XLII.
PAULA RELATES A STORY SHE HAS HEARD.
"None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possessed."
--BYRON.
In the centre of a long low room not far from the scene of the latedisaster, a solitary lamp was burning. It had been lit in haste and castbut a feeble flame, but its light was sufficient to illuminate the sadand silent group that gathered under its rays.
On a bench by the wall, crouched the bowed and stricken form of RogerHolt, his face buried in his hands, his whole attitude expressive of theutmost grief; at his side stood Mr. Sylvester, his tall figure loomingsombrely in the dim light; and on the floor at their feet, lay the deadform of the little lame boy.
But it was not upon their faces, sad and striking as they were, that theeyes of the few men and women scattered in the open door-way, restedmost intently. It was upon her, the bruised, bleeding, half-dead mother,who kneeling above the little corpse, gazed down upon it with theimmobility of despair, moaning in utter heedlessness of her owncondition, "My baby, my baby, my own, own baby!"
The fixedness with which she eyed the child, though the blood wasstreaming from her forehead and bathing with a still deeper red herburned and blistered arms, made Mr. Sylvester's sympathetic heart beat.Turning to the silent figure of Holt, he touched him on the arm and saidwith a gesture in her direction:
"You have not deceived the woman? That is really her own child that liesthere?"
The man beside him, started, looked up with slowly comprehending eyes,and mechanically bowed his head. "Yes," assented he, and relapsed intohis former heavy silence.
Mr. Sylvester touched him again. "If it is hers, how came she not toknow it? How could you manage to deceive such a woman as that?"
Holt started again and muttered, "She was sick and insensible. She neversaw the baby; I sent it away, and when she came to herself, told her itwas dead. We had become tired of each other long before, and only neededthe breaking of this bond to separate us. When she saw me again, it waswith another woman at my side and an infant in my arms. The child wasweakly and looked younger than he was. She thought it her rival's and Idid not undeceive her." And the heavy head again fell forward, andnothing disturbed the sombre silence of the room but the low unvaryingmoan of the wretched mother, "My baby, my baby, my own, own baby!"
Mr. Sylvester moved over to her side. "Jacqueline," said he, "the childis dead and you yourself are very much hurt. Won't you let these goodwomen lay you on a bed, and do what they can to bind up your poorblistered arms?"
But she heard him no more than the wind's blowing. "My baby," shemoaned, "my own, own baby!"
He drew back with a troubled air. Grief like this he could understandbut knew not how to alleviate. He was just on the point of beckoningforward one of the many women clustered in the door-way, when there camea sound from without that made him start, and in another moment a youngman had stepped hastily into the room, followed by a girl, who no soonersaw Mr. Sylvester, than she bounded forward with a sudden cry of joy andrelief.
"Bertram! Paula! What does this mean? What are you doing here?"
A burst of sobs from the agitated girl was her sole reply.
"Such a night! such a place!" he exclaimed, throwing his arm about Paulawith a look that made her tremble through her tears. "Were you soanxious about me, little one?" he whispered. "Would not your fears letyou rest?"
"No, no; and we have had such a dreadful time since we got here. Thehouse where we expected to find you, is on fire, and we thought ofnothing else but that you had perished within it. But finally some onetold us to come here, and--" She paused horror-stricken; her eyes hadjust fallen upon the little dead child and the moaning mother.
"That is Jacqueline Japha," whispered Mr. Sylvester. "We have found her,only to close her eyes, I fear."
"Jacqueline Japha!" Paula's hands unclosed from his arm.
"She was in the large tenement house that burned first; that is herchild whose loss she is mourning."
"Jacqueline Japha!" again fell with an indescribable tone from Paula'slips. "And who is that?" she asked, turning and indicating the silentfigure by the wall.
"That is Roger Holt, the man who should have been her husband."
"Oh, I remember him," she cried; "and her, I remember her, and thelittle child too. But," she suddenly exclaimed, "she told me then thatshe was not his mother."
"And she did not know that she was; the man had deceived her."
With a quick thrill Paula bounded forward. "Jacqueline Japha," shecried, falling with outstretched hands beside the poor creature; "thankGod you are found at last!"
But the woman was as insensible to this cry as she had been to allothers. "My baby," she wailed, "my baby, my own, own baby!"
