DIEU DISPOSE.
Edward Lindsay and his wife were unmistakably favorites of Fortune. They were happily married, their love for each other being firmly established on a basis of sympathy and respect; they were young and blessed with sound health; they were very popular among their friends, of whom they had many; they were clever, Edward in a literary, his wife in an artistic way; they were prosperous, far beyond the expectations they had formed when, shortly before their marriage, Edward left his position in the Crescent Bank and went into real estate on his own account. It is hardly to be wondered at that they were regarded with envy by more than a few of their acquaintances in the comfortable city of St. Louis.
But there was, after all, a cloud that cast a shadow upon the happiness of the Lindsays,—a cloud of which they rarely spoke, but about which each of them thought a great deal: they were childless. In the early months of their married life they had been wont to talk of their prospective children, and to say what they would do and what they would not do when they had a child; but when the months lengthened into years, and still there was neither son nor daughter to carry out their plans, they gradually left off alluding to these things, though they never ceased to hope that they might some day have a child.
At first the cloud was very small, so that they refused to recognize its presence; but every day it lengthened and broadened, until at last it darkened the brightest moments of their life. For each knew that the thoughts of the other ran much upon this one thing, and each was troubled that the other should brood upon it. And then, in course of time, they grew to be a little morbid. It seemed to them as if by their friends who had children they were regarded with an ill-concealed, patronizing pity. They felt an unreasonable antipathy toward young parents who loved to discourse of the ailments and accomplishments of their babies, and they even avoided the houses of many acquaintances wherein, they knew from experience, the conversation must be principally devoted to some young hopeful.
But after three winters had come and gone since their marriage, Edward began to reflect more and more seriously upon a scheme of which he had often thought as a relief from this unsatisfactory state of things, and one April morning he broached it at the breakfast-table.
"Ellen," he asked abruptly, "how would you like to adopt a child?"
His wife arrested the coffee-pot over a half-filled cup and gazed at him with sparkling eyes.
"Oh, Edward!" she exclaimed, as if a reply were quite unnecessary. "Why have we never thought of that before?"
"I can't imagine," he rejoined shamelessly. "But I happened to think yesterday of the unlimited possibilities before such a child as we should adopt. You see, we could make sure of a vigorous constitution, of sturdy and respectable parents, of physical beauty, of any combination of good qualities, if we only exercised proper care in our selection. And then, with the training and education we should give a child of ours—"
"Of course we should always consider it our own child," said Ellen.
"Of course," assented her husband. "Perhaps," he added, "it would be better that he should never know the facts of the case."
"Oh, no! I should never be happy myself if I felt I was deceiving the child," she protested.
"Well, it would be rather a difficult thing to manage, anyway, his—"
"Or her," interrupted Ellen.
"Whichever you may prefer," Edward returned, with prompt liberality. "I was thinking of a boy, simply because I realize that a boy's chances of reaching distinction are much greater than a girl's."
His wife sent him a glance of obviously feigned reproach, and thereupon confessed that she should be as happy with one as with the other. But Edward felt that he ought to represent the matter in its proper light, and affirmed that every girl anxious to work goes into life handicapped, and that nine times out of ten when a girl marries she reaches the goal of her ambition. In adopting a girl, therefore, while they might contribute much to their own happiness, they could not reasonably hope to enrich the world greatly. On the other hand, from a boy properly selected, carefully reared, and soundly educated, they might with good reason expect the very highest results. Ellen took some mental exceptions to this argument, on behalf of her sex, but she deemed it unnecessary to express them. | She entered enthusiastically into his project, and they speedily agreed that Dr. Kreiss, their titular family physician,—they had never yet had occasion to consult him,—should be requested to look about for a suitable boy.
Edward hailed the doctor on Fourth Street the next day, and presented his case.
"I see exactly what you want, said the doctor. "Must be 'young, sound, and kind,' I reckon we can fill the bill. You would rather have an orphan, I suppose?"
"Oh, by all means! There might be some unpleasant results otherwise."
"Likely enough," replied the doctor. "But it will not be so easy to lay our hands on a first-class orphan baby. I could get you plenty of boys four or five years old."
