A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.
Dr. Turner did not immediately reply.
He was so indignant, so overcome by the startling and unnatural
proposition that he was rendered speechless.
The knowledge that this woman, so beautiful and gifted, and who had, to
all appearance, unlimited wealth at her command, should desire to cast
her offspring adrift upon the world, coldly throwing her upon the
indifferent care of strangers, was simply horrible to him.
The mystery, which, from the first, he had instinctively recognized as
attaching itself to this woman, was thickening about her.
There must, he thought, be some terrible secret connected with her life,
which she was anxious and bound to conceal, or she never could have
contemplated such an unfeeling act, and he could think of but one
contingency that would compel her to adopt such extreme measures.
“Madame,” he at last said, and speaking with dignified reserve, “I
cannot refrain from expressing my surprise at your startling and—I am
compelled to say it—heartless proposal. It would be a most unnatural—a
most reprehensible proceeding. My whole nature recoils at the mere
mention of it, and I can think of but one reason that would seem to make
it necessary for you to abandon your child in the way you propose.”
The physician paused a moment, as if in doubt as to the propriety of
saying more.
“Well, and what may that be?” briefly demanded his companion, in a tone
that should have warned him not to give expression to his thought.
“Perhaps your little one has come into the world unprotected by the tie
of wedlock, and therefore you desire to conceal from every one the
evidence of——”
She checked the words upon his lips with an imperious gesture.
A vivid crimson rushed to her brow, suffused her neck, and seemed to
extend to the very tips of her fingers; then the color as quickly
receded, leaving her patrician face ghastly pale.
She threw up her proud head with a movement of exquisite grace: an angry
fire leaped into her dusky eyes; an expression of scorn curled her
beautiful lips.
“How dare you say such a thing to me?” she demanded, in a passionate
tone that had a thrill of pain in it as well. “But for your former
kindness to me, I would never pardon you! You have a suspicion that I am
not a married woman.”
“I could think of no other excuse for what you proposed regarding your
child,” replied the physician, meeting her flashing glance calmly, and
with a note of contempt in his voice, although he half regretted having
spoken as he had.
He believed even now that she was acting a part.
She saw it, and again her face flamed scarlet.
Then she drew from the third finger of her left hand a superb solitaire
diamond ring, and passed it to him.
“Examine that if you please,” she commanded, briefly and icily.
He took it, and upon its inner surface found engraved in tiny
characters, “_C. to E. Sept._ 10th, 185—. _Omnia Vincit Amor._”
It had evidently been given to her in September of the previous year.
“An engagement-ring,” he remarked, as he passed it back to her with an
air that plainly said: “That proves nothing to your advantage.”
Madame bowed and then quietly but proudly drew from the same finger a
massive circlet of gold which she also handed to him.
A dusky red surged to the physician’s brow as he received it and
realized what he had done. He felt as if he had offered the fair woman
an unpardonable insult.
This ring was marked “_C. S. to E. E., Paris, March 15th, 185—_.”
Both circlets proved an honorable engagement and a lawful marriage, the
latter occurring some seven months subsequent to the former, and Dr.
Turner felt that he had got himself into a very unpleasant predicament.
“I beg your pardon, madame,” he said, with visible confusion, but in a
grave, respectful tone; “but your very extraordinary preposition must be
my apology for my unjust and offensive suspicion.”
For a moment the lady regarded him gravely, but with a little gleam of
triumph in her dark eyes; then with a shrug of her shapely shoulders,
she replied:
“Perhaps it was but natural; let it pass. I became a lawful wife, as you
have seen, nearly a year ago, and my child has had honorable birth: but,
for reasons which I cannot explain to you, I can never acknowledge her,
and it becomes necessary for me to make some other provision for her.”
“But it is such an unnatural thing to do,” persisted the doctor, with a
deprecating gesture.
“Granted; but—it cannot be helped,” replied the mother, firmly, an
inflexible purpose written on her fair young face.
“Allow me to inquire if your husband is living?” Dr. Turner asked, after
a moment of silence.
“Excuse me; I cannot answer that question,” replied his companion with
pale, compressed lips.
