WHAT WAS PUT IN THE IRON BOX.
The mother's vigil with her child on this last night was fraught with
conflicting emotions of agony and rebellion. Upon Dr. Spenlove's
departure she rose and dressed herself completely, all her thoughts
and feelings being so engrossed by the impending separation that she
took no heed of her damp clothes. She entertained no doubt that the
renunciation was imperative and in the interest of her babe; nor did
she doubt that the man who had dictated it was acting in simple
justice to himself and in a spirit of mercy towards her; but she was
in no mood to regard with gratitude one who in the most dread crisis
in her life had saved her from destruction. The cause of this
injustice lay in the fact that until this moment the true maternal
instinct had not been awakened within her breast. As she had
faithfully expressed it to Dr. Spenlove, the birth of her babe had
filled her with terror and with a loathing of herself. Had there been
no consequences of her error apparent to the world she would have
struggled on and might have been able to preserve her good name; her
dishonour would not have been made clear to censorious eyes; but the
living evidence of her shame was by her side, and, left to her own
resources, she had conceived the idea that death was her only refuge.
Her acceptance of the better course that had been opened for her
loosened the floodgates of tenderness for the child who was soon to be
torn from her arms. Love and remorse shone in her eyes as she knelt by
the bedside and fondled the little hands and kissed the innocent lips.
"Will you not wake, darling," she murmured, "and let me see your dear
eyes? Wake, darling, wake! Do you not know what is going to happen?
They are going to take you from me. Perhaps we shall never meet again;
and if we do, you have not even a name by which I can call you. But
perhaps that will not matter. Surely you will know your mother, surely
I shall know my child, and we shall fly to each other's arms. I want
to tell you all this--I want you to hear it. Wake, sweet, wake!"
The child slept on. Presently she murmured, "It is hard, it is hard!
How can God permit such cruelty?"
Half an hour passed in this way, and then she became more composed.
Her mind, which had been unbalanced by her misfortunes, recovered its
equilibrium, and she could reason with comparative calmness upon the
future. In sorrow and pain she mentally mapped out the years to come.
She saw her future, as she believed, a joyless life, a life of cold
duty. She would not entertain the possibility of a brighter side, the
possibility of her becoming reconciled to her fate, of her growing to
love her husband, of her having other children who would be as dear to
her as this one was. In the state of her feelings it seemed to her
monstrous to entertain such ideas, a wrong perpetrated upon the babe
she was deserting. In dogged rebellion she hugged misery to her
breast, and dwelt upon it as part of the punishment she had brought
upon herself. There was no hope of happiness for her in the future,
there was no ray of light to illumine her path. For ever would she be
thinking of the child for whom now, for the first time since its
birth, she felt a mother's love, and who was henceforth to find a home
among strangers.
In this hopeless fashion did she muse for some time, and then a star
appeared in her dark sky. She might, as she had suggested to Dr.
Spenlove, survive her husband; it was more than possible, it was
probable, and, though there was in the contemplation a touch of
treason towards the man who had come to her rescue, she derived
satisfaction from it. In the event of his death she must adopt some
steps to prove that the child was hers, and that she, and she alone,
had the sole right to her. No stranger should keep her darling from
her, should rob her of her reward for the sufferings she had
undergone. It was for this reason that she had asked Dr. Spenlove for
the iron box.
It was a compact, well-made box, and very heavy for its size. Any
person receiving it as a precious deposit, under the conditions she
imposed, might, when it was in his possession, reasonably believe that
it contained mementoes of price, valuable jewels, perhaps, which she
wished her child to wear when she grew to womanhood. She had no such
treasure. Unlocking the box she took from her pocket a packet of
letters, which she read with a bitterness which displayed itself
strongly in her face, which made her quiver with passionate
indignation.
"The villain!" she muttered. "If he stood before me now, I would
strike him dead at my feet."
There was no lingering accent of tenderness in her voice. The love she
had for him but yesterday was dead, and for the father of her child
she had now only feelings of hatred and scorn. Clearly she was a woman
of strong passions, a woman who could love and hate with ardour.
The letters were four in number, and had been written, at intervals of
two or three weeks, by the man who had betrayed and deserted her. The
language was such as would have deceived any girl who had given him
her heart. The false fervour, the protestations of undying love, the
passionate appeals to put full trust in his honour, were sufficient to
stamp the writer as a heartless villain, and, if he aped
respectability, to ruin him in the eyes of the world. Cunning he must
have been to a certain extent, but it was evident that, in thus
incriminating himself and supplying proofs of his perfidy, he had
forgotten his usual caution. Perhaps he had been for a short time
under a delusion that in his pursuit of the girl he was acting
honourably and sincerely, or perhaps (which is more likely), finding
that she held back, he was so eager to win her that he addressed her
in the only way by which he could compass his desire. The last of the
four letters contained a solemn promise of marriage if she would leave
her home, and place herself under his protection. It even went so far
as to state that he had the license ready, and that it was only her
presence that was needed to ratify their union. There was a reference
in this letter to the engagement between her and Mr. Gordon, and the
writer declared that it would bring misery upon her. "Release yourself
from this man," he continued, "at once and for ever. It would be a
living death. Rely upon my love. All my life shall be devoted to the
task of making you happy, and you shall never have occasion for one
moment's regret that you have consented to be guided by me." She read
these words with a smile of bitter contempt on her lips, and a burning
desire in her heart for revenge.
