When her unloved daughter responded to the letter which had caused her
such mingled pain and joy, she found the former favourite of fortune
living--or, rather, dying--in the modern equivalent of the historic
garret, a squalid tenement in an unfashionable and ragged quarter of the
great city of New York. Her mother's husband, Lynn did not see; the
strain of attending to his sick wife had proved unsupportable and, after
a short time, he had taken his departure, leaving no address. Lynn
hoped that he would not return until she had left New York; she felt,
seeing her mother and remembering what that mother had been in the past,
that she could scarcely have borne the burden of his presence. Her
fears, however, were unnecessary; Clara Allardi had been dead several
days before that husband returned and his absence had troubled Lynn more
than his presence could have done; for it was from him that she was
obliged to ask the boon which crippled her future yet filled her life
for many years.
This, however, is anticipating. We must return to the time when Lynn
took up her abode in her mother's "home" once more and did what she
could for the comfort of that mother. She had complied with Clara's
request in so far that she had told her guardians of her destination;
she had gone to the principal of the school where she taught and had
asked for leave of absence, offering to pay a substitute; then had
packed a valise and left a note for her aunt, explaining her mother's
condition and begging that her uncle would not follow or bother about
her. This was merely a figure of speech on Lynn's part; Horace Thayer
was a man who never bothered about anything in the universe but himself.
Lynn realized, however, that her aunt, who had a real affection for her,
ought to know her whereabouts and the object of her journey; though, in
the face of her mother's strangely insistent entreaties, she was
strongly tempted to use a long-standing New York invitation from a
school friend, as a pretext.
She found her mother delirious and very weak. She talked incoherently,
but recognized Lynn and greeted her with something like eagerness, in
the way that one would greet a useful friend rather than in the way that
one would greet a child whom one had not seen for many years. Lynn,
however, had steeled herself to bear what she had anticipated would not
be an especially joyous reunion and took stoically whatever arrows the
joyous fates chose to drive in her direction.
Must the truth be confessed? It was not the thought of seeing her
mother before she died that had formed Lynn's chief object in hastening
to New York. While she would, in any case, have used every effort to
further her mother's dying wish, it must be confessed that there was
little more than a bitter, dull grief in the prospect of seeing the
latter, again. But there was another, darling prospect. The child! the
little boy who had been three when she left him, would be ten, now. Oh,
to see him, again! the one being who had always clung to her, loved her,
satisfied her. The dear, unutterably dear little mortal whose arrival
into the world had changed the face of life for her. How had she lived
without him all these years? she wondered; was he as beautiful as ever,
as full of life and sweetness? and--had he come to resemble his father
as much as he had promised to do? The thought depressed her for a
moment; she remembered how, as a child, it had infuriated her to hear
people remark upon the wonderful likeness between Allardi and his infant
son. Then her brow cleared. He was really more like her mother than his
father, she insisted to herself; as he had her high-bred clearness of
outline, so he would inherit her delicate refinement, her ineradicable
fastidiousness of mind. She lost herself in hopeful musing, almost
forgetting in the joy of seeing her little brother once more that her
mother's grave would probably be dug before she returned again to
Montreal.
*CHAPTER VI*
*"LIFE AT ITS END"*
The April morning broke softly, implacably chill. There was a hint of
cruelty in the frolicsome spring breeze that danced through the
half-opened window, a hint of sorrow in the few faint tremulous notes of
"half-awakened birds," preparing once more to face the strange world of
which they knew so little. There was something ominous in the softness
of the spring air, something that chilled one's blood with a faint
terror.
Over the dreary tenements and horrible, rearing buildings of New York
broke the pitiless day. The lovely rose of dawn softened all that was
bare and bleak and gave it a semblance of tenderness and repose.
There was silence in the room where Death lay waiting. The body of
Clara Allardi lay stretched upon a bed in slumber, her wasted hand,
blue-veined, marble-white, plucking mechanically at the quilt, her
restless voice muttering vaguely of things that had long since passed
away; lips that had laughed, pulses that had leaped, hearts that had
broken, long, long ago. Death, itself, might have laughed to hear her;
but her daughter did not laugh.
