her way, with an air of familiarity with her surroundings, to a place on
deck sheltered alike from observation and from the strong breeze which
was already beginning. Here the stewardess brought her a pillow, handing
it without speaking and waiting significantly. She took it in silence,
then got out her purse, a meagre-looking one, and put a little coin into
the woman's hand. As she did so she said, "Thank you," and the least
little foreign inflection--a lingering difficulty with the "th"--gave
Noel the last assurance that he needed. How unforgotten the voice was!
He believed he would almost have recognized it without any words.
The woman made no reply, but pocketed her fee and walked away. Then
Noel, who had seated himself quite near, with his face so turned that
he could see her without the appearance of gazing at her directly, set
himself to watch what followed. There was no one else near and it was
evident that she had not observed him. Indeed, she did not look about
her at all, but kept her eyes on the baby, whose apathetic little face
did not change. Shaking and smoothing the pillow she laid it on the seat
and tenderly placed her baby on it. The boat had started and the breeze,
delicious as it was to a strong person, might yet be too much for a sick
child, and this the mother plainly feared, for she hastily hung her
shawl over the railing beside the pillow. But this she soon discovered
kept off too much air. Noel could note her mental processes and
comprehend them as he saw her put up her hand to loosen her thick veil.
His pulses quickened. He was sure already, and yet a figure, a pose, a
knot of hair, even a voice and accent might deceive him. So he watched
intently as she unfastened her veil and took it off. The brim of her hat
was narrow and left her face fully exposed.
It was Christine Dallas--a girl no longer, no longer blooming and
childlike and wondering--but saddened, matured, mysteriously changed,
with more than the old charm for him in her exquisite woman-face. It
was turned to him in profile, distinct against the distant sky, and
the remembered eyes were veiled by their dark-fringed lids, as she
looked down upon her child.
The veil, ingeniously fastened with a few pins, proved a convenient
awning. She laid her arm above it on the rail, as she bent her head
toward the baby. Although the eyes were hid, the mouth--in her a feature
of extreme sensitiveness--told the story of past suffering and present
pain.
What a face! No artist had ever had a model such as that before him,
and the pale attenuation of the sick child was almost as interesting a
subject. But Noel never thought of it. For once the artist in him became
subservient, and he looked on with no feeling but a pity so great that
it absolutely filled his heart and left no room for any other.
The mother's suffering face put on a smile, and she made a little
kissing sound with her lips to try to attract the baby's notice, and
rouse it from its apathy.
"Mother's precious little pigeon," she said caressingly, and catching
the thin little face between her soft thumb and forefinger and giving it
a loving twitch. But, instead of smiling back at her, a piteous little
tremor came around the baby's mouth. His thin forehead wrinkled and he
began to whimper.
She caught him to her heart with a motion of passionate love and pity,
and began to rock her body to and fro as she held him there.
"Did mother hurt her baby?" she said, speaking in low tones of keenest
self-reproach. "There, then, mother wouldn't trouble him any more!
Mother was bad and naughty to try to make her boy laugh when he was so
sick! Mother loves her baby, that she does, and when her little man gets
well he'll play and laugh with mother then, won't he?"
The whimper died away, and when the soft crooning and rocking had
continued a little while the baby dropped its weary lids and slept. She
laid him in her lap, raising her knee to elevate his head, by resting
her foot on the round of a chair. He sank into his new position with a
tremulous sigh, and slept on. And as he slept she watched him, her great
eyes fastened on his thin little face with a look as if she would devour
it with love. Afraid to touch him, lest he should wake, she caught the
folds of his dress in her hand with a strength that strained its sinews,
as if she were afraid he would be snatched away from her.
