of the change in his diet and mode of
life since they had come back to the city, and Dr. Kreiss, who was at once
summoned, substantiated the theory. But the next day Little John was no
better, and at night so decidedly worse that Edward sent for the doctor
again. The man of medicine looked grave this time. He stayed with the
little sufferer for several hours. Before midnight he came once more; and
when he went away Little John was dead.
The blow fell upon the Lindsays with the more crushing force from its
terrible suddenness. Among all the contingencies to which they had looked
forward they had never seriously considered the possibility of this. They
had prepared themselves for disappointment, but not for bereavement. For
the first time they realized how thoroughly their adopted child had become
a part of their life. Hours that had been the brightest in the day now
dragged along wearisomely, and they often sat in silence together, because
they knew that if they spoke at all It must be of Little John. After a
time they saw, as many young parents have seen after their first great
loss, that the world could never be quite the old world to them again. But
they felt their love for each other to be all the stronger, and they tried
hard to lighten each other's sorrow by being cheerful and brave. It was
saddest, of course, for Ellen. All day she was alone in the house, and,
though she might busy her hands over a watercolor or an etching, her
thoughts would often stray away and send the tears to her eyes.
Occasionally she yielded to impulse and paid furtive visits to the nursery,
where, with a little dress or some other memento of her lost child laid
upon her knees, she would sit in long revery. By and by Edward noticed
that her face had taken upon itself a constant expression of sadness,
which even her smiles could not disguise. He began to think about a
European tour. From girlhood Ellen had looked forward to spending a year
in study abroad, and it seemed to him that no time could be better than
the present. It would be hard to leave his business; he could not do so
before spring anyway; but everything should be sacrificed to Ellen's
happiness, and, with her assent, he resolved, they should go at that
season. Just now his business was unusually exacting. He became every day
more alive to the fact that, unless he chose to lose a valuable portion of
his _client?_, he must spend a few weeks in the Southwest. Many St. Louis
capitalists were anxious to buy land in Texas at this unparalleled period
of her prosperity, and many commissions as well as opportunities for
private investment in the State demanded his attention at once. But could
he and ought he to leave Ellen now? He could not decide. When he was at
home he refused to consider the question at all; but at his office it
constantly forced itself upon his attention. Finally, after a great deal
of exasperatingly unsatisfactory correspondence with agents in Austin and
Galveston, he went to Ellen.
"I will give the whole thing up, if you say so," he declared.
"But you think it very necessary for you to go?" she asked.
"From a business point of view, absolutely necessary. It is a question of
improving or failing to improve a chance to make a good many thousand
dollars. There is no middle course: I can't send anybody who could do the
business for me. Still, if you are as unwilling to have me go as I am to
leave you, I shall stay at home."
This was hardly fair, and Ellen was sorely tempted; but she was too brave
and too true to yield to what she believed a selfish impulse. She wound
her arms about her husband's neck and effectively testified her reluctance
to permit the separation. She declared, however, that she would not
countenance his staying at home,--that it was plainly his duty to go. She
begged only that he would return at the earliest moment he could do so
conscientiously. He earnestly assured her that she need have no doubt of
that, and that a word from her would bring him home at any time.
"But if I am to go," he continued, "you must have somebody to stay with
you while I am away. Why not ask Bertha Terry? You used to be always out
sketching together, and I know she would be delighted to come."
"Bertha is a lovely girl, but--I--"
She paused, with trembling lips.
"But what, Ellen? Of course I wish you to have whomever you may prefer."
To his surprise and concern, his wife burst into a flood of tears.
"Ellen," he said very tenderly, "I am afraid you are not well. If this is
so, I certainly cannot leave you."
"Oh, no! oh, no!" she cried between her sobs. "It is only because I shall
miss you so,--and because I have tried not to cry for so long that I
_must_ now,--and because--because I have a terrible feeling that I may
never see you again."
Edward permitted her tears to exhaust themselves to some extent before he
spoke. Then with gentleness and tact he introduced the subject of the
European tour, upon which, he said, they might start very soon if the trip
to Texas should be brought to a successful close. He alluded to the
priceless art-treasures which they would examine together, and which she
would reproduce. He dwelt upon the glories of the Alps, the charms of
Italy, the wonders of Paris, with such good effect that Ellen presently
dried her eyes and found her smiles again.