“Ah! there has been some trouble and a separation, perhaps,” thought the
doctor; then he asked:
“Do you think that he would uphold you in thus sacrificing your little
one—his little one, to your selfish purpose—to abandon her, as you
propose, to the doubtful charity of a cold world.”
An icy shiver seemed to run throughout the woman’s frame at this. She
shifted uneasily in her chair, her white lids quivered, her hands were
locked in a rigid, painful clasp.
“I tell you there are circumstances which make it absolutely necessary
for me to give her away,” she said, in a strained, unnatural voice,
after an evident effort at self-control. “My husband would—is as
helpless in the matter as myself.”
“I can conceive of no circumstances which should make the well-being of
your child of secondary importance, especially since you have assured me
that you are a lawful wife, and it is evident that you have abundant
means at your command. She is your own flesh and blood, and it becomes
your duty, as a mother, to give her a mother’s love and care. I care not
what fancied or real obstacle stands in the way, it should be resolutely
swept aside for the sake of both duty and humanity,” Dr. Turner argued,
with impressive earnestness.
“You simply do not know anything about the matter, sir,” retorted his
patient, with an angry flash in her eyes, “and, if you please, we will
not discuss that point any further.”
Dr. Turner bowed a cold assent; then, as he returned the wedding-ring,
which he had retained until now, he remarked:
“The name you have given here does not correspond with your husband’s
initials upon this ring.”
The lady’s lips curled in a little scornful smile.
“Did you imagine that I would use my true name in such a venture as
this?” she asked. “But that is neither here nor there,” she added, with
an impatient toss of her head. “Do you know of any institution in this
city where my child would be received?”
“No: there is no public institution that would so far countenance your
conduct as to open its doors to her, and I would not designate it if
there were. Such places are for children who have no parents, or for
those whose parents are too poor to care for them,” the physician
indignantly replied.
Then, after a short pause, he continued, with great earnestness:
“Let me make one last appeal to you, madame. You have given birth to a
lovely little daughter, who bids fair to be a child of whom any parent
might well be proud. It would be a continual delight to watch her grow
and develop into womanhood, and she would no doubt be of the greatest
comfort to you years hence, when you begin to descend the hill of life.
Keep your child, Mrs. Marston, do not cast her off upon the doubtful
care of strangers, to become you know not what in the future. Love and
cherish her, nourish her innocence and purity, and do not, I beseech
you, commit the irreparable wrong which you are contemplating.”
The woman before him threw out her white jeweled hands in a spasmodic
gesture in which impatience, pain, and anger were commingled.
“Spare your importunities, Dr. Turner,” she said, coolly, “for I assure
you it is only a waste of breath and sentiment on your part.”
“Have you no love for your innocent babe?” he demanded, sternly.
“I have not dared—I will not allow myself to become attached to her,”
was the low, constrained reply.
“Have you no pity, then, that you thrust her thus remorselessly from
your sheltering care?”
“I should become an object far more pitiable if I should keep her with
me,” returned the incomprehensible mother.
“I cannot understand it. Poor child! poor child!” sighed the sympathetic
and perplexed physician.
“Doctor,” said his companion, with a sudden start, her face lighting
with eagerness, “have you children of your own?”
“No, madame. I should consider myself blessed, indeed, if I had,” he
sighed.
“Then will you adopt my daughter? I can assure you that there is not the
slightest taint upon her parentage, and it is only the force of hard,
obstinate circumstances that compels me to give her up. Your sympathies
seem to have been enlisted for her. I am sure you are a good man, and I
know that she would find a kind parent in you.”
The man flushed, and tears rose to his eyes at this appeal.
“Mrs. Marston,” he said, sadly, “if your child had been born six months
earlier, and you had asked me this question at that time, I should have
answered you with eagerness in the affirmative; but she who would have
given the little one a mother’s care is no longer in my home. She died
five months ago this very day, and I have no one else in my family to
whom I could commit the babe.”
“Then what shall I do?” murmured the woman, with knitted brows and
sternly compressed lips.
“I can think only of one alternative that I should be willing to
suggest,” replied the doctor.
“What is that?” she demanded, eagerly.