Paula recoiled in dismay, and for a moment stood looking down with fearand doubt upon the fearful being before her. But in another instant aheavenly instinct seized her, and ignoring the mother, she stooped overthe child and tenderly kissed it. The woman at once woke from herstupor. "My baby!" she cried, snatching the child up in her arms with agleam of wild jealousy; "nobody shall touch it but me. I killed it andit is all mine now!" But in a moment she had dropped the child back intoits place, and was going on with the same set refrain that had stirredher lips from the first.
Paula was not to be discouraged. Laying her hand on the child's brow,she gently smoothed back his hair, and when she saw the old gleamreturning to the woman's countenance, said quietly, "Are you going tocarry it to Grotewell to be buried? Margery Hamlin is waiting for you,you know?"
The start which shook the woman's haggard frame, encouraged her toproceed.
"Yes; you know she has been keeping watch, and waiting for you so long!She is quite worn out and disheartened; fifteen years is a long time tohope against hope, Jacqueline."
The stare of the wretched creature deepened into a fierce and maddenedglare. "You don't know what you are talking about," cried she, and bentherself again over the child.
Paula went on as if she had not spoken. "Any one that is loved as muchas you are, Jacqueline, ought not to give way to despair; even if yourchild is dead, there is still some one left whom you can make supremelyhappy."
"Him?" the woman's look seemed to say, as she turned and pointed withfrightful sarcasm to the man at their back.
Paula shrank and hastily shook her head. "No, no, not him, but--Let metell you a story," she whispered eagerly. "In a certain country-town notfar from here, there is a great empty house. It is dark, and cold, andmusty. No one ever goes there but one old lady, who every night at six,crosses its tangled garden, unlocks its great side door, enters withinits deserted precincts, and for an hour remains there, praying for onewhose return she has never ceased to hope and provide for. She iskneeling there to-night, at this very hour, Jacqueline, and the love shethus manifests is greater than that of man to woman or woman to man. Itis like that of heaven or the Christ."
The woman before her rose to her feet. She did not speak, but she lookedlike a creature before whose eyes a sudden torch had been waved.
"Fifteen years has she done this," Paula solemnly continues. "Shepromised, you know; and she never has forgotten her promise."
With a cry the woman put out her hands. "Stop!" she cried, "stop! Idon't believe it. No one loves like that; else there is a God and I--"She paused, quivered, gave one wild look about her, and then with aquick cry, something between a moan and a prayer, succumbed to the painof her injuries, and sank down insensible by the side of her dead child.
With a reverent look Paula bent over her and kissed her seared andbleeding forehead. "For Mrs. Hamlin's sake," she whispered, and quietlysmoothed down the tattered clothing about the poor creature's wastedframe.
Mr. Sylvester turned quietly upon the man who had been the cause of allthis misery. "I charge myself with the care of that woman," said he,"and with the burial of your child. It shall be placed in decent groundwith all proper religious ceremonial."
"What, you will do this!" cried Holt, a flush of real feeling for amoment disturbing the chalk-white pallor of his cheek. "Oh sir, this isChristian charity; and I beg your pardon for all that I may havemeditated against you. It was done for the child," he went on wildly;"to get him the bread and butter he often lacked. I didn't care so muchfor myself. I hated to see him hungry and cold and ailing; I might haveworked, but I detest work, and--But no matter about all that; enoughthat I am done with endeavoring to extort money from you. Whatever mayhave happened in the past, you are free from my persecutions in thefuture. Henceforth you and yours can rest in peace."
"That is well," cried a voice over his shoulder, and Bertram with an airof relief stepped hastily forward. "You must be very tired," remarkedhe, turning to his uncle. "If you will take charge of Paula, I will dowhat I can to see that this injured woman and the dead child areproperly cared for. I am so relieved, sir, at this result," hewhispered, with a furtive wring of his uncle's hand, "that I mustexpress my joy in some way."
Mr. Sylvester smiled, but in a manner that reflected but little of theother's satisfaction. "Thank you," said he, "I am tired and will gladlydelegate my duties to you. I trust you to do the most you can for boththe living and the dead. That woman for all her seeming poverty is thepossessor of a large fortune;" he whispered; "let her be treated assuch." And with a final word to Holt who had sunk back against the wallin his old attitude of silent despair, Mr. Sylvester took Paula upon hisarm, and quietly led her out of this humble but not unkind refuge.
The Sword of Damocles: A Story of New York Life Page 43