But Edward explained that infancy was a sine qua non. They especially wished that the child should be too young to have acquired tastes or habits of any kind, whether good or the reverse. They did not seek to gratify a mere whim of the moment,—simply to provide themselves with a plaything,—but hoped to aid in shaping a life of more than ordinary usefulness and worth. The doctor made answer that he would gladly do his best to find such a child as they wished, that he had no doubt of ultimate success, but that they must be prepared to wait.
This interview having been reported to Ellen, the life of the Lindsays at once assumed a brighter character. Edward went to his business with greater zest, and in his wife's eyes was a light he had not seen there for many a day. They now revived their old-time theories of education and physical training. They dispassionately reviewed the respective advantages of European and American universities. They spent a good deal of time in discussing the eligibility of the professions as well as of the sciences and arts. Edward argued that business of any kind was practically out of the question, because, with real estate in its present favorable condition, a few more years would render mere money-getting wholly unnecessary for a child of theirs. They speculated, of course, upon the personal appearance of their expected heir, but they wisely deferred any expression of preference in this respect to the time of his arrival. Names were debated upon daily, until, after many discussions, they made choice of "John," a title which had done honorable service in Ellen's family, and which, Edward said, commended itself as being simple and strong. Meanwhile, though a month passed away without word from the doctor, they waited in confidence. They had no wish, they told each other, that he should act hastily: it was merely a question of time; they could afford to be patient. And at last the doctor sent them a laconic note,—"Come and see me."
Dr. Kreiss had a deservedly large practice, and when the Lindsays presented themselves at his office they were obliged to wait until the numerous company of invalids that preceded them could be attended to. A dead silence prevailed in the room, and both Edward and his wife began to feel uncomfortable after a few minutes had elapsed. They endeavored to amuse themselves by studying the faces of the doctor's patients and guessing at their complaints; but this was not enlivening, and Edward at last essayed conversation. He whispered several things which he thought quite bright and appropriate, but Ellen took them all very seriously and vouchsafed only monosyllables in reply. It being evident that she was not in a mood for pleasantry, he relapsed into silence. But he went on to think of sundry occasions upon which he had waited in a certain dark little anteroom at Primary No.—until the principal might find leisure to flog him. Having exhausted this subject, he looked about for something to read, and descried some books on a table at the farther end of the room. He shrank, however, from the idea of walking over to them and back again in a pair of shoes which he knew very well would squeak. After vainly searching his pockets for a newspaper, he resigned himself to the inevitable, and occupied himself with his watch-chain and in tracing figures on the carpet with his cane.
Finally the doctor got through with the patients who were before them, and the Lindsays were ushered into his presence.
"I've got you a splendid boy," he said, with enthusiasm; whereat they glanced furtively about the room. "Oh, he isn't here," he laughed, "but ready for delivery whenever you say the final word. I only wish to make sure that you are satisfied with the prospect. It's a short story. The mother died at the child's birth, about a year and a half ago. Less than a week ago the father, who was a fine, broad shouldered young fellow engaged in some sort of a shipping business, got an ugly fall on one of the steamers and used himself up pretty thoroughly. I was called to attend the case, and did my best for the poor fellow; but it was no use. He died yesterday morning."
The doctor paused, as if for a leading question. Ellen was mute, and Edward felt constrained to say something: so he asked, "Did you know the mother?"
"Very well," answered the doctor, "She was one of the sweetest girls I ever met anywhere. She was a teacher in one of the public schools before she married, but she was capable of better work than school-teaching, and if she had lived she would have proved it. She had some very bright ideas, I assure you. She was uncommonly pretty, too, with a lot of dark-brown hair, fine eyes, and rather classical features. You'll see it all in the boy. He's his mother from head to heels."
"How does it happen that his relatives are willing to part with him?"
Edward asked.
"Because his father was an orphan himself, and his mother's family is so poor that the child would be a serious burden to them. For all that, I had to make use of some eloquence to get possession of the baby, and only succeeded after representing the many excellencies of the young people who wish to adopt him."
The doctor bowed gracefully. Ellen then found words to say that he had been more than kind, and that if he was satisfied of the child's good health there was no reason for hesitation. Edward, who wished to terminate these preliminaries as speedily as possible, added, "Most certainly not."
