WHICH RIVER.
“My Friend—One night, while on my beat in the upper part of the city, a
young woman, carrying something in her arms, which a large and very rich
shawl completely covered, passed me, more than once, in a wild,
distracted way, as if looking for something, or some place, which she
could not find. I watched her, carefully, as she went back and forth in
this strange fashion and at last saw her sink down on a doorstep, when
the faint wail of a child came from beneath her shawl. I was about to
speak to her, when she lifted her head, saw my uniform, and starting up,
came toward me.
“‘Will you tell me, sir, where I can find the river?’
“The voice in which these words were spoken was low and timid. The
female who uttered them seemed very young, in the light of that street
lamp, which was near enough to reveal her features, as faces are seen in
a dream. She was utterly unlike any woman who might have been expected
out of doors that time of night, and I looked at her keenly before I
made answer to her question; but her head drooped forward on her breast,
and I could only discern that the face was both young and fair.
“‘Which river do you ask for?’ I questioned, wondering that a young
creature with the address and language of a highly-bred person, could be
there to make an inquiry so vague and strange.
“‘Any—no matter which. To find one, shall I turn to the right or left?’
“I was standing above Fiftieth Street on the west, where many vacant
lots lay between us and the Hudson, which was not very far off; but
shrunk from saying this, and only answered,
“‘If you turn either way there is a river—but this is so strange——’
“The girl did not hear my closing words, but turned to the left, where
the houses were scattered and a grove of trees loomed up in the
distance, flinging their shadows against the sky. I could not leave my
beat, but followed her anxiously with my eyes, and saw that she walked
with a slow step, which bespoke great fatigue, if not absolute despair.
“‘This is strange,’ I thought, ‘that voice had a desperate meaning in
it. I wonder if she really thinks of _that_; poor soul!—poor soul, she
will surely come to grief. If she were not drifting out of my beat, I
would follow her!’
“The moon was up, but clouded, and but few stars appeared; so it was
mostly by the street-lamps that I kept her in sight, until she passed
out of my beat. When I lost sight of her, she was making straight for
the river, and hurried on as if urged forward by the fright my face had
given her.
“The clock from a far-off steeple struck the hour.
“It was not many minutes before I was relieved, and free to follow the
woman, which I did, though she had lost herself among the shadows. I
then turned toward the river, and followed the young creature at a
cautious distance, until she left the paved street and went into the
enclosure of a private mansion, where shrubbery was thick and the grass
so elastic that I could approach close to her unnoticed.
“She had heard the heavy rush of flowing waters coming up through the
solemn night, and quickened her steps as if the voice of a friend had
called to her from a great distance.
“‘Oh, it is there! it is there!’ she moaned, ‘my last—last friend—the
only one that will take me in and hide me.’
“Now her footsteps beat swiftly on the turf as she sped onward, guided
by the deep whispering of the waves. She was skirting the walls of a
garden, over which roses and clustering masses of honeysuckles trailed
out of bounds, filling the night air with fragrance, that for one moment
evidently checked the girl in her progress; or she was stricken faint
with a sudden recoil of conscience, perhaps.
‘They are blossoming now—now around my window, as they did then, just a
year—only a year!’ I heard her say.
“The girl wrung her hands, looking wildly around, as if she sought for
some human being to pity her; but nothing was near save the faint odor
of flowers, that seemed to wither her like poison; and the far off
drifts of the river, blended with the flow of a soft wind through
innumerable leaves, and the stir of roses under their dew.
“The very fragrance and beauty of the night, while it seemed to lift her
soul out of its dull apathy, stung it to desperation. She turned and
fled from the garden wall, and I lost her among the great primeval
trees, that made the place solitary as a hermitage. Without giving it a
thought, I plunged into the shadows of the grove, beyond which the great
river was flowing.