Noel, who had expected every moment that she would turn, had now ceased
to look for it. She was evidently unconscious of everything, herself
included, except the child. As she bent her head above it, never taking
her eyes from its wan little countenance, the look of hungry love that
came to her was stronger than any look he had ever seen expressed upon a
face before. Presently, as if unable to resist the impulse, she took one
of the little hands, blue-white for lack of blood, and held it in her
own. He could divine the fact that it cost her an effort not to squeeze
it hard. Her eyes fastened on it hungrily, and then looked into the
pinched little face. Evidently this sleep was something coveted, for she
made these slight movements with the utmost caution, and did not venture
to change her constrained position. And as she so watched the baby,
Noel, keeping as profoundly still, watched her. He saw that her plain,
gray costume, charmingly fashioned as it was, was yet somewhat worn and
shabby, as if from over-long usage; that her round straw hat was shabby,
too, and one of her little boots, cut and finished in such a pretty,
foreign fashion, had a small hole in it. The long glove on her left
hand was ripped at the finger-ends. The right hand was bare, and looked
very strong and healthy as it held the little feeble one. With her other
hand she was holding a fan between her child's eyes and the sun. She had
never ceased a little rocking motion of the knee. Oh, if she could only
keep him asleep! her whole attitude and motion seemed to say. Now and
then she uttered low, hushing sounds as a pang of pain would contract
the baby's face, and threaten to waken him. These little noises came to
Noel faintly, and he felt himself sharing with her this intense desire
to keep the child asleep. Suddenly, above the soothing monotone of the
vessel's motion, there was a sharp steam-whistle. Christine gave a
little smothered cry, and the next instant burst into tears. It was too
much for her over-strung nerves. At the same moment the baby waked and
began to cry weakly. The sound recalled her to herself and she took the
little creature in her arms and rocked and hushed it, at the same time
fighting with her own sobs, brushing away her tears with a fold of the
baby's dress and trying to speak to it soothingly. But she was utterly
unnerved, and the tears and sobs kept coming back even while she spoke
those calming, loving words.
Noel could bear it no longer. He was afraid of increasing her agitation,
but he felt he must go to her aid. So he took quietly the few steps that
brought him to her and said gently:
"Christine, give the baby to me. Don't mind my seeing you. Don't mind
anything, but just try to be quiet and rest a little. I will help you."
She looked at him an instant without recognition, then a gleam of
comprehension came into her eyes, and in a confused, weak way she let
him take the baby, and falling back upon the seat she hid her face in
her hands and fell to sobbing. Noel, for the first time in his life
holding a young baby in his arms, was yet skilful with it, since nothing
but strength and tenderness were required, and he had both. He soothed
the little creature into silence, walking backward and forward a few
steps, and watching Christine intently, without speaking to her. It was
only a moment or two that she gave way, and he felt it would relieve
her. She wiped her eyes and sat up.
"I don't know what made me do it," she said. "I have never done so
before. It is so foolish; but I did so want baby to stay asleep, and I
was hoping nothing would wake him, and the whistle scared me so. Let me
have him now, Mr. Noel. Thank you, oh, thank you. Perhaps he feels
better. He has had a nice little sleep."
Noel would have kept the child, but he saw she was not to be prevented
from taking it, and when she had got it in her arms she began to look at
it and talk to it and walk it about with every appearance of having
forgotten Noel altogether. He had called her Christine under impulse,
and he now recalled the fact that she had taken it simply and without
any protest. On the whole, he was glad. To have called her by the formal
name by which he had known her might have struck some chord of pain. He
did not even know that she bore it still. Dallas might be dead or worse
than dead to her. A score of possibilities suggested themselves to his
mind. But he felt he must try, if possible, to make her understand him.
"Poor little ill baby," he said, going close to her side, where she
stood by the railing with the baby laid upon her shoulder, her head
tilted so as to rest her cheek on his. "I hope he is better. I am so
glad I saw you, Christine. You must let me help you, exactly as if I
were your brother, for no brother could want to help you more. I really
think I forgot I wasn't when I called you by your name just now. But you
didn't mind it, did you?"
"Oh, no," she said simply. "But where did you come from?" she asked, as
if the question had just occurred to her.
"Let us say from the skies," he answered, smiling. "I think my good
angel must have sent me to take care of you. Sit down, if you will hold
the baby. Let me make you more comfortable."