"Very well, then," said the doctor: "we will consider the thing settled. The boy is as sound as a dollar, has a splendid digestion, sleeps like a top, and cuts his teeth as if he enjoyed it. Now, if you will call with a carriage to-morrow about this time, I will go with you—for that will be necessary—to get the little fellow."
But Ellen would not take Edward from his business again the next day, and—to his relief, it must be admitted—declared that she could attend to further arrangements without his assistance. This she did, and Edward found her in an ecstatic state when he came home to his dinner in the evening.
"We can never thank the doctor enough," she exclaimed imprimis, meeting her husband at the door. "I have never seen such a beautiful baby. Such a sweet little face, and such dear little ways! You must come up into the nursery immediately. I should have brought him down to welcome you, but it is just his supper-time, and Mrs. Doly thought he'd better not wait."
And Edward was forthwith hurried up-stairs into the room which his wife composedly designated as "the nursery," where, in the arms of a middle-aged, motherly-looking woman, reposed the little waif chance had intrusted to his care. He was certainly a very handsome boy, and his fine head, big blue eyes, and clear, rosy complexion justified enthusiasm. As Edward appeared in the door-way, the child regarded him intently for a moment, and then, whether by accident or by some working of intelligence, with a little jump of emphasis ejaculated, "Da-da," which everybody knows to be early English for "papa." Of course Edward capitulated on the spot, and, like a child with a new toy, he could scarcely be torn away at the sound of the dinner-bell.
"Little John," as they came to call him,—because his grave and dignified manners seemed to render inappropriate both "Johnny" and "Jack,"—had securely established himself in the affections of his foster-parents before the end of a week. He was a mine of entertainment. Literature and art languished in the house, while the Lindsays amused themselves in playing with their baby or in discussing his good qualities and in planning for his future. And now when they went about among their married friends they not only felt themselves en rapport, but considered that they occupied a position of decided superiority, for everybody conceded that there was no more lovely and winning child in St. Louis than little John Lindsay; and when people spoke only of other children than their own, they frankly admitted that they never had seen such a wonderful boy. It was one of his characteristics that he never cried in good, sober earnest. Upon rare occasions he would sob a little over a delayed repast, a bumped nose, or some other tribulation incident to his age, but he was extremely susceptible to argument, and could always be restored to his normal tranquillity by a proper explanation of the case. To be sure, he was a picture of health, and seldom had occasion for tears on the score of ailments; but it should be remembered, as Mrs, Doly, the nurse, proudly claimed, that babies are very apt to cry when there is nothing the matter with them.
"Oh, Mrs. Doly," Ellen exclaimed one morning, when by some means or other Little John had specially excited her admiration, "what a lovely woman his mother must have been! How I wish I might have known her before she died! Sometimes I feel as if it cannot be right for me to have this dear little baby without her consent."
Not long after this it suddenly occurred to her that some legal steps ought probably to be taken in order that Little John might be secure against all demands. She went to Edward in alarm, and felt no peace again until he reported compliance with every necessary formality.
When hot weather arrived, Edward decided to allow himself a short vacation, —an indulgence which the exactions of business had hitherto prohibited every year since his marriage. As to where the precious time should be spent there was but one opinion in the Lindsay household: they would go East and rent a little cottage on the sea-shore at Marant, where they had passed several summers as children, and where the salt air would do much for Little John's development, as it had done for their own not so very many years ago. Edward wrote to one of his correspondents at Boston, requesting him to secure suitable quarters; and, when June was a fortnight old, they moved into a comfortable cottage at Marant, after a flying trip without incident from St. Louis.
Little John fell in love with the sea at first sight, and his constancy never wavered so long as he remained at Marant. He was at his happiest when his perambulator was pushed to the edge of the water so that the waves flowed about the wheels. In such a position he would remain perfectly content for hours, usually in silence, but at times softly soliloquizing or addressing the waves in earnest but incomprehensible baby-language. In the mean time, Mrs. Doly, seated in a camp-chair behind, could devote an almost uninterrupted attention to her knitting, rising only at intervals to see that the carriage occupied a proper position with respect to the movements of the tide, while Ellen reclined in idleness upon the sand. To so great an extent was her office a sinecure that once, when the water was very calm, Mrs. Doly fell asleep in the warm sun, during Ellen's temporary absence, and awoke as the water wetted her toes to find Little John completely surrounded and pretty nearly in his element literally. Far from being alarmed, however, he was in a state of exalted bliss, and emphatically protested against being removed to a more secure position. But when the tide was going out he was not so content to remain in statu quo, and, partly rising to his feet, would indicate by most forcible remarks and gesticulations that he wished to be moved farther down the beach. He manifested an ardent desire to accompany Edward on his rowing expeditions, whenever he witnessed the start; but Ellen would not consent to this, and Little John was never initiated into the charms of boating.
