A FORSAKEN CHILD.
Sophy finished her letter, the letter which was to be posted the next
day. But before the morning came her child was born, and the young
mother lay speechless and motionless, unconsciously floating down the
silent sea of death. There was no one with her but Chiara, the working
housekeeper of the inn; but there was no sign that the girl felt
troubled or lonely. Chiara laid the baby across her chilling, heaving
breast, and for a moment there flickered a smile about her pale lips,
as she made a feeble effort to clasp her new-born babe in her arms.
But these signs of life were gone in a moment like the passing of a
fitful breeze; and her rough nurse, stooping down to look more closely
at her white face, saw that the young foreigner was dead.
For some minutes Chiara stood gazing at the dead girl, and the living
child on her bosom, without moving. She had dispatched a boy to fetch
the nearest doctor, but he was gone to a patient some miles away, and
it would be two or three hours before he could reach the inn. All the
house and all the village were asleep, except the watchman in the
bell-tower, who struck the deep-toned bell every quarter. It had not
occurred to her to summon any helper; she had known what was coming,
and had made all necessary preparations. But she had not counted on
any risk to the life of the young mother; and this made all the
difference in the world.
Chiara believed she perfectly understood the position of affairs. The
young Englishman who had disappeared three weeks ago had grown weary of
his whim, pretty as the girl was; and would not care if he never heard
of her again. That was as plain as the day.
Was there nothing to Chiara's advantage in the turn affairs had taken?
The pretty Englishwoman had left boxes enough and goods enough of many
kinds, and Chiara was well acquainted with their value, for Sophy was
careless with her keys, excepting the key of a strong jewel-case, which
the inn servant had never seen open. It was not difficult now to find
the key. In a little while she opened the case, and her eyes glistened
as they fell upon a roll of bank-notes and a quantity of ducats and
gulden, how many she had not time to count. There were a few jewels,
too; and the jewel-case was an easy thing to take away and hide.
Chiara was a woman of prompt measures. Yes, she could adopt the child,
and take care of this fortune for him herself. If it fell into the
hands of the landlord, or the _padre_, or the mayor, there would be
nothing left by the time the boy grew up. It was the best thing she
could do for him; and the Englishman would be glad enough to be rid of
the burden of the child, even if he ever returned to make inquiries
after the girl he had deserted. He had left all this money behind him
to make amends to her for his desertion, and was sure not to come back.
That was as clear as day.
She left the baby lying across its dead mother, and stole away softly
to her own garret to hide her treasure securely. The dawn was breaking
in a soft twilight which would strengthen into the full day long before
the sun could climb the high barrier of the rocks. Very soon the cocks
began to crow, and the few birds under the eaves to twitter. The
doctor was not yet come when Chiara thundered at her master's door, and
called out in a loud voice:
"Signore, a boy is born, and the little signora is dead."
The landlord was a man who cared for nothing if his dinner was to his
liking and his wines good. Chiara had managed all domestic affairs so
well for so many years that he was willing she should manage this
little difficulty. The trusty woman produced enough money to defray
all the expenses incurred by the English people, who had honored his
hotel with their custom. No one questioned the claim of Chiara to the
clothes and the few jewels left by the English lady, especially as she
took upon herself the entire charge of the child. The dead mother was
buried without rite or ceremony in a solitary corner of the village
cemetery, for everybody knew she was not entitled to a Christian
burial, being an accursed heretic; but the child was baptized into the
Catholic Church.
It was not possible for Chiara to keep the baby herself in the bustling
life of the village inn; and she had no wish to do so. She had a
sister, with children of her own, living up on the mountains, in a
small group of huts where a few shepherds and goatherds lived near one
another for safety and companionship during the bitter winter months,
when the wolves prowled around the hovels, under whose roofs the goats
and sheep were folded, as well as the men, women, and children. The
children received almost less care and attention than the sheep and
goats, which were worth money. The whole community led a savage and
uncivilized life. Behind their little hamlet rose the huge escarpment
of gray rocks, which hid the sun from them until it was high in the
heavens, and in whose clefts the snow and ice lay unmelted ten months
in the year. Far below them was the valley, with its church and
clock-tower, from which the chiming of bells came up to their ears
plainly enough; but the distance was too great for any but the
strongest among them to go down, unless it was a great festival of the
church, when their eternal salvation depended upon assisting at it.
Now and then a priest made his way up to this far-off corner of his
parish, but it was only when one of its few inhabitants was dying. No
one had the courage to undertake the task of civilizing this little
plot of almost savage barbarism.
The name of the young Englishman, the father of the little waif thrust
back in this manner to a state of original savagery, had been entered
in the register of the village inn as S. Martin. The child was
christened Martino. Chiara agreed to pay 150 kreutzers a month for his
maintenance, an enormous sum it seemed, but her sister knew how to
drive a good bargain, and had a shrewd suspicion that Chiara could very
well afford to pay more.