He went and brought a large and easy chair from some unknown quarter
and made her sit in it. Then, saying he would be back presently, he
walked away. Before he returned the stewardess appeared, smiling and
obsequious, making a profuse offer of her services to hold the baby, or
to do anything desired of her. She brought a comfortable hassock, which
she placed under Christine's feet, and only the latter's determination
prevented her from taking possession of the baby. She told her exactly
where she was to be found in case she should be wanted, and ended by
presenting her with a key which, she told her, would open a stateroom at
the head of the stairs. As the woman walked away Noel returned.
Christine told him how kind the stewardess had been, and said that she
had never known there were any staterooms on board, this being an
excursion boat.
"Oh, there are generally two or three," said Noel carelessly, "for the
people to go to when they want to rest. If you'd like to, we'll go now
and inspect."
Evidently the prospect pleased her, so they went together, but she
refused to allow him to carry the baby, or even to send for the woman.
When they opened the door everything was clean and fresh, as if just
prepared for them. Christine looked about her with an air of relief that
it rejoiced him to see. He told her to get a little rest, if she could,
and that he would stroll about for a while and come back for her. She
went in and closed the door and he turned away. In a few minutes the
stewardess knocked, to offer her services, and Christine, as she
accepted them, felt a sudden change as to her whole surrounding
atmosphere.
Noel, meanwhile, had gone up on deck, and was walking about and looking
around him curiously. He was certainly out of his element, but his
habits of life had been such as to make him feel at home almost
anywhere. What he rebelled at was the thought of Christine being in this
place. Her distress of mind and her poverty seemed so indecently exposed
to view. He lingered a while in the thick of the crowd, torturing
himself with the horrible incongruity between it and the poor, dear
woman in the stateroom below. He had contrived to have put at her
disposal the best the boat afforded, but it was abominably meagre. What
business had she here at all? It was no place for her. His whole nature
rebelled at it, and he grew savage as he thought that it was no business
of his to put it right.
Throwing his cigar away he went below and knocked very gently at the
stateroom door. It was opened by Christine, who had, perhaps, bathed
her face, for the traces of tears were almost gone, though enough
remained to give her eyes an appealingness that went to his very heart.
"Well," he said, in that tentative tone which admits of any sort of
answer.
She looked immediately at the baby lying on the berth and stood aside to
let him see. "He is quiet," she said. "I don't think he is in any pain.
I am going to take him on deck again. The doctor said the only thing for
him was change of air. I couldn't take him away, so he said to bring him
down here on the water every afternoon would do him good, and I've been
bringing him every day."
"And is he better?" Noel said, forcing himself to appear to be thinking
chiefly of the child. He saw that the idea absorbed her so completely
that she had no thought of herself and apparently none of him, and this
was well.
"His fever is not so high," she said. "Oh, he has been so ill. Once I
thought--" but she broke off unable to speak, and turning toward the
berth caught up the child with the fervor of passion, though she did not
forget to touch him tenderly, and held him close against her. Then she
put on his little head a muslin cap that perhaps had fitted him once but
was now pitifully large, and carried her light burden out into the
saloon and up the steps, refusing Noel's offer to help her. They went
back to their old places, which were quiet and away from the crowd, and
when Noel had made her as comfortable as he could, he drew his chair
near and sat down. And then the watch began again. He looked at her, and
she looked down at the baby on her lap, and apparently the baby was no
more unconscious of the gaze bent on him than Christine was of the look
with which Noel steadily regarded her. He burned to ask her questions as
to what had taken place since he had seen her last, but he feared to
waken her from her unconsciousness. It was evident that she accepted him
as a simple fact. He had come and here he was. If he helped her to take
care of the baby it was all right and she was glad. Not a scruple as to
the acceptance of the help had occurred to her. He saw this and was too
thankful for it not to be willing to take precautions against
interrupting this most satisfactory course of things.