It was not long before Ellen's fears were aroused that her boy might grow up with nautical tastes.
"Ought we to permit him to become so infatuated?" she asked Edward.
"Why, what can we do?" he returned.
"We can give up Marant and spend the rest of your vacation at the mountains."
"That would be useless, dear, granting that Little John has been born with a taste for the sea. You can't eradicate an inborn proclivity."
"But, Edward, you surely do not wish—would not permit Little John to go to sea?"
"I should never attempt to prevent him from doing so if he wished to. A born sailor can't make a good lawyer, or a doctor, or anything else,—at least until he has satiated himself with the sea. All the evidence of history shows that, you know. Of course we both hope that Little John will not develop a sailor's taste, and I don't think there is any reason to fear that he will: all babies are fond of the sea."
"Yes, Edward; but," tremulously, "you know Dr. Kreiss said his father was in a shipping business."
"Very true: some sort of a broker or agent, probably. They never go to sea; and it isn't to be expected that the child inherits any taste for it from him. Still, we mustn't forget, Ellen, that none of our wishes are perfectly sure to be realized. We will do our best to further them, but, after all, you know, Dieu dispose"
Ellen had never brought herself fully to realize the application of this trite saying to the case of Little John, but she now went away to her room and thought the whole question through. She saw all at once the long series of temptations to which he must be subjected before he became a man. Yes, it was possible that this sweet child might grow up to disappoint her bitterly, to be far worse than an honest sailor,—a useless idler, or even a criminal. She shuddered at the very thought of the last, and with a great leaping of the heart she resolved that, if God should see fit to spare the child, her own life should be devoted to shaping his. She would forget herself entirely; her little ambitious projects should be wholly thrown aside, that no effort might be spared for the accomplishment of her one great duty. Tenderness and sympathy and example should do their utmost, but she would not spoil her boy: there should be sternness if it were needed; and she felt that this would try her devotion most of all.
Life at Marant thoroughly agreed with Little John. Every day left upon him its mark of development and improvement. Other babies in the neighborhood suffered more or less from "prickly heat," whooping-cough, and cholera morbus, and ailed upon the advent of teeth. Not so Little John. He seemed proof against everything. One day Ellen was called from the beach to attend to some detail of housekeeping, and upon her return was horrified to find the child playing with some poison ivy, which Mrs. Doly, in metropolitan ignorance of its qualities, had gathered from the adjacent bluff. He had rubbed it all over his face and crushed it between his hands, and was in the act of stuffing some of it down the back of his neck. With her gloved hands Ellen snatched the leaves away, upbraided poor Mrs. Doly, subjected Little John to violent ablution, and then sat down to await disaster. But it never came. The only inconvenience Little John ever experienced from the incident was the loss of a certain degree of liberty; for thence-forth Ellen would not suffer him to be separated from her for an instant. Mrs. Doly, however, did not escape so easily. The noxious Rhus produced its most evil effects upon her face and hands, and for a week she led a life of physical torture enhanced by humiliation of spirit. Upon another occasion a neighbor's child dropped a small marble in front of Little John, who unhesitatingly picked it up, put it into his mouth, and swallowed it before anybody could interfere. Again was Ellen aroused to the highest degree of alarm; but this time, expecting nothing less than speedy death for the unfortunate baby, she despatched the entire household in search of a physician. None was to be found at Marant, the sole local practitioner having gone to Boston for the day. With great presence of mind, Ellen then instituted a course of treatment herself, up to the successful termination of which Little John maintained his usual excellent spirits.
He was backward both in walking and in talking. Twenty months had passed over his curly head before he could fairly stand alone; and then his vocabulary was much more limited than is usual with children of that age. But Edward construed this into a favorable sign. "Your precocious children rarely amount to anything," he said. "They wear themselves out before they come to the real work of life. I should really feel disappointed if Little John should grow up a model school-boy. He would be sure to develop into a pedagogue, or a book-worm, or something of the sort. Thanks to Providence, he promises better."