Clara's face was blue-veined now and hollow-eyed, but, even so, was
lovely; delicately, uselessly lovely, with the flawless pulchritude of a
marble statue, the sickening, unearthly hue of ivory. Clara Allardi had
been very beautiful in her day, had had her share of the kingdoms of
this world and the glories of them; she lay dying in a New York
tenement, unloved, uncared-for, an old woman at the age of forty-five.
Nature "red of tooth and claw" is sometimes more horrible in tender mood
than in fierce; this riot of delicate colour and tremulous song in the
face of grisly Death seemed to Lynn Thayer insulting and indecorous.
The tragedy of the breaking day and of the ebbing life gnawed at her
heart. She sat silent, watching the dying with hungry eyes that held no
trace of personal grief, only a dumb heart-craving for something she had
never known.
In the farther end of the room lay a child who slept peacefully, his
scarlet lips half-parted in a smile, his delicate arms thrust outside
the bed-clothes and half-bared. The long black lashes which lay on the
glowing dusk of his cheek; the thickness of the clustering curls which
shaded his low brow; the almost insolent regularity of his childish
features: all proclaimed him to be Guido Allardi's son. He was an ideal
and faithful representative of the old, Italian race to which his father
belonged; before the family, ruined and disgraced, had sought refuge in
America, many such a face had been seen in the family portrait gallery.
Probably none quite so beautiful; beauty such as this child's is rare
and the possessors of it are seldom quite human. Perhaps this fact may
have given rise to the old Greek myths of the gods descending in human
shape and proceeding to the performance of most ungodlike actions.
Lynn's thoughts wandered sometimes to the cot where the boy lay, looking
as much out of place in the sordid setting which the room afforded as
some strange tropical plant. As she thought of him, her face insensibly
cleared. The baby brother of her childhood days had proved a fulfilled
delight. As beautiful as in infancy and with the same caressing,
clinging ways which had made him so dear to her then, he had justified,
to her, her loving remembrance of him. She cherished a hidden thought
of which she was half ashamed yet which held a very real sweetness;
namely, that, in spite of the long years of separation, the boy loved
and clung to her and, as of old, seemed to prefer her society to that of
his mother. She failed to realize that the stock of bonbons and toys
with which she had provided herself had induced the affection which the
child showed so freely; she did not know that he would have left his
dying mother with equal alacrity for anyone who would have fed him with
chocolates. So little do we comprehend what is passing in the minds of
those most near and dear to us; even in the crystal mind of a child
there are depths which it is just as well not to probe too deeply.
In the bare and comfortless room where these three were congregated Life
and Death were present and one more--Judgment. Judgment, the dread
avenger who dogs the steps of Sin. Judgment which, after the fashion of
Judgment, would fall most heavily on the innocent head, most cruelly on
the undeserving. Could Lynn have looked into the future and seen the
awful harvest of corruption which the sleeping child would reap it may
be wondered whether she would not have killed him as he lay, out of
sheer pity.
Ah, the tragedy of Life! Life that takes from us one by one all the
glittering baubles with which she has amused our childish hours--the
rose-hued hopes, the crimson loves, the golden ambitions--and gives us
in their place--what? The dying moaned as though these thoughts had
found an echo in her heart; then lay still, looking straight in front of
her with eyes which, though glazed and uncertain, held a certain
intelligence.
"Mother--are you better? do you understand me?" asked Lynn very softly,
bending over the bed.
Clara Allardi turned her head slightly; her lips moved.
"There was something, something you wanted to say," cried Lynn,
desperately. "If you could only tell me now; it will not take long, will
it?"
Her mother's face brightened into life; an anxious gleam shone in her
eyes which now held no uncertainty, but were the homes of an insistent
purpose, a keen desire. She struggled a moment, then spoke, faintly.
"Your brother?"--
"Yes. Yes."
"Not really--only your half-brother--but you always cared just as
much"--
"More. Oh, mother, a thousand times more. Don't waste time in saying
all this. Is it something you want me to do for Lionel? Surely you know
that anything I could do would be all too little--tell me, just tell me
what it is. I swear to do it, whatever it may be."
