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. Forever would she be thinking of the child for whom she now, for the first time since its birth, 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 toward 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 letter, 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 I would strike him dead at my feet!"
There was no lingering accent of tenderness in her voice. For the father of her child she had only feelings of hatred and scorn. Clearly she was a woman of strong passions, a woman who could love and hate in no niggardly fashion.
She tore the letter down in two uneven strips, and placed one strip in the box; the other she folded carefully and returned to her pocket. Then she locked the box, and tying the key with a piece of string, hung it round her neck and allowed it to fall, hidden in her bosom.
"If there is justice in heaven," she muttered, "a day will come!"
The portion of the letter which she had deposited in the box read as follows:
"My Darling:
"My heart is dear girl that I do no can express my feelings would be powerless to ex will show my deep love in life shall be devoted to t of making you happy. Neve have occasion for one moment that you have consented to be
I have thoroughly convinced yo marriage with Mr. Gordon would b of bringing the deepest misery up be truly a living death. With me be filled with love and sunshine. N
be allowed to darken it. As your p as your devoted husband, I solemnly sw will forever shield and guard you. In hours our new and joyful life will be com
Meet me to-morrow night at the appointed p and be careful not to whisper a word of you flight to a living soul. The least suspicion certainly ruin your happiness and mine. And sure that you burn this letter as you have bur
With fond and everlasting love, believe me, my o be forever and ever your faithful and constant l
Putting the iron box on the table she sat by the bedside, her eyes fixed upon her child. Her 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 think of it? – 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 forever 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 recognize 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 a while her lids dropped, 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 to which she had proved she was too prone to yield, 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. From girlhood to womanhood in these fair dreams her baby passed, 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; forever 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.
CHAPTER IX.
MR. MOSS PLAYS HIS PART
At five o'clock on the afternoon of that day Dr. Spenlove returned to his apartments. Having given away the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to London, he had bethought him of a gentleman living in Southsea of whom he thought he could borrow a sovereign