His foster-parents rarely thought of him as an adopted child, so effectually had he possessed himself of their love. From time to time, however, in some moment of enthusiasm, Edward would declare that the more he thought about it the more he was led to believe that it was better to have found Little John than to have had a child of their own. "You see, Ellen," he would say, "we both have an active, nervous temperament. A child would be very apt to inherit this in an exaggerated degree, and consequently to lead a life unhappy in itself, besides causing us a great deal of sorrow and disappointment. But what a wonderful reserve of nerve-force Little John has! Whether he turns out a judge, an artist, or a sailor, it will count for more than his physique, and that is priceless." And then Ellen would smile contentedly. In those days the Lindsays were very happy indeed.
The charms of Marant are well known, and it is not surprising that the Lindsays should have protracted their stay to the utmost, and that autumn should have arrived before they turned their faces westward. Doubtless Little John would have strongly protested against quitting the sea-side, had he been aware that he was about to do so. For several days after returning to St. Louis he was certainly almost inconsolable. He begged constantly, in his peculiar, abbreviated language, for the beach and the ocean, with especial earnestness whenever he was taken for a promenade in his perambulator. But in time, of course, the grand impression faded from his memory,—to the secret delight of Ellen, who had never become quite reconciled to his adoration of the sea.
As the child acquired words and accomplishments, he lost nothing of his sweetness and strangely mature dignity. When the tan disappeared from his cheeks, he looked a little less robust; but this was to have been expected. Such confidence had the Lindsays in the invulnerability of his constitution that they were not alarmed when he experienced his inevitable first indisposition of a serious character. Mrs. Doly and Ellen agreed that it was a natural consequence of the change in his diet and mode of life since they had come back to the city, and Dr. Kreiss, who was at once summoned, substantiated the theory. But the next day Little John was no better, and at night so decidedly worse that Edward sent for the doctor again. The man of medicine looked grave this time. He stayed with the little sufferer for several hours. Before midnight he came once more; and when he went away Little John was dead.
The blow fell upon the Lindsays with the more crushing force from its terrible suddenness. Among all the contingencies to which they had looked forward they had never seriously considered the possibility of this. They had prepared themselves for disappointment, but not for bereavement. For the first time they realized how thoroughly their adopted child had become a part of their life. Hours that had been the brightest in the day now dragged along wearisomely, and they often sat in silence together, because they knew that if they spoke at all It must be of Little John. After a time they saw, as many young parents have seen after their first great loss, that the world could never be quite the old world to them again. But they felt their love for each other to be all the stronger, and they tried hard to lighten each other's sorrow by being cheerful and brave. It was saddest, of course, for Ellen. All day she was alone in the house, and, though she might busy her hands over a watercolor or an etching, her thoughts would often stray away and send the tears to her eyes. Occasionally she yielded to impulse and paid furtive visits to the nursery, where, with a little dress or some other memento of her lost child laid upon her knees, she would sit in long revery. By and by Edward noticed that her face had taken upon itself a constant expression of sadness, which even her smiles could not disguise. He began to think about a European tour. From girlhood Ellen had looked forward to spending a year in study abroad, and it seemed to him that no time could be better than the present. It would be hard to leave his business; he could not do so before spring anyway; but everything should be sacrificed to Ellen's happiness, and, with her assent, he resolved, they should go at that season. Just now his business was unusually exacting. He became every day more alive to the fact that, unless he chose to lose a valuable portion of his client?, he must spend a few weeks in the Southwest. Many St. Louis capitalists were anxious to buy land in Texas at this unparalleled period of her prosperity, and many commissions as well as opportunities for private investment in the State demanded his attention at once. But could he and ought he to leave Ellen now? He could not decide. When he was at home he refused to consider the question at all; but at his office it constantly forced itself upon his attention. Finally, after a great deal of exasperatingly unsatisfactory correspondence with agents in Austin and Galveston, he went to Ellen.
"I will give the whole thing up, if you say so," he declared.
"But you think it very necessary for you to go?" she asked.