“I heard sounds of her progress through the undergrowth, and followed
with cautious swiftness; for her dress, her air, and the child that she
carried under that shawl, suggested a tragedy, which it was my duty to
prevent. The street she had been threading, that immense flower-garden,
and the grand old mansion, which seemed as if buried in the heart of a
wilderness, the shrubbery was so old and thick around it, were now left
behind. I could hardly see my way in the dense thickness of those trees
which grew close to the river, flinging their shadows over it, in
places, and making the spot so lonely that I felt a thrill of dread, as
the contrast between its isolation and the street I had left, broke upon
me.
“Everything was quiet. My own footsteps were smothered in the
forest-turf, and a gentle shiver of the leaves was all the sound I
heard. What had become of that poor girl? Had she already found time to
make the plunge I felt sure she meditated. My heart shrunk from the
thought, so I watched and waited, feeling the presence of another human
soul, as one sometimes knows a thing independent of the senses.
“As I stood in the shadow, something seemed to move on a large
sloping-rock, which formed a picturesque feature in one corner of the
grounds, on which the trees grew less thickly. That moment, a cloud
swept back from the moon, and I saw the woman whom I had frightened so,
standing on the rocks, which shot some distance into the stream, where
the waters eddied and curled around it with a sweet, monotonous music,
that seemed to lure and lure the woman on, till she stood on the very
edge. Her shawl was thrown back now, and I saw the child. She did not
look at it, but turned her face away, and lifted the infant high in her
arms.
“I started forward, but checked myself, for she had fallen down upon the
rock, and hugging the child to her bosom, was kissing it with passionate
vehemence, calling out.
“‘I cannot—I cannot! Oh, my God! how could I think of it? My child! My
child! You are not hurt! There! there! there! Oh, what can I do? what
shall I do?’
“Again and again she fell to kissing the little creature, moaning over
it like a dumb animal; breaking forth into bitter sobs, now and then,
until some fear seized her, and she looked around, evidently terrified
by her own voice. Full ten minutes she sat caressing the child, in her
passionate despair. Then she arose to her feet once more, uplifted it in
her arms, and staggering back, fell prone upon the rock, clasping the
infant to her heart.
“The struggle was terrible; but I had faith in the power of a motherhood
which could battle so fiercely against an evil resolve, and waited,
knowing, that at the worst, I could save her and the child.
“She arose to a sitting posture, very pale and still now, for I could
see her face, plainly, in the moonlight; and it was white as snow-white
and beautiful. An exclamation almost broke from me. _I knew the face!_
More than once had I marveled at its beauty; more than once had I seen
it beaming with love, uplifted to another face, which will never leave
my memory—that of a man I love better than a brother.
“Do you understand? Can you guess who this young mother was? I did not
know her name; but there was no mistaking that proud, white face.
“The young woman sat a long time, gazing at her child, in the moonlight,
as if seized by some apathy of the soul which made that rock its last
anchorage.
“At last she took off her shawl, and, kneeling over the little creature,
wrapped the garment around it. She did not look at it after this, but
arose from her knees, and went staggering away from the river, through a
patch of moonlight, and into the shadows, looking toward the rock,
continuously, as if she had left her heart behind, and longed to pluck
it back to her bosom again.
“After she was gone, I went down to the rock which was now bathed in the
beautiful moonlight, and seemed as peaceful as a cradle, for the waters
as they swept around it murmured a soft lullaby, and a poisonous vine,
which had turned scarlet in the hot sunshine, seemed in its duskiness
and dew like an imperial drapery cast around the little creature where
it lay.
“A bramble studded with green acrid fruit, which bent it down like the
plume from a helmet, drooped its shadow over the infant where it lay
muffled in the shawl.
“I put the bramble away and was startled when two great, wide-open eyes
looked up at me, through the moonlight, as if wondering at the rough
features that met them, instead of the beautiful woman’s face which had
drifted away from it through the shadows.
“I took the child in my arms, and laid its little cheek to mine. The
touch filled my soul with tenderness; having seen that woman’s face I
could not give that child to the almshouse. No, I resolved that she
should be my own—the sister of my little Ruth.