The child would die, he felt sure of that, and his heart quivered to
think how she would suffer. And who was there to help her to bear it? He
almost wished he was in truth her brother, that his might naturally be
that right; almost, but not quite. Well, he wished a great many vain and
useless things as he sat there opposite to her, conscious that she had
forgotten him. He moved, and even coughed, but she took no notice. The
baby's little mouth twitched slightly and her whole being became acutely
conscious. She changed its position and words of passionate lovingness
crowded upon her lips. But instead of responding to them, it began to
whimper fretfully--a sound that brought a spasm of positive anguish
across her face.
"There, then, mother's little dear lamb that mother has hurt and
troubled! Mother loves her little man, and he'll get well and make poor
mother happy again--won't he?"
It was some time before the child could be quieted. The peevish little
whine almost angered Noel when he saw how it was cutting into
Christine's heart. In the hope of diverting the baby he put out his hand
and began to snap his fingers softly in front of its face. There was a
ring on the hand that sparkled, and the baby saw it and stretched out
his little hand toward it. A gleam of pure delight came into the
mother's face.
"He hasn't noticed anything for days," she said, catching Noel's hand
in an ardent grasp and holding it so that the baby could see the ring.
He felt her fingers close upon it almost lovingly. He knew she could
have kissed it, because it had for that second been of interest to her
child--and with no knowledge that it was in any way different from the
ring upon it. When the baby turned away from it fretfully she let it
drop.
At last the little invalid went to sleep in Christine's lap. The boat,
which was not to land but went only for the excursion on the water, had
turned and they were going back toward the city. The breeze that played
around Christine's bent head blew little curly strands about her face
and called a faint flush into her cheeks. Noel noted everything.
Night began to draw on and she could no longer see the baby's face
distinctly. She drew the end of a light shawl over him, saying as she
did so:
"The doctor says this is the best of all--the coming back in the fresh
evening air."
She sat up in her place then, and Noel could see that she kept her hand
upon her baby's pulse.
"Do you ever sing now?" he asked abruptly.
She shook her head.
"No--except little songs to baby."
"I heard while I was in Europe of your making an immense hit in the
amateur opera. Why did you stop?"
"I was forced to. Those people compelled me. I don't know why, but they
looked on me as something apart from them. The women were strange and
unfriendly, and the men--I don't know," she broke off confusedly, "but
it is all hateful to me to think of. I was glad to get away from them.
The night of the opera was the last time. Oh, if my baby will get well,"
she said, bending to touch his thin hair with her lips, "I will never
need anything but him. You believe in prayer--don't you? Will you pray
to God to make him well?"
Noel promised with a willingness that seemed to comfort her. Absorbed in
the child once more, she soon seemed to forget him and silence fell
between them again. It was scarcely broken during the whole return trip.
She seemed to have nothing to say to him. When she spoke to him at all
her thrilling voice dropped to a whisper, and it was always to give some
information about the baby. Once she said with fervent interest, "He is
asleep," and once she told him that his skin felt cool and natural. This
was all. It must be owned that Noel didn't think very lovingly of that
poor atom of humanity as he sat there. It was the baby that had caused
her to be in this false position, which he felt so keenly, and it was
terror for the baby which brought that suffering look to her face. And
yet something of the same feeling was in his own breast as he palpitated
at the thought of this little creature's dying and breaking the heart of
its mother, who plainly loved it with the absorbingness of the first
passion she had ever known.
When they reached the wharf it was quite dark, and the electric lights
and publicity of the place made Noel shrink so from the thought of
exposing the girl, in her suffering, to the gaze of such men and women
as he saw about him, that, without consulting her, he called a carriage
and helped her into it, following and seating himself opposite her. She
protested at first, but he said:
"I have a long way to go and need a carriage, and I may as well drop you
at home. Where must I put you down?"
She gave a street and number. The door was shut, the man mounted to his
box and drove away, and they were alone together. Alone, except for the
baby, but that was enough to make him feel that he and all the world
beside were thousands of miles away from her. They drove on in silence.
Now and then as they passed a bright light, her beautiful face, outlined
by its dark hat-brim and darker hair, shone out from the shadow, but for
which he might have felt himself in a dream interrupted by no sound,
except the monotonous rumble of the wheels. Always as he looked her eyes
were lowered to catch each passing glimpse of the baby's face. She never
looked at him.