"From a business point of view, absolutely necessary. It is a question of improving or failing to improve a chance to make a good many thousand dollars. There is no middle course: I can't send anybody who could do the business for me. Still, if you are as unwilling to have me go as I am to leave you, I shall stay at home."
This was hardly fair, and Ellen was sorely tempted; but she was too brave and too true to yield to what she believed a selfish impulse. She wound her arms about her husband's neck and effectively testified her reluctance to permit the separation. She declared, however, that she would not countenance his staying at home,—that it was plainly his duty to go. She begged only that he would return at the earliest moment he could do so conscientiously. He earnestly assured her that she need have no doubt of that, and that a word from her would bring him home at any time.
"But if I am to go," he continued, "you must have somebody to stay with you while I am away. Why not ask Bertha Terry? You used to be always out sketching together, and I know she would be delighted to come."
"Bertha is a lovely girl, but—I—"
She paused, with trembling lips.
"But what, Ellen? Of course I wish you to have whomever you may prefer."
To his surprise and concern, his wife burst into a flood of tears.
"Ellen," he said very tenderly, "I am afraid you are not well. If this is so, I certainly cannot leave you."
"Oh, no! oh, no!" she cried between her sobs. "It is only because I shall miss you so,—and because I have tried not to cry for so long that I must now,—and because—because I have a terrible feeling that I may never see you again."
Edward permitted her tears to exhaust themselves to some extent before he spoke. Then with gentleness and tact he introduced the subject of the European tour, upon which, he said, they might start very soon if the trip to Texas should be brought to a successful close. He alluded to the priceless art-treasures which they would examine together, and which she would reproduce. He dwelt upon the glories of the Alps, the charms of Italy, the wonders of Paris, with such good effect that Ellen presently dried her eyes and found her smiles again.
A few days later, on a raw October evening, Edward yielded to the urgent demands of his business and set out for the South. It was at the time when the "boom" in the grazing-lands and real estate generally of Texas was at its height. Railways were pushing out in all directions, opening new and profitable fields for investment, and immigrants were pouring into the State in unexampled numbers. It was a period rich in opportunities that could never come again. Edward set to work to make the most of them. In the first place, he carefully attended to his commissions, resolutely repelling the swarm of speculators who hovered about every man supposed to possess a little capital, but all the time watchful and reflecting. Then he began to make investments for himself. He bought, sold, and bought again, until his funds were exhausted, and after that he wrote to St. Louis and borrowed money. He was constantly on the move, much of the time in camp, making and saving many a dollar by acting as his own agent. The only respite he allowed himself was the time devoted to correspondence with his wife. He sent her minute accounts of his work, and received long and loving letters in return. But time passed, like the Northers themselves. Four, five, six weeks were gone almost before he had counted them, extending his absence decidedly beyond the date he had originally set for his return, and still there was much to be done. He had not borne the separation from his wife without pain, and he looked forward to prolonging it with much more than reluctance; but he felt that to leave now would be to spurn the hand of Providence, the more so because, though Ellen had many times anxiously inquired for the date of his return, she had never failed, whenever she wrote, to assure him of her own content so long as he was successful and happy. He therefore sent her an elaborate statement of the situation, reiterated his readiness to return if she desired it, and begged her to decide for him whether he should remain longer or not. Why could she not come down and spend a few weeks at Waco? he asked. She would find pleasant people there, and he could then see her at least once in a while. He would go back to St. Louis to bring her down. In any event, he said, he would run up and spend a day or two with her if his stay were to be prolonged. She wrote in reply that she dreaded to experience the wild life he had so graphically described, and that she could not persuade herself to go down into that primitive country unless she might be with him always. This she knew to be impossible; and she was convinced also that her presence at any time would prove a hinderance to him in his business. But if he could come home for a short visit it would make her very happy. She hoped that he might come very soon indeed. Still, she added, with her old bravery, he must make no sacrifice to gratify her wishes. She trusted him implicitly; she knew that he was as impatient to return as she was that he should do so. He must stay as long as he deemed it best; and even his proposed visit must be given up, if need be.
