A Cry in the Wilderness. Mary Ella Waller
folks make out; and that child has a right to this world. You give it the right, and then die if you think it's best.' So she kept at me till my baby come, and then—why, I got just fierce to live for its sweet little sake.
"'Bout six months after that I got religion—never mind how I got it; I got it, that's the point, and I 've held on to it ever since. And when I 'd got it, the first thing I did was to take my baby in my arms and go down to that pier, clear out to the mooring-post, and kneel right down there in the dark and vow a vow to the living God that I 'd give my life to saving of them of His poor children who 'd missed their footing, and trying to help 'em on to their feet again.
"And I 've kept it; brought my girl right up to it too. She 's been my mainstay through it all these last ten years. I took in washing and ironing in the basement of this very house,—my saving angel helped me to work,—and when it was done, late at night between eleven and twelve, I 'd go down to the rivers, sometimes one, sometimes t' other, and watch and wait, ready to do what come in my way.
"At first the police got on to my track thinking something was wrong; but it took 'bout two words to set 'em right, as it did every other man that come near me; and soon I went and come and no questions asked.
"One night I 'd been down to one of the North River piers. It was in December, and a howling northeaster had set in just before sundown. It was sleeting and snowing and blowing a little harder than even I could stand. I had just crossed the street from the pier and was thanking God, as I covered my head closer with my shawl, that, so far as I knew, no one of His children was tired of living, when something—I did n't see what for I was bending over against the wind—went by me with a rush, and I thought I heard a groan. I turned as quick as a flash, and see something dark running, swaying, stumbling across the street, headed for the pier. That was enough for me.
"I caught up my skirt and give chase. How the woman, for it was one, could get over the ground so fast was a mystery, except that she was running with the wind. She was on to the pier in no time. I cried 'Stop!' and 'Watch!' I don't think she heard me. Once she nearly fell, and I thought I had her I was so close to her; but she was up and off again before I could lay hand on her. Then I shouted; and the Lord must have lent me Gabriel's trump, for the woman turned once, and when she see me she threw out her hands and fairly flew.
"The Sound steamer had n't gone out, the night was so thick and bad, and the cabin lights alongside shone out bright enough for me to mark her as she dodged this way and that trying to get to the end of the pier.
"She knew I was after her, and I was n't going to give up. But when I see the make-fast, and all around it the yeasting white on water as black as ink, and she standing there with her arms up ready to jump, my knees knocked together. Somehow I managed to get hold of her dress—but she did n't move; and all of a sudden, before I could get my arms around her, she dropped in a heap, groaning: 'My child—my child—'
"I 've always thought 't was then her heart broke.
"A deck-hand on the steamer heard me screech, and together we got her on the floor of the lower deck. We did what we could for her, and when she 'd come to, they got me a hack and I took her home, laid her on my bed, and sent the hackman for Doctor Rugvie. He 's been my right-hand man all these years. He stayed with her till daylight. He told me she 'd never come through alive; the heart action was all wrong.
"After he 'd gone, she spoke for the first time and asked for some paper and a pencil. I propped her up on the pillows, and all that day between her pains she was writing, writing and tearing up. Towards night she grew worse. I asked her name then, and if she had any friends. She looked at me with a look that made my heart sink; but she give me no answer. About six, she handed me a slip of paper—'A telegram,' she said, and asked me if I would send it right off. I could n't leave her, but when the Doctor come about eight, I slipped out and sent it. The name on it was the one you say was your mother's husband's and the message said:
"'I am dying and alone among strangers. Will you come to me for the sake of my child,' and she give me the address.
"Come here, my dear," said the woman suddenly to me. I was staring at her, not knowing whether I drew breath or not; "come here to me."
I rose mechanically. The woman drew me down upon her knee and put her two strong arms about me. I knew I was in the presence of revelation.
"At midnight her child, a girl, was born—the third of December just twenty-six years ago. Doctor Rugvie fought for her life, but he could n't save her. At one she died—of a broken heart and no mistake, so the Doctor said. She refused to give him her name and he left her in peace—that's his way. But before she died she give him an envelope which she filled with some things she 'd been writing in the afternoon, and said:
"'Keep them—for my daughter. I trust you.'
"Oh, my dear, my dear, the sorrow in this God's earth! I ain't got used to it yet and never shall. That dying face was like an angel's. Doctor Rugvie said he 'd never seen the like before. She spoke only once to him in all her agony, then she said: 'The little life that is coming is worth all this—all—all.'
"The next morning there come a telegram from somewhere in New England—I forget where—'Will be with you at two.'
"And sure enough, a little after two, a young feller come to the door. He did n't look more 'n twenty, but it seemed from his face as if those twenty years had done something to him 't would generally take a man's lifetime to do, and said he 'd come to claim her who was his wife. That's just what he said, no more, no less: 'I've come to claim her who was my wife. Where is she?' And he give me the telegram.
"It was 'bout the hardest thing I 've ever had to do, but I had to tell him just as things was. I thought for a minute he was going to fall he shook so; but he laid hold of the door-jamb and, straightening himself, looked me square in the eye just as composed as Doctor Rugvie himself, and says:
"'In that case I have come to claim the body of her who was my wife.'
"Those are his very words. I took him into the back room and left 'em alone together. I did n't dare to say a word for his face scairt me.
"When he come out he said he would relieve me of all further responsibility, which I took pains to inform him included a day-old baby, thinking that would fetch some explanation from him. But he did n't seem to lay any weight on that part of it. He made all the arrangements himself, and I took a back seat. I see I was n't any more necessary to him than if I had n't been there. He went out for an hour and come back with a nurse; and at six that afternoon he drove away in a hack with her and the baby, an express cart with the body following on behind.
"I told him the last thing 'fore he went that his wife had given an envelope with some papers to Doctor Rugvie, and that they were for his child. He turned and give me a look that was beyond me. I never could fathom that look! It said more 'n any living human being's look that I ever see—if only I could have read it! But he never spoke a word, not even a word of thanks—not that I was expecting or wanted any after seeing his face as he stood hanging on to the door-jamb. I knew then he did n't really see me nor anything else except the body of his wife somewhere in that basement. He did everything as if he 'd been a machine instead of a human being; and when I see him drive off I did n't know much more 'n I did when I took the woman in, except that she was married."
She was silent. I drew a long breath.
"Is that all you know?" I felt I could not be left so, suspended as it were over the abyss of the unknown in my life.
She sighed. "My dear, this great city is full of just such mysteries that no human being can fathom. I, for one, don't try to. I can only lend a helping hand, and ask no questions; 't ain't best. Well, I 've been talking a blue streak for a half an hour, but I 've had to. When you laid there on the cot, you was the living image of that other, only thinner, smaller like. You told me you was born in this city twenty-six years ago come the third of next December; that you did n't know who your father was, but that your mother was married. Her husband's name was the same as the one on the telegram. I 've put two and two together, and perhaps I 've made five out of it. Anyway it's your right to know. I 'm sure Doctor Rugvie will back me up in this."
For a moment I made no answer. Then I spoke:
"Are