Mrs. Fleming was not at her ease with me. I found her several times
watching me with a curious, intent gaze, seeking, as it were, to pierce
my thoughts, to dive into my motives, but always puzzled--even as I was
puzzled over her. That round of visiting made me more loath than ever to
believe that I was right. Such gentle thought and care, such
consideration, such real charity, I had never seen before. I was not
surprised when Lance told me that she was considered quite an angel by
the poor. I fell ill with anxiety. I never knew what to say or think.
I did what many others in dire perplexity do, I went to one older, wiser
and better than myself, a white-haired old minister, whom I had known
for many years, and in whom I had implicit trust. I mentioned no names,
but I told him the story.
He was a kind-hearted, compassionate man, but he decided that the
husband should be told.
Such a woman, he said, must have unnatural qualities; could not possibly
be one fitted for any man to trust. She might be insane. She might be
subject to mania--a thousand things might occur which made it, he
thought, quite imperative that such a secret should not be withheld from
her husband.
Others had had a share in it, and there was no doubt but that it would
eventually become known; better hear it from the lips of a friend than
from the lips of a foe.
"Perhaps," he advised, "it might be as well for you to speak to her
first; it would give her a fair chance."
If it were not true, she could deny it, although if she proved to be
innocent, and I had made a mistake, I deserved what I should no doubt
get; if she were guilty and owned it, she would have some warning at
least. That seemed to me the best plan, if I could speak to her; break
it to her in some way or other.
A few more days passed. If any doubt was left in my mind, what happened
one morning at breakfast would have satisfied me. Lance had taken up the
paper. I was reading some letters, and Mrs. Fleming making tea.
Lance looked suddenly from his paper.
"I used to think drink was the greatest curse in England," he said.
"Have you changed your opinion?" I asked.
"I have. I think now the crying sin of the country is child-murder."
As he uttered the words his wife was just in the act of pouring some
cream into my cup; it did not surprise me that the pretty silver jug and
the cream all fell together. Lance laughed aloud.
"Why, Frances," he cried; "I have never seen you do such a clumsy thing
before."
She was deadly pale, her hand shaking.
"I have frightened myself," she said, "and no wonder with such a noise."
A servant came, who made everything right.
Then Lance continued, "You interrupted me, Frances. I was just saying
that child-murder is one of the greatest blots on the civilization of
the present day."
"It is such a horrible thing to speak of," she said, feebly.
"It wants some speaking about," said Lance. "I never take up a paper
without reading one or two cases. I wonder that the Government does not
take it up and issue some decree or other. It is a blot on the face of
the land."
"I do not suppose that any decree of Government would change it," I
said; "the evil lies too deeply for that; the law should be made equal;
as it is, the whole blame, shame and punishment fall on the woman, while
the man goes free; there will be no change for the better while that is
the case. I have not patience to think of the irregularity of the law."
"You are right, John," said my old friend. "Still, cruelty in a woman is
so horrible, and the woman must be as cruel as a demon who deserts or
slays her own child. If I had my own way, I would hang every one who
does it; there would soon be an end of it then."
There was a low startled cry, and the paper fell to the ground. Mrs.
Fleming rose from her chair with a ghastly face.
"Frances!" cried her husband, "what is the matter?"
"You will talk of such horrible things," she replied, vehemently, "and
you know that I cannot bear them."
"Sweetheart," he whispered, as he kissed her, "I will be more careful. I
know a sensitive heart like yours cannot bear the knowledge of such
things. You must forgive me, Frances, but to me there is something far
more loathing in the woman who kills a child than in the woman who slays
a man. Do not look so pale and grieved, my darling! John, we must be
more careful what we say."
"I must beg you to remember that you began the subject, Lance."
"I am ashamed of making such a fuss," she continued, "but there are some
subjects too horrible even to dwell upon or speak of, and that is one. I
am going into the garden, Lance; perhaps you and Mr. Ford would like
your cigars there? I am going to prune a favorite rose tree that is
growing wild."
"Do you understand pruning, Mrs. Fleming?" I asked.
"Such small things as rose trees," she said.
"We will follow you, Frances," said her husband. "My case is empty; I
must get some more cigars."
I fancied that she was unwilling to leave us together. She lingered a
few minutes, then went out. Then simple, honest Lance turned to me with
his face full of animation.
"John, did you ever see such a tender-hearted woman in all your life?
She is almost too sensitive."
My suspicions were certainties now, and my mind was more than ever
tossed and whirled in tortured doubt and dread. I shall never forget one
evening that came soon afterwards. We went to dine with a friend of
Lance's, a Squire Peyton, who lived not far away, and he was the
possessor of some very fine pictures, of which he was very proud. He
took us through his pretty arranged gallery.
"This is my last purchase," he said.
We all three stopped to look at a large square picture representing the
mother of the little Moses placing his cradle of rushes amongst the tall
reeds in the water.
I saw Mrs. Fleming look at it with eyes that were wet with tears.
"Does it sadden you?" asked Lance. "It need not; the little one looks
young and tender to be left alone, but the water is silent and the
mother is near. She never left him. What a pretty story of mother-love
it is."
The beautiful face paled, the lips trembled slightly.
"It is a beautiful picture," she said, "to come from that land of
darkness; it makes something of the poetry of the Nile."
Watching her, I said to myself, "That woman has not deadened her
conscience; she has tried and failed. There is more good than evil in
her."
All night long there sounded in my ears those words, "A life for a
life!" And I wondered what would, what could, be the punishment of a
mother who took the life of her own child?