Infelice Part 36

A child's carriage had been pushed close to the margin of the basin, to enable the occupant to feast the swans with morsels of cake, and in leaning over to scatter the food a little hat composed of lace, silk, and flowers, had fallen into the water. Near the carriage stood a boy apparently about ten years old, who with a small walking-stick was maliciously pus.h.i.+ng the dainty millinery bubble as far beyond reach as possible.

In the carriage, and partly covered by a costly and brilliant afghan, reclined a forlorn and truly pitiable creature, who seemed to have sunk down helplessly on the cus.h.i.+ons. Although her age was seven years, the girl's face really appeared much older, and in its shrunken, sallow, pinched aspect indicated lifelong suffering.

The short thin dark hair was dry and harsh, lacking the silken gloss that belongs to childhood, and the complexion a sickly yellowish pallor. Her brilliant eyes were black, large and prominent, and across her upper lip ran a diagonal scar, occasionally seen in those so afflicted as to require the merciful knife of a skilful surgeon to aid in shaping the mouth.

The unfortunate victim of physical deformity, increased by a fall which prevented the possibility of her ever being able to walk, nature had with unusual malignity stamped her with a feebleness of intellect that at times bordered almost on imbecility.

Temporarily deserted by her nurse, the poor little creature was crying bitterly over the fate of her hat. Walking up behind the boy, who was too much engrossed by his mischievous sport to observe her approach, Mrs. Orme seized his arms.

"You wicked boy! How can you be so cruel as to torment that afflicted child?"

Taking his pretty mother-of-pearl-headed cane, she tried to touch the hat, but it was just beyond her reach, and, resolved to rescue it, she fastened the cane to the handle of her parasol, using her handkerchief to bind them together. Thus elongated it sufficed to draw the hat to the margin, and, raising it, she shook out the water, and hung the dripping bit of finery upon one of the handles of the carriage.

"Give me my walking-stick," said the boy, whose p.r.o.nunciation proclaimed him thoroughly English.

"No, sir. I intend to punish you for your cruelty. You tyrannized over that helpless little girl, because you were the strongest. I think I have more strength than you, and you shall feel how pleasant such conduct is."

Untying the cane, she raised it in the air, and threw it with all the force she could command into the middle of the water.

"Now if you want it, wade in with your best boots and Sunday clothes and get it; and go home and tell your parents, if you have any, that you are a bad, rude, ugly-behaved boy. When you need your toy, think of that hat."

The cane had sunk instantly, and with a sullen scowl of rage at her, and a grimace at the occupant of the carriage, the boy walked sulkily away.

With her handkerchief, Mrs. Orme wiped off the water that adhered to the hat, squeezed and shook out the ribbons and laid it upon the afghan, in reach of the fingers that more nearly resembled claws than the digits of a human hand.

"Don't cry, dear. It will soon dry now."

The solemn black eyes, still glistening with tears, stared up at her, and impelled by that peculiar pitying tenderness that hovers in the hearts of all mothers, Mrs. Orme bent down and gently smoothed the elfish locks around the sallow forehead.

"Has your nurse run away and left you? Don't be afraid; nothing shall trouble you. I will stay with you till she comes back."

"h.e.l.lene is gone to buy candy," said the dwarf, timidly,

"My dear, what is your name?"

"Maud Ames Laurance."

The stranger had compa.s.sionately taken one of the thin hands in her own, but throwing it from her as if it had been a serpent, she recoiled, involuntarily pus.h.i.+ng the carriage from its resting-place.

It rolled a few steps and stopped, while she stood shuddering.

Her first impulse was to hurry away; the second was more feminine in its promptings, and conquered. Once more she approached the unfortunate child, and scrutinized her, with eyes that gradually kindled into a blaze.

She bore in no respect the faintest resemblance to her father, but Mrs. Orme fancied she traced the image of the large-featured bold-eyed mother; and as she contrasted this feeble deformed creature with the remembered face and figure of her own beautiful darling girl, a bitter but intensely triumphant laugh broke suddenly on the air.

"Maud Ames Laurance! A proud name truly--and royally you grace it!

Ah, Nemesis! Christianity would hunt you down as a pagan myth, but all honour, glory to you, incorruptible pitiless Avenger! Accept my homage, repay my wrongs, and then demand in sacrificial tribute what you will, though it were my heart's best blood! Aha! will she lend l.u.s.tre to the family name? Shall the splendour of her high-born aristocratic beauty gild the crime that gave her being? Yes verily, it seems that after all, even for me the Mills of the G.o.ds do not forget to grind. '_The time of their visitation will come, and that inevitably; for, it is always true, that if the fathers have eaten sour grapes, the children's teeth are set on edge_' Command my lifelong allegiance, oh Queenly Nemesis!"