"If there is justice in heaven," she muttered, "a day will come!"
Then she brought forward a photograph of the betrayer, which, with the
letters, she deposited in the box. This done, she locked the box, and
tying the key to a bit of string, hung it round her neck, and allowed
it to fall, hidden, in her bosom.
Seating herself by the bedside, she gazed upon the babe from whom she
was soon to be torn. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her sad
thoughts, shaped in words, ran somewhat in this fashion:
"In a few hours she will be taken from me; in a few short hours we
shall be separated, and then, and then--ah, how can I know it and
live!--an ocean of waters will divide us. She will not miss me; she
does not know me. She will receive another woman's endearments; she
will never bestow a thought upon me, her wretched mother, and I--I
shall be for ever thinking of her! She is all my own now; presently I
shall have no claim upon her. Would it not be better to end it as I
had intended--to end it now, this moment!" She rose to her feet, and
stood with her lips tightly pressed and her hands convulsively
clenched; and then she cried in horror, "No, no! I dare not--I dare
not! It would be murder, and he said that God would not forgive me.
Oh, my darling, my darling, it is merciful that you are a baby, and do
not know what is passing in my mind! If you do not love me now, you
may in the future, when I shall be free, and then you shall feel how
different is a mother's love from the love of a strange woman. But how
shall I recognise you if you are a woman before we meet again--how
shall I prove to you, to the world, that you are truly mine? Your eyes
will be black, as mine are, and your hair, I hope, will be as dark,
but there are thousands like that. I am grateful that you resemble me,
and not your base father, whom I pray God to strike and punish. Oh,
that it were ever in my power to repay him for his treachery, to say
to him, 'As you dragged me down, so do I drag you down! As you ruined
my life, so do I ruin yours!' But I cannot hope for that. The woman
weeps, the man laughs. Never mind, child, never mind. If in future
years we are reunited, it will be happiness enough. Dark hair, black
eyes, small hands and feet. Oh, darling, darling!" She covered the
little hands and feet with kisses. "And yes, yes"--with feverish
eagerness she gazed at the child's neck--"these two tiny moles, like
those on my neck. I shall know you, I shall know you, I shall be able
to prove that you are my daughter!"
With a lighter heart she resumed her seat, and set to work mending the
infant's scanty clothing, which she fondled and kissed as though it
had sense and feeling. A church clock in the distance tolled five. She
had been listening for the hour, hoping it was earlier.
"Five o'clock!" she muttered. "I thought it was not later than three.
I am being robbed. Oh, if time would only stand still! Five o'clock!
In seven hours she will be taken from me. Seven hours--seven short
hours! I will not close my eyes."
But after awhile her lids drooped, and she was not conscious of it.
The abnormal fatigues of the day and night, the relaxing of the
overstrung nerves, the warmth of the room, produced their effect; her
head sank upon the bed, and she fell into a dreamful sleep.
It was merciful that her dreaming fancies were not drawn from the
past. The psychological cause of her slumbers being beguiled by bright
visions may be found in the circumstance that, despite the conflicting
passions by which she had been agitated, the worldly ease which was
secured to her and her child by Mr. Gordon's offer had removed a heavy
weight from her heart. In her visions she saw her baby grow into a
happy girlhood; she had glimpses of holiday times, when they were
together in the fields or by the seaside, or walking in the glow of
lovely sunsets, gathering flowers in the hush of the woods, or winding
their way through the golden corn. In these fair dreams her baby
passed from girlhood to womanhood, and happy smiles wreathed the lips
of the woe-worn woman as she lay in her poor garments on the humble
bed by the side of her child.
"Do you love me, darling?" asked the sleeping mother.
"Dearly, dearly," answered the dream-child. "With my whole heart,
mother."
"Call me mother again. It is like the music of the angels."
"Mother, mother!"
"You will love me always, darling?"
"Always, mother; for ever and ever and ever."
"Say that you will never love me less, that you will never forget me."
"I will never love you less; I will never forget you."
"Darling child, how beautiful you are! There is not in the world a
lovelier woman. It is for me to protect and guard you. I can do so: I
have had experience. Come, let us rest."
They sat upon a mossy bank, and the mother folded her arms around her
child, who lay slumbering on her breast.
There had been a few blissful days in this woman's life, during which
she had believed in man's faithfulness and God's goodness, but the
dreaming hours she was now enjoying were fraught with a heavenly
gladness. Nature and dreams are the fairies of the poor and the
afflicted.
She awoke as the church clock chimed eight. Again had she to face the
stern realities of life. The sad moment of separation was fast
approaching.