"See to him. His father--you know"--
"I know."
"--Doesn't understand children--the little fellow may be hungry,
cold"--Clara Allardi's voice broke into a pitiful quaver which shook
Lynn's composure, terribly.
"Mother," she said, growing white and speaking distinctly, "you are
wasting time and you may not have much more time. You know--you must
know--that, while I live, Liol shall want for nothing that I can give
him. He can never be cold--or hungry--or
friendless--or--loveless--while I live. You must know all that. I have
my teacher's salary; if that is not enough I will get money in some
other way; I have some saved, I have some jewelry--oh, don't talk of
anything so trivial, so absurd, as the idea of Lionel ever wanting for
anything which I can give him. You understand all that, don't you,
mother?"
Her mother's face cleared, then clouded.
"You may marry--change?" she muttered, looking wistfully at her
daughter.
"Never!" said Lynn, choking. "You don't understand me, mother. I could
never think of marriage while Liol was dependent on me; and, as for
change--if that is all, you can die happy."
"Swear," said her mother, faintly.
Lynn hesitated. "I don't like swearing," she returned, reluctantly,
"but, if it will make you any happier--I swear by everything in heaven
and earth--by God Almighty--by the memory of my father--that I will do
exactly as I have said. I will look after Lionel always, always, no
matter what it costs me. _Now_ are you satisfied?"
"You won't be hard on him--he is," she winced, "he is--Guido's child.
We don't--don't always understand foreigners--women don't
always--understand--men. You will remember?--you will think of his
heritage--and be merciful? I have always had to be." Her voice dropped
and broke in a dry sob.
"If he develops into what your husband is," returned Lynn, quietly, "it
will make no difference. You don't understand me, mother. Just as you
never left the other one, because you couldn't, because you wouldn't
have cared to live away from him; so I--I couldn't desert Liol. I have
always loved him; how dearly you have never even guessed. I shall
always love him and--and when he leaves his father and goes to a good
school and knows only good people"--
"It's in his blood," said his mother, faintly. "Already--already it
shows. You--you must make--allowances. Another thing!" she attempted to
raise herself in the bed and her eyes shone with a feverish glitter,
"another thing, Lynn! No one must know." Her voice grew firmer, her
hand more steady. "You remember the conditions--when your uncle"--
"I remember them well. But, dear mother, you don't think Uncle Horace
would hold me to them--now?"
"Horace is hard--a hard man. When--if--Liol did take after his
father--they would never let you see him--or know him. No. If I am to
die in peace you must swear never to tell a living soul that he is your
brother. If anyone at all knew--your uncle might find out--oh, Lynn,
promise?"
Lynn spoke, slowly. "You have not thought, mother. This secrecy will
lead to all sorts of complications. Uncle Horace is a hard man, but he
is just. He will grumble and think me a fool, but he can't refuse his
consent. At present--for a while--it won't matter, not telling anyone
about Liol; but later on--oh, mother, don't ask me to promise that. Let
me use my discretion about it, won't you?"
Clara Allardi half raised herself in bed; her eyes shone with unnatural
lustre, her delicate features thickened with a sort of fury and fever of
determination.
"You refuse?" she said with terrible distinctness. "You refuse?
Then--I curse you. _I curse you_. You--you're taking your revenge now
when I'm dying and helpless for the years that I've put him before you.
I curse you--why can't you let me die in peace? You'll tell--you'll
tell the Thayers; they'll make you give him up or turn you out of doors.
How will you look after him then on a miserable pittance that depends
upon your strength anyway and may fail at any moment? Ah, you're your
father in the flesh,"--she spoke, slowly and with a concentrated
bitterness that appalled Lynn. "Good--hard--hateful! Why did I ever
bring you into the world?"
"That I might look after the child whom you love, I suppose," returned
Lynn with equal bitterness. "Have no fear, mother. You needn't curse
me. If nothing else will make you happy, I'll swear. You know, of
course, that you're making me deceive and lie to my guardians and all
the rest of the world and that you may land me in hopeless confusion and
trouble; but if you think that will benefit Liol and minimize the
chances of his being deprived of anything or annoyed in any way--why, of
course, there is nothing more to be said--is there?"