A few days later, on a raw October evening, Edward yielded to the urgent
demands of his business and set out for the South. It was at the time when
the "boom" in the grazing-lands and real estate generally of Texas was at
its height. Railways were pushing out in all directions, opening new and
profitable fields for investment, and immigrants were pouring into the
State in unexampled numbers. It was a period rich in opportunities that
could never come again. Edward set to work to make the most of them. In
the first place, he carefully attended to his commissions, resolutely
repelling the swarm of speculators who hovered about every man supposed to
possess a little capital, but all the time watchful and reflecting. Then
he began to make investments for himself. He bought, sold, and bought
again, until his funds were exhausted, and after that he wrote to St.
Louis and borrowed money. He was constantly on the move, much of the time
in camp, making and saving many a dollar by acting as his own agent. The
only respite he allowed himself was the time devoted to correspondence
with his wife. He sent her minute accounts of his work, and received long
and loving letters in return. But time passed, like the Northers
themselves. Four, five, six weeks were gone almost before he had counted
them, extending his absence decidedly beyond the date he had originally
set for his return, and still there was much to be done. He had not borne
the separation from his wife without pain, and he looked forward to
prolonging it with much more than reluctance; but he felt that to leave
now would be to spurn the hand of Providence, the more so because, though
Ellen had many times anxiously inquired for the date of his return, she
had never failed, whenever she wrote, to assure him of her own content so
long as he was successful and happy. He therefore sent her an elaborate
statement of the situation, reiterated his readiness to return if she
desired it, and begged her to decide for him whether he should remain
longer or not. Why could she not come down and spend a few weeks at Waco?
he asked. She would find pleasant people there, and he could then see her
at least once in a while. He would go back to St. Louis to bring her down.
In any event, he said, he would run up and spend a day or two with her if
his stay were to be prolonged. She wrote in reply that she dreaded to
experience the wild life he had so graphically described, and that she
could not persuade herself to go down into that primitive country unless
she might be with him always. This she knew to be impossible; and she was
convinced also that her presence at any time would prove a hinderance to
him in his business. But if he could come home for a short visit it would
make her very happy. She hoped that he might come very soon indeed. Still,
she added, with her old bravery, he must make no sacrifice to gratify her
wishes. She trusted him implicitly; she knew that he was as impatient to
return as she was that he should do so. He must stay as long as he deemed
it best; and even his proposed visit must be given up, if need be.
And so Edward stayed. The visit to St. Louis was postponed once or twice,
and then put off indefinitely. New commissions were intrusted to him, new
opportunities disclosed themselves, new schemes were projected. He
extended his field of work into remote sections of the State, and once
made his way as far as the valley of the Rio Grande. Even in his busiest
moments Ellen was never wholly absent from his thoughts, and he never
ended a day without the reflection that his return was so much the nearer.
But week followed week into the past, the holidays slipped by, and spring
itself overtook him before he could see any definite prospect of getting
away. At last, one morning early in March, he wrote to Ellen from Denison
that he should be at home before the end of a week. The letter had hardly
been mailed when he received one from his wife evincing a depression she
had never permitted herself to acknowledge before. She wrote briefly, and,
with vague allusions to her health and an avowal of what she called her
"lack of firmness," besought him to return.
The indefiniteness of this letter troubled Edward. He was disposed to
think that it meant much more than it expressed. He knew his wife's
excellent constitution so well, and reposed so much trust in her frankness,
that he did not believe she was seriously ill; but he did fear that his
prolonged absence had tried her cruelly, for he realized that she must
have gone through with many a struggle before she could have brought
herself to recall him. While he was debating, still under the spell of
business, whether to start for home at once or first to settle some
important matters at Denison, a telegraph-boy entered the office of the
hotel where he was sitting, and handed a despatch to the clerk.
"For the gentleman at the window," said the young man.
Edward opened the missive with the calmness of an honest and solvent man,
but with a pang of fear for Ellen. He read as follows:
"We think you had better return at once.