“I carried the pretty waif home, and gave her to my wife. She was taken
by surprise, and resented the adoption, at first; but it was impossible
to resist those pretty, infantile ways, and at last this child became
dear to her as our little Ruth. Yes; dear as the boy that was afterwards
born to us.
“We kept the fact, that this child was not our own, a secret from every
one. Even our children are ignorant that she is not in fact their
sister. I never sought to identify the young mother. Remembering how
near she had been to murdering her own child, I dared not place it again
in her power. Besides, we loved the foundling, and that love grew strong
as nature in our hearts.
“You know that I was educated for a better position than has fallen to
my lot; and I resolved to give even superior advantages to my children.
My wife is a prudent housekeeper, and out of our small resources we have
managed to save money enough for this purpose, and to secure a humble
home, in which we are now living. If God spares me, some prosperity may
yet be won out of our hard lives. But just now, I am desponding, without
reason, for my health is good and my purpose strong. If I should be cut
down, what will be the fate of my family? I ask this question with a
pang. Have I done right to educate these two girls for a position so
much higher than they can ever hope to attain? Have I done right in
keeping all that I have told you a secret from Eva herself? Was it not
my duty to search out the mother, who had cut her off; thus, perhaps,
securing to her a future more promising than anything I had to offer?
“I am asking myself these questions now, and the answer is a selfish
one. We could not give her up to another.
“My friend, let me tell you all. The woman who abandoned her child, with
such throes of anguish, was no common person. Everything about her
bespoke refinement and wealth. The shawl, in which she wrapped her
infant, was a rare and costly one. The garments were enriched with the
finest lace; the sleeves were looped back with pink coral—such as can
only be found in perfection at Naples—fastened with a clasp of gold.
“We kept these things, sacredly, thinking that the time might come when
Eva would be driven to seek out her mother. But not while I live. She
loves us, and is happy.
“My friend, I have been thinking how suddenly death sometimes comes upon
us, and how helpless she will be, with all her fine talents and rare
beauty, when I am gone. Thinking of this, how could I help remembering
you, my friend of friends. With a tenacity I cannot resist, the thought
fastens on me, that I should be doing you a wrong if I withheld our
secret from you. Be this as it may, I know that you will be her friend
when I am gone. In her time of need, should it ever come, you may search
out that portion of her history, which I have, up to this time, shrunk
from investigating.
“If love for this child has made me secretive and selfish, you will have
the energy to redeem the wrong and place her in the higher position
which I solemnly believe to be hers by right.
One thing I charge you. If it should come out that the girl has no legal
right to claim her parents, keep this secret from her, forever. She is
proud, and so keenly sensitive, that disgrace would kill her; in that
case, my humbler name would be far better than a dishonored one, however
exalted.
“You are abroad now; but I have kept trace of you through all these
years. Once or twice your letters have reached me. I know that you have
won a high place among men of genius; that your guardianship will be an
honor to this proud girl; that even for my own delicate Ruth you will
have some fatherly kindness. Am I wrong in asking this? I think not. You
are the only friend of the old time that I have left. In our school
days, we loved each other; in our manhood the feeling grew and
strengthened. After my death, if that should come, you will be mindful
of the old love, and kind to those I leave behind me.
“One thing you will remember. My wife has the clothes, the coral, and
the India shawl, in which little Eva was wrapped that night. She will
give them to you, reluctantly, I dare say; no misfortune will ever make
her willing to part with the girl; but she will remember my charge, and
give them up, at your request. Perhaps they will lead to something in
your hands.
“Why do I write this now, after so many years of silence? I cannot
answer. But this evening, a strange, dark presentiment came over me, and
I was impelled to place Eva’s story on paper. It can do no harm. My wife
will keep it safe till you come, if I am doomed. Doomed! How absurd all
this seems in a man of perfect health and more than ordinary strength.
It is strange and wild, but troubled times are coming upon the land,
times when these death shadows will not be confined to one man. Yet,
somehow, I feel with mournful solemnity, that, after I am dead, you will
get this paper, and act upon it in behalf of your old friend,
“LEONARD LAURENCE.”