But Clara Allardi had sunk back with a look of satisfaction and relief
at hearing her daughter's bitter promise to take the oath required, and
it is doubtful whether she even heard the rest.
"Swear, then!" was all she answered.
Lynn hesitated; looked imploringly at her mother; then slowly and
reluctantly repeated her former oath. "By God Almighty--by the memory
of my father--by all I hold sacred in heaven and earth--mother, mother,
mother!"
Clara's fair face had turned the colour of parchment; no breath of life
seemed issuing from her blue lips. Struck by a deadly fear, a still
more poignant longing, Lynn Thayer bent over her mother's death-bed,
yearning with an intensity which surprised herself, for some word of
kindness, of recognition, ere the poor dust turned to dust. It almost
seemed as though her prayer had been answered, for Clara opened her eyes
and looked at Lynn, a lovely light of longing in them. Her lips moved
faintly.
"My child!"--the whisper came softly--"my boy--my only child!"
She did not realize, of course, what she was saying. Lynn understood
that. She rose from her knees, with lips firmly set. Her face was a
little white.
"You want to see him again," she said, in tones which sounded clearly.
"I will bring him to you."
Mrs. Allardi's face brightened. Lynn had divined her inmost thought.
She yearned for the child. She hungered to die, holding him. But Fate,
implacable as iron to the profitless wishes of poor foolish, failing,
mortal things, decreed otherwise. A change on the dying face, an ominous
rattle and choking, arrested Lynn's footsteps and brought her hurriedly
back.
Clara Allardi gasped a little, a very little, then lay quiet. Lynn
stood and watched her, looking pinched and plain in the trying light of
early dawn. The other woman lay with eyes that stared a little.
Presently Lynn realized that she was dead; it did not come as a shock,
only as an added desolation. She leaned forward and touched the cold
cheek, timidly.
"Mother!" she said in a low voice, "Mother!"
There was a brief and bitter silence. Then Lynn took the cold head in
her arms and held it for a moment while her tears fell fast and bitterly
over it.
"She was my mother," she said, weeping, "she--was--my mother!" There
was no complaint in her tones, only a dull pain. Her face held an
unconscious desolation as she laid the fair head back on the pillow and
settled it, decently. She shivered a little as one soft, scented tress
fell against her hand. She had never touched her mother's hair in life
and, oddly enough, this trifling remembrance cut her to the naked soul.
She gasped and looked away, choking down her rising sobs with a species
of horror and disgust. Life had taught her self-control, and she
disliked noise in the presence of the dead.
Presently she rose and moved softly to the cot where the boy lay
sleeping. She looked at him in silence. He stirred in his sleep and
smiled a little. Her sallow face flamed into sudden life and beauty as
she stood, watching him, an adoring smile curving her thin lips. She
had forgotten the other silent inmate of the room who lay, smiling too,
the dead eyes which her daughter had forgotten to close, gazing in front
of her as though she saw nothing to fear in the eternity upon which she
had entered.
Suddenly there was a burst of radiance, a riot of colour and fragrance
and song. The chill, pink light of sunrise streamed through the window
and lay on the dead face, making it very lovely. A delicate rose was
reflected in the icy cheek, a brilliant gold in the faded hair. Lynn,
who had turned, startled by the sudden light, was struck by her mother's
beauty. Despite anxiety, illness, sorrow, Clara Allardi made rather an
exquisite corpse; and, as her plain daughter sat watching her in the
trying light of early dawn, she reflected with a smile that held no
mirth that even in death it was well to have regular features and
abundance of soft hair. Then her face changed and softened. She moved
reverently to the side of the bed, veiled the staring eyes, crossed the
thin hands. Then she knelt and prayed; while far, immeasurably far
below, the slow wail of the sick child, the low moan of the hungry
animal, smote on the deaf ear, the cold heart, of great New York.
*CHAPTER VII*
*A SHORT REPENTANCE*
"Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore--but was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring and rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore."
--_The Rubaiyat_.
