A Fair Jewess. B. L. Farjeon
"Should I be thankful or not?" she asked wistfully.
"You should be thankful," he replied. "Your child, rest assured, will have a comfortable and happy home. Here is the box and the key. It is a patent lock--no other key will unlock it. I will show you how to use it. Yes, that is the way." He paused a moment, his hand in his pocket. "You will be ready to meet Mr. Gordon at three to-morrow?"
"And my child?" she asked, with tears in her voice. "When will that be taken from me?"
"At twelve." His hand was still fumbling in his pocket, and he suddenly shook his head, as if indignant with himself. "You may want to purchase one or two little things in the morning. Here are a few shillings. Pray accept them."
He laid on the table the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to London.
"Heaven reward you," said the grateful woman, "and make your life bright and prosperous!"
Her tears bedewed his hand as she kissed it humbly, and Dr. Spenlove walked wearily home once more, penniless, but not unhappy.
CHAPTER VIII.
WHAT WAS PUT IN THE IRON BOX.
The mother's vigil with her child on this last night was fraught with conflicting emotions of agony and rebellion. Upon Dr. Spenlove's departure she rose and dressed herself completely, all her thoughts and feelings being so engrossed by the impending separation that she took no heed of her damp clothes. She entertained no doubt that the renunciation was imperative and in the interests of her babe; nor did she doubt that the man who had dictated it was acting in simple justice to himself and perhaps in a spirit of mercy toward her; but she was in no mood to regard with gratitude one who in the most dread crisis in her life had saved her from destruction. The cause of this injustice lay in the fact that until this moment the true maternal instinct had not been awakened within her breast. As she had faithfully expressed it to Dr. Spenlove the birth of her babe had filled her with terror and with a loathing of herself. Had there been no consequences of her error apparent to the world she would have struggled on and might have been able to preserve her good name; her dishonor would not have been made clear to censorious eyes; but the living evidence of her shame was by her side, and, left to her own resources, she had conceived the idea that death was her only refuge. Her acceptance of the better course that had been opened for her loosened the floodgates of tenderness for the child who was soon to be torn from her arms. Love and remorse shone in her eyes as she knelt by the bedside and fondled the little hands and kissed the innocent lips.
"Will you not wake, darling," she murmured, "and let me see your dear eyes? Wake, darling, wake! Do you not know what is going to happen? They are going to take you from me. We may never meet again--and if we do you have not even a name by which I can call you! But perhaps that will not matter. Surely you will know your mother, surely I shall know my child, and we shall fly to each other's arms! I want to tell you all this--I want you to hear it. Wake, sweet, sweet!"
The child slept on. Presently she murmured:
"It is hard, it is hard! How can God permit such cruelty?"
Half an hour passed in this way, and then she became more composed. Her mind, which had been unbalanced by her misfortunes, recovered its equilibrium, and she could reason with comparative calmness upon the future. In sorrow and pain she mentally mapped out the years to come. She saw her future, as she believed, a joyless life, a life of cold duty. She would not entertain the possibility of a brighter side--the possibility of her becoming reconciled to her fate, of her growing to love her husband, of her having other children who would be as dear to her as this one was. In the state of her feelings it seemed to her monstrous to entertain such ideas, a wrong 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,