Sometimes grovelling in the dust of gross selfishness which clings more or less to all of us, we bow wors.h.i.+pping before the G.o.ds, into which we elevate the meanest qualities of our own nature, apotheosizing sinful l.u.s.ts of hate and vengeance; and while we vow reckless tribute and measureless libations, lo, we are unexpectedly called upon for speedy payment!

Looking down with exultant delight on the ugly deformity who stared back wonderingly at her, Mrs. Orme's wan thin face grew radiant, the brown eyes dilated, glowed, and the blood leaped to her hollow cheeks, burning in two scarlet spots; but the invocation seemed literally answered, when she was suddenly conscious of a strange bubbling sensation, and over her parted, laughing lips crept the crimson that fed her heart.

At this moment the child's nurse, a pretty bright-eyed young coquette, hurried toward the group, accompanied by a companion of the same cla.s.s; and as she approached and seized the handles of the carriage, Mrs. Orme turned away. The hemorrhage was not copious, but steady, and lowering her thick veil, she endeavoured to stanch its flow. Her handkerchief, already damp from contact with the wet hat, soon became saturated, and she was obliged to subst.i.tute the end of her lace mantle.

Fortunately Mrs. Waul, impatiently watching for her return, caught a glimpse of the yet distant figure and hastened to meet her.

"Are you crying? What is the matter?"

"My lungs are bleeding; lend me a handkerchief. Try and find a carriage."

"What caused it? Something must have happened?"

"Don't worry me now. Only help me to get home."

Screened both by veils and parasols, the two had almost gained the street, when they met a trio of gentlemen.

One asked in unmistakable New-England English:

"Laurance, where is your father?"

And a voice which had once epitomized for Minnie Merle the "music of the spheres," answered in mellow tones:

"He has been in London, but goes very soon to Italy."

Mrs. Waul felt a trembling hand laid on her arm, and turned anxiously to her companion.

"Give me time. My strength fails me. I can't walk so fast."

The excitement of an hour had overthrown the slow work of weeks; and after many days the physicians peremptorily ordered her away from Paris.

"Home! Let us go home. You have not been yourself since we reached this city. In New York you will get strong."

As Mrs. Waul spoke she stroked one of the invalid's thin hands, that hung listlessly over the side of the sofa.

"I think Phoebe is right. America would cure you," added the grey-haired man, whose heart was yearning for his native land.

Alluring, seductive as the Siren song that floated across Sicilian waves, was the memory of her fair young daughter to this suffering weary mother; and at the thought of clasping Regina in her arms, of feeling her tender velvet lips once more on her cheek, the lonely heart of the desolate woman throbbed fiercely.

Her sands of life seamed ebbing fast,--the end might not be distant; who could tell? Why not go back--give up the chase for the empty shadow of a name--gather her baby to her bosom, and die, finding under an humble cenotaph the peace that this world denied her?

An intolerable yearning for the sight of her child, for the sound of her voice, broke over her like some irresistible wave bearing away the vehement protests of policy, the sterner barriers of vindictive purpose, and with a long s.h.i.+vering moan she clasped her hands and shut her eyes.

Impatiently the old man and his wife watched her countenance, confident that the decision would not long be delayed, trusting that the result would be a compliance with their wishes. But hope began to fade as they noticed the gradual compression of her pale sorrowful mouth,--the slow gathering of the brows that met in a heavy frown,--the tightening of the clenched fingers,--the greyish shadow that settled down on the face where renunciation was very legibly written. The temptation had been fierce, but she put it aside, after bitter struggles to hush the wail of maternal longing; and before she spoke the two friends looked at each other and sighed.

Lifting her marble eyelids that seemed so heavy with their sweeping brown lashes, the invalid raised herself on one elbow, and said mournfully:

"Not yet,--oh! not yet. I cannot give up the fight without one more struggle, even if it should prove that of death to me. I must not return to America until I win what I came for; I will not. But, my friends,--for such I consider you, such you have proved,--I will not selfishly prolong your exile; will not exact the sacrifice of your dearest wishes. Go back home at once, and enjoy in peace the old age that deserves to be so happy. I am going to Italy, hoping to regain my health,--possibly to die; but still I shall go. How long I may be detained, I know not, but meanwhile you shall return to those you love."

"Idle words--all idle words; not worth the waste of your breath.