Nine years had passed since the events related in the last chapter. Lynn
Thayer had developed from a girl of nineteen into a woman of
twenty-eight. She had lived quietly in Montreal, never relinquishing
her position in the school, though, as the years went by, her aunt had
more than once begged her to remain at home and lead the life of an
ordinary young woman of her class.
As has before been said, Lynn occupied a rather exceptional position in
Montreal. The average girl who teaches in the public schools makes up
her mind, sooner or later, to be a teacher, only. Her position is not
considered in the light of a disgrace, but, on the other hand, she
occupies a slightly lower grade than does the girl who remains at home.
The latter, provided she has the social connections and the time, may go
into any society she pleases. She may be unable to return any
hospitality except in a very simple fashion, but she may still figure as
a "society girl" and receive and accept invitations in the most
exclusive houses.
Probably no other girl but Lynn, however, was ever successful in
combining the duties of a public school teacher and of a society girl.
Both her father and mother had been so well-to-do, so well-known in
Montreal; both had had so many rich friends, so many influential
connections, that their daughter was of necessity a figure of interest.
Then, too, she was connected with the nobility; and, what was more
important, her aunts on both sides of the family, who lived in Montreal,
received and returned visits from the most exclusive Butchers, Bakers
and Candlestick-Makers, and were generally accepted as "fixtures" in
society. Therefore Lynn had invitations of all kinds, not only from
people of gentle breeding, aristocratic birth and good character, but
also from that far more important section of "society" who lived in big
houses and got their clothes from Paquin. She never "came out," much to
her aunt's grief; but she "went out," which was more to the point and
which many girls who "come out" never succeed in doing. She was so
popular, so generally liked, that her obstinate determination to spend
her days in teaching was both admired and extolled.
Meanwhile, what of her brother?
On Mrs. Allardi's death Lynn had secured from his father, who appeared
supremely indifferent to the child and to his fate, a promise that she
was to have full control of him, on condition of paying for his board
and education. Lynn, after considerable thought, made arrangements for
him at a good but unfashionable school in the country, as far as
possible removed from his father. She was struck by the attitude of
father and son to one another. Allardi seemed to regard his small son as
an amusing kind of dog, to be patted on the head if he were in a good
humour, kicked out of the way if he were not; he was proud of him, in a
way, devoted to him; yet, apparently, never thought anything of his
present wants or of his future needs. He was quite capable of leaving
the child alone for days while he sought distraction elsewhere, and of
loading him with bonbons and caresses on his return.
He felt that if this queer, silent step-daughter of his chose to
supplement a small allowance which Mr. Thayer had promised to make the
boy, he would be very foolish to stand in the way. He could make any
promise she chose to exact and break it with alacrity as soon as the
keeping of it became inconvenient. Therefore the readiness with which
he promised to see practically nothing of the boy in the future sprang
really from a defective sense of the value of a promise, rather than
from the total heartlessness with which Lynn credited him. He was
really fond of Lionel--in his way; and fully intended to see all that he
wished of him, whenever necessary.
So the child went to school and Lynn returned to Montreal and worked
steadily for the extra sums which were needed for Lionel's maintenance.
The next few years were comparatively restful and pleasant ones. The
reports which she received of Lionel were not good, yet he seemed to be
progressing fairly well, and Lynn, remembering her mother's dying words,
tried not to expect too much in the beginning. When Lionel was fourteen,
however, he ran away and joined his father in New York.
Lynn did not even know his whereabouts and had no way of discovering
them. The boy did not assuage her anxiety by writing, feeling that his
hiding-place might be ascertained if he gave any clue to it and that he
would then be compelled to return. However, Allardi wrote to Lynn after
a time, telling her that the boy was with him and asking that she would
not withdraw her help as Lionel already needed much that he could not
give him.
Lynn exhausted entreaties, reproofs, and even threats. Allardi was the
boy's natural guardian in the eyes of the law; his will was absolute and
he refused to send the boy from him unless well paid for so doing. This
was out of the question. Lynn had already earned the reputation of a
miser for the scantiness and plainness of the wardrobe which Mrs. Thayer
felt herself constantly obliged to supplement. Naturally Mrs. Thayer
could not see why a girl with fifty dollars a month to spend on herself
alone--as she supposed--should lack for anything in reason.