BERTHA TERRY."
For an instant he sat with his brain in a whirl. Then a curse upon
Providence rose to his lips; he repressed it, and began to load himself
with reproaches. A moment before, he had been in the satisfied mood of a
man who has his own approbation for work well done. He now looked upon his
course during the past winter with both abhorrence and wonder. He told
himself that it was heartless to have left Ellen at all; to have stayed
away for so many months was simply inhuman. It was all plain enough now;
and that he should have been so blind to the truth he could not conceive.
Suddenly he bethought himself that there was yet time to catch the Austin
Express for St. Louis, and that if he did not succeed in doing this a
whole day would be lost. He quickly wrote and forwarded a despatch to
Bertha, requesting her to telegraph to him at Vinita without reserve, and
then, regardless of his unfulfilled engagements, hurried to the station.
He was just in season: as he stepped upon the platform he heard the
whistle of the approaching train. Once on board, he experienced a
momentary sensation of relief: he was rapidly moving homeward, and at
Vinita he would at least be freed from suspense. He tried to convince
himself that the case could not be a serious one. But if it was? A
terrible fear took possession of him. He attempted in vain to put it
aside. It rendered it impossible for him to sit down alone with his
thoughts for a moment, and he passed away the day in wandering back and
forth through the cars, making an effort now and then to get up a
conversation with some fellow-passenger, counting the hours before the
train would reach Vinita, and constantly execrating himself.
But, Vinita reached, there was no telegram. The operator thought it must
have gone to Vineton, a town far to the southeast, on the Iron Mountain
Railway. He could telegraph for it, of course, he said, and send it on to
any given point, but he believed that Edward would get word more quickly
by forwarding another message to St. Louis. He suggested that the reply be
sent to Sedalia, where it would undoubtedly be delivered, even at the late
hour at which the train would arrive.
Edward listened to these remarks in dull despair. It was true that he
might receive news from Ellen at Sedalia, but Sedalia would not be reached
before the small hours of the following morning, when his journey would be
practically ended. Nor was there any nearer town, large enough to support
a night telegraph-office, where he could expect a message to be received
in season to reach him. He thanked the operator for his suggestions, and
returned sorrowfully to the train, to pass a night of suffering, from
which his short snatches of sleep gave him little relief. Poor fellow! His
sadness and remorse were cruelly enhanced by the suspense he was called
upon to endure. He vowed many times to himself that, if Ellen were spared
until his return, no pressure of the world should ever separate him from
her again. When the sun began to make known its coming in the east, he
breathed a prayer of thanks that his agony of waiting was almost over.
Toward the middle of the forenoon the train rolled into the Union Dépôt at
St. Louis. Edward stood upon the platform of the foremost car. Long before
it came to a stop, he leaped from the steps and ran along toward the
hackmen's stand. A babel of voices greeted him. Quickly selecting a man
whose face was familiar, he pressed a _douceur_ into his hand, and, in a
voice that broke in spite of his efforts to control it, asked to be driven
home immediately and as fast as possible. The hackman looked upon Edward's
haggard face with silent sympathy, divining, perhaps, something of the
truth, and hastily led the way to his vehicle.
The train was hardly at a stand-still when the carriage rattled away from
the station. The driver plied his whip freely, and soon left the business
section of the city behind. As they sped along Washington Avenue, Edward
endeavored to prepare himself for the worst, but he was incapable of
calmness and reflection: his whole being rebelled against the supposition
that he might be too late.
There was a carriage, which he recognized as Dr. Kreiss's, drawn up before
his house. Fairly unmanned by emotion, he sprang up the steps, threw open
the door, and met the doctor face to face.
The physician maintained a professional composure.
"Good-morning, Mr. Lindsay," he said. "I regret to say that you have not
arrived quite soon enough."
"Great God, doctor! Is it possible?" faltered Edward, whilst the tears
sprang to his eyes.
The doctor looked at him curiously.
"Go up-stairs and see your wife and baby," he said, with considerate
brevity. He added to himself, as Edward vanished up the stairway, "A case
of special providence that it's a boy."