“Advertise for some young couple to adopt the child. You will then have
an opportunity to select a permanent home for her, and escape the
anxiety which her uncertain fate in a charitable institution would
entail upon you. I should suppose the mere thought of it would be
torture to you.”
“It is,” replied the mother, with a quick, indrawn breath, while a
nervous shiver ran over her. “I will do it,” she added, the look of care
vanishing from her face, which had now become to the high-minded
physician more like the face of a beautiful fiend than that of a
tender-hearted woman. “I will advertise in the _Transcript_ to-morrow
morning, and will offer the sum of five hundred dollars to any
respectable couple who will take the babe and promise to rear and
educate her as their own. I wonder why I did not think of that plan
myself,” she concluded, with a sigh of relief.
“I should propose omitting the reward from the advertisement,” observed
the doctor, with a slight curl of his lips.
“Why so?”
“Because in that case you would be sure that whoever applied for her was
actuated by a real desire to have the little one; while, if money were
offered, cupidity might be the main object in the application.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Mrs. Marston observed, thoughtfully; “and yet I
believe I shall offer it. I shall, at all events, give that amount to
whoever adopts the child.”
She then adroitly changed the subject, plying the physician with
numerous questions regarding Boston, its attractions and advantages, and
so effectually led his mind in another direction, charming him with her
rare conversational gifts, her evident culture and familiarity with both
America and Europe, that he spent a delightful hour with her, and
temporarily forgot the contempt and repulsion which he had previously
entertained for her.
When the clock upon the mantel struck four, he started up in surprise,
at which a sly smile curved his fair entertainer’s red lips, for she
knew that she had held him by the magic of her fascinations, as she had
meant to do.
But she arose also, and cordially extended her hand to him at parting,
while she remarked, smilingly:
“I have neglected a very important item of business, and came very near
forgetting it altogether. If you have, with you, the bill for your
services to me, I shall be very happy to settle it.”
Dr. Turner flushed, and began to search his pockets, without appearing
to notice the proffered hand.
At length he drew a slip of paper from his diary, and handed it to her.
She smiled again as she noticed the figures upon it; but unlocking a
drawer in the table near which they were standing, she took from it an
elegant purse, in which there appeared to be a plentiful supply of both
gold and paper money.
She selected a bill and extended it to him.
“I am not able to change that for you, madame,” he said, as he glanced
at it and saw that it was a hundred-dollar note.
“I do not wish it changed. Please take it. Even then I shall feel that I
am deeply indebted to you,” she returned, with an earnestness such as
she had not betrayed before during the interview.
Again the dusky red rushed to the doctor’s temples.
“If it is not convenient for you to hand me just the amount of my bill,
you can send me a check for the sum later,” he said, coldly.
She bit her lips with mortification, and then tears rushed into her
eyes.
“Oh, it is perfectly convenient. Excuse me; I did not intend to offend
you, but I am truly grateful for the kind attention you have bestowed
upon me, and I shall always entertain friendly memories of you.”
Dr. Turner returned a courteous bow for the promise of “friendly
memories,” but remarked, briefly:
“I have but done my duty as a physician, madame.”
An angry flush mounted to her brow as she counted five golden eagles
from her purse and laid them in his hand.
“I know,” she said, “that you think I am a heartless monster in woman’s
form; but you would not, I am sure, if you could understand the strait
that I am in.”
Another bow was his only reply to this.
He could not gainsay her statement regarding his estimate of her
character, and he would not presume to inquire further into the mystery
surrounding her.
“I should be glad to retain your good opinion,” she resumed, with a
slight, deprecating gesture, “for you have been a good friend to me in
my necessity, but a stern fate compels me to forego that. I trust,
however, that I shall see you again before I leave your city.”
And she again extended her hand to him in farewell.
“If you need me—if I can serve you in any way, command me,” Dr. Turner
returned, politely, but with an emphasis which plainly indicated that he
should not voluntarily seek her society.
He bowed again, but barely touched the hand held out to him, and then
went his way, wondering what mysterious circumstance, or combination of
circumstances, could have forced this beautiful and gifted woman to
abandon her child thus at the very beginning of its life.