He began to feel it necessary to ask one or two questions that he might
know what to prepare for, but as he broke the silence to begin she said
warningly, in a low whisper:
"Sh-sh-sh, he is waking," and then fell to rocking and crooning over the
baby and coaxing him back to sleep. When he seemed quite quiet again she
said suddenly in a low whisper, and in the dark he felt her eyes upon
him:
"What makes you so kind? No one is ever kind to me. I thought nobody
cared. I had one friend but she went away. She did not want to leave me,
but she had to go far off somewhere to make a living for her mother."
"I will always help you if you will let me," Noel said, whispering too,
for fear of being silenced. "I will send my sisters to see you, if you
will let them come--"
"Oh, no!" she said, interrupting him impulsively. "Don't send any women
out of the world you live in to see me. They are cruel--they have
dreadful thoughts of me. They look at me strangely and suspect me. Oh,
no--I'd rather take my baby to the end of the earth and hide from them.
I beg you not to send any one to see me."
Noel hastened to promise her that he certainly would not go against her
wish, and was wondering how he should find out the things he longed so
to know, when suddenly the carriage stopped.
The driver got down and rang the bell. As Noel was helping Christine to
get out, the door was opened and the figure of Dallas appeared. It was a
surprise to him, somehow, and an unwelcome one. How his spirit rose in
abhorrence of this man!
Christine went up the steps with the baby, and as he had her bag and
shawl Noel followed, telling the driver to wait.
It was a miserable little house, poor and cheap, and empty, and but for
the counteracting effect of his anger against Dallas, Noel thought he
must have almost sobbed to see Christine here. Dallas himself was not at
all discomposed as he recognized his visitor and asked him in, offering
a hand which Noel managed to touch.
The baby was still asleep, and when Christine had placed it carefully on
a wretched little couch, she seemed, for the first time, free to think
of Noel. She turned and asked him to sit down--at the same time glancing
about her with a sudden rush of consciousness, which until now a nearer
interest had crowded out. The poverty-stricken look of her surroundings
was made the more evident by the few objects belonging to other days
that lay about--a charming sacque, smartly braided and lined with rich
silk, hung on the back of a chair, and a handsome travelling rug was
folded under the baby on the sofa. Everything was clean, for Christine
even yet had not come to contemplate the possibility of doing without a
servant.
There was a small kerosene lamp on a table, over which were spread a
lot of cards with their faces up. Some one had evidently been playing
solitaire, and as evidently, on the witness of another sense, been
accompanying the game by the smoking of bad tobacco. The room reeked
with it to a degree that made Noel feel it an outrage to Christine. But
what was he to do? There was but one thing. He said good-by and went
away, carrying the memory of Christine's face flushed scarlet for shame.
He remembered afterward that Dallas had taken no notice of the baby--not
even glancing at it or inquiring for it--a thing which the poor mother
had taken as a matter of course. He thought, as he shook hands with her
at parting, that Christine had tried to speak--perhaps a word of
thanks--but something stopped it and she let him go in silence.
The next afternoon Noel, at the same hour, went down to the wharf and
boarded the excursion boat, for the deliberate purpose of having some
practical talk with Christine. He soon found her, absorbed so completely
in the baby that his coming seemed scarcely to disturb for a moment the
intentness of her preoccupation. This, at first, made him feel a certain
irritation, but he soon had reason to congratulate himself upon an
absence of self-consciousness on her part which made it the easier for
him to put certain questions. Everything he inquired about she responded
to with absolute honesty and a sort of vagueness which precluded any
such feelings as wounded pride. He learned, by his adroit questionings,
that they were now very poor, that Dallas had been spending his
principal, which was now exhausted, and that their chief means of
support was the money she obtained for doing a very elaborate sort of
embroidery which she had learned while at the convent. When he asked if
she had all the work she wanted she said no, and that she often rang
door-bells and asked ladies to give her work and was refused. She told
all this with apathy, however, and seemed to have no power of acute
feeling outside of her child.