CHAPTER XXXV.
VIOLET HEARS THE STORY.
For a time Violet stood like one bereft of her senses. Her brain was in a whirl, her heart throbbed painfully; she was overcome by emotion, and the strange, wild joy of this meeting, which was more than she had dared hope for.
Rosamond Arleigh lay there before her, pale as death and greatly emaciated; but it was her mother, all the same. Starting at last from that rapt trance of delight, Violet stooped as though to take the wasted form in her hands.
“Mamma!” she cried, joyfully. But Doctor Danton laid his hand upon her shoulder and drew her gently away.
“Be quiet, my dear,” he said, softly; but his kind voice was trembling in spite of himself. “Do not awaken or disturb her. If you do, she—she may die.”
With trembling horror Violet fell back, and then Doctor Danton led her from the room. He seemed perfectly at home in the premises. No one came near him to inquire his business there; he seemed to have a right to take possession.
“You see, my child,” he began, as Violet sunk into a seat and leaned her head against its cushioned back, worn and weary, “I have quite a long story to tell you. But first you must have a glass of wine, and something to strengthen you.”
He soon procured the necessary refreshment, and after Violet had eaten and had drunk a glass of wine, she felt stronger and better.
“Now, tell me,” she urged, persuasively.
Doctor Danton smiled.
“Well, you have to thank our astute friend, Dunbar, over there, for all that has been done. He swore that he would never give up the search until Mrs. Arleigh was found, or proof positive that she was really dead—drowned in the little river on the road to Belleville. For Dunbar had never put much faith in the belief that she had met her death there, although he had found her slipper and cloak upon the very brink of the stream.
“Such evidence, purely circumstantial, is not always reliable. So said our wise and learned Dunbar, and Dunbar, as usual, was right. But he gave up the case apparently, and the few who interested themselves in the attempt to prove that Rosamond Arleigh was not dead—oh, they are very few, I assure you, Violet; for the world at large believes her lying in the grave-yard near The Oaks!—they looked upon Dunbar’s theories as absurd. But all that did not daunt our detective.
“Swiftly and silently he went on with his hunt. He spent days traveling up and down the river, and at last, one day, near its mouth, he chanced upon a schooner, whose captain told him a wild tale in regard to the body of a woman which had been brought on board his vessel by a negro named Clark some weeks previous. The captain declared that the body had been found by Clark at the very spot where Mrs. Arleigh’s cloak and slipper had been picked up by Dunbar.
“The detective put two and two together; then got on board the schooner and went to New Orleans.
“Once there, he went to the Charity Hospital, whither, the captain declared, the woman had been taken when signs of life had been discovered.
“At the hospital Dunbar made the acquaintance of two physicians, who remembered the case, and showed him the entry in the books which recorded the arrival of the unknown woman, describing her appearance and dress, and stating that she was suffering from certain wounds about her head which had produced fracture of the skull.
“The two physicians had performed an operation for the purpose of lifting the portion of the skull pressing upon the brain. That operation had failed. The consequence was that the woman would be insane—be brave, Violet; try, try, my child!—for the balance of her days.”
“Oh, Doctor Danton, I can not—can not bear it!” sobbed the girl. “Perhaps it would be better if she were indeed at rest!”
“Not so, my child. Listen. The physicians stated that a second operation might be performed in time, when the patient would be a little stronger and better able to endure it.
“The second attempt might be successful; the case was not utterly hopeless, they declared. But, in the meantime, the patient must be removed from the hospital—that grand refuge for the suffering, which is a boon and blessing to the people of New Orleans—ay, to the whole state of Louisiana.
“Although supported by the munificence of a chartered institution which is bitterly opposed by the cranks and ultra-‘moral’ people of the state, it is the only reliance upon which Louisiana can lean for means to defray its expenses. I am no politician, my child, but, as a physician, I would feel very sorry to see the New Orleans Charity Hospital closed for lack of means with which to support it. But let me hasten my story.
“Your mother was discharged from the hospital, and because of her condition was sent to the retreat. This institution is a good one, and here she has remained ever since, very well cared for.
“And to this place the wise Dunbar tracked her down, saw and identified her, then telegraphed for me at once. Of course, I did not let the grass grow under my feet, but came to New Orleans on the first train after receiving Dunbar’s message. I came straight to the retreat; fortunately I am so well known here that no one in control interfered with my actions. The case was placed in my hands. I have worked over it faithfully, and now—now—Violet, comes the most important part. Yesterday I performed the second operation, assisted by one of the physicians from the Charity Hospital of which I have spoken—a clever fellow he is, too. The result of that operation will be made known to us when—Rosamond Arleigh awakes. She has been sleeping ever since the operation was performed. I thought best to tell you the whole story now, my child, and place the matter before you in its true light. When she opens her eyes again, she will either be as well as ever, or—she will be insane for the rest of her life.”
Violet uttered a groan of despair.
“Try and be brave, my child,” he whispered. “Violet—Violet, you are like my own child to me, for, oh! my dear, I love her, I have loved your mother for years, and if she recovers I shall ask her to become my wife. If she never recovers, I will devote the rest of my life to her care and protection.”
Violet lifted the doctor’s hand to her lips.
“God bless you, Doctor Danton!” she said, softly; “you are a true friend. How can I be helpless and alone with two such friends as you and Mr. Dunbar?”
“And Leonard Yorke!” interposed the doctor, shyly.
Violet’s sweet face flushed.
“Leonard is very jealous and unreasonable at times,” she said; “but one can not turn from a person because of his faults. We all have our faults, and I do love him, Doctor Danton, I do, indeed!”
The doctor smiled serenely.
“And quite right in you, my dear. I believe that he is worthy of you, with the exception of that cranky jealousy of his. But that in time may evaporate, especially if you do not give him just cause to indulge in it.”
“I never will. But tell me, doctor, do you think she will sleep much longer? And when she awakes——”
The doctor rose abruptly, drawing his hand across his eyes as though to clear away a mist.
“We must leave that to God, my child,” he said, solemnly. “All that human skill can do has been done. We can only hope and pray. But if the worst comes, you must not forget that there is a Comforter, a Refuge for us in our sorrow. But, oh, my God! it will be a bitter, heart-breaking grief to me!”
He broke down completely and sobbed like a child. All at once he started up.
“Violet, forgive me!” he cried. “But I love her so dearly, and I have controlled my feelings for so long! Listen! I thought I heard a sound in her room.”
He crept softly to the door of the room where that poor wreck lay alone, and stooping, applied his ear to the key-hole, while he listened attentively.
“Yes,” he whispered, after a moment’s silence; “I really believe that the crisis is come, and that she is awaking. Now, Violet, my child, a great deal depends upon you and your power of self-control. Go into the room as though nothing had happened, as though you were both at home at The Oaks, and—see how she is.”
It was an awful ordeal, but the girl nerved herself to endure it. Pale as marble, and shaking with nervous excitement which she bravely conquered at length, Violet opened the door and entered the room.
A pause of silence ensued, during which Doctor Danton and Dunbar, in the other room, could hear the throbbing of their own hearts—a long, awful silence, yet in truth, it did not last three seconds; then—then there was a slight movement as the sick woman raised herself slowly from the pillows; then a wild exclamation, “Violet, my child!” a stifled cry of “Mamma! oh, mamma!” and the two listeners knew that all was well.