And so Edward stayed. The visit to St. Louis was postponed once or twice, and then put off indefinitely. New commissions were intrusted to him, new opportunities disclosed themselves, new schemes were projected. He extended his field of work into remote sections of the State, and once made his way as far as the valley of the Rio Grande. Even in his busiest moments Ellen was never wholly absent from his thoughts, and he never ended a day without the reflection that his return was so much the nearer. But week followed week into the past, the holidays slipped by, and spring itself overtook him before he could see any definite prospect of getting away. At last, one morning early in March, he wrote to Ellen from Denison that he should be at home before the end of a week. The letter had hardly been mailed when he received one from his wife evincing a depression she had never permitted herself to acknowledge before. She wrote briefly, and, with vague allusions to her health and an avowal of what she called her "lack of firmness," besought him to return.
The indefiniteness of this letter troubled Edward. He was disposed to think that it meant much more than it expressed. He knew his wife's excellent constitution so well, and reposed so much trust in her frankness, that he did not believe she was seriously ill; but he did fear that his prolonged absence had tried her cruelly, for he realized that she must have gone through with many a struggle before she could have brought herself to recall him. While he was debating, still under the spell of business, whether to start for home at once or first to settle some important matters at Denison, a telegraph-boy entered the office of the hotel where he was sitting, and handed a despatch to the clerk.
"For the gentleman at the window," said the young man.
Edward opened the missive with the calmness of an honest and solvent man, but with a pang of fear for Ellen. He read as follows:
"We think you had better return at once.
BERTHA TERRY."
For an instant he sat with his brain in a whirl. Then a curse upon Providence rose to his lips; he repressed it, and began to load himself with reproaches. A moment before, he had been in the satisfied mood of a man who has his own approbation for work well done. He now looked upon his course during the past winter with both abhorrence and wonder. He told himself that it was heartless to have left Ellen at all; to have stayed away for so many months was simply inhuman. It was all plain enough now; and that he should have been so blind to the truth he could not conceive. Suddenly he bethought himself that there was yet time to catch the Austin Express for St. Louis, and that if he did not succeed in doing this a whole day would be lost. He quickly wrote and forwarded a despatch to Bertha, requesting her to telegraph to him at Vinita without reserve, and then, regardless of his unfulfilled engagements, hurried to the station. He was just in season: as he stepped upon the platform he heard the whistle of the approaching train. Once on board, he experienced a momentary sensation of relief: he was rapidly moving homeward, and at Vinita he would at least be freed from suspense. He tried to convince himself that the case could not be a serious one. But if it was? A terrible fear took possession of him. He attempted in vain to put it aside. It rendered it impossible for him to sit down alone with his thoughts for a moment, and he passed away the day in wandering back and forth through the cars, making an effort now and then to get up a conversation with some fellow-passenger, counting the hours before the train would reach Vinita, and constantly execrating himself.
But, Vinita reached, there was no telegram. The operator thought it must have gone to Vineton, a town far to the southeast, on the Iron Mountain Railway. He could telegraph for it, of course, he said, and send it on to any given point, but he believed that Edward would get word more quickly by forwarding another message to St. Louis. He suggested that the reply be sent to Sedalia, where it would undoubtedly be delivered, even at the late hour at which the train would arrive.
Edward listened to these remarks in dull despair. It was true that he might receive news from Ellen at Sedalia, but Sedalia would not be reached before the small hours of the following morning, when his journey would be practically ended. Nor was there any nearer town, large enough to support a night telegraph-office, where he could expect a message to be received in season to reach him. He thanked the operator for his suggestions, and returned sorrowfully to the train, to pass a night of suffering, from which his short snatches of sleep gave him little relief. Poor fellow! His sadness and remorse were cruelly enhanced by the suspense he was called upon to endure. He vowed many times to himself that, if Ellen were spared until his return, no pressure of the world should ever separate him from her again. When the sun began to make known its coming in the east, he breathed a prayer of thanks that his agony of waiting was almost over.
Toward the middle of the forenoon the train rolled into the Union Dépôt at St. Louis. Edward stood upon the platform of the foremost car. Long before it came to a stop, he leaped from the steps and ran along toward the hackmen's stand. A babel of voices greeted him. Quickly selecting a man whose face was familiar, he pressed a douceur into his hand, and, in a voice that broke in spite of his efforts to control it, asked to be driven home immediately and as fast as possible. The hackman looked upon Edward's haggard face with silent sympathy, divining, perhaps, something of the truth, and hastily led the way to his vehicle.
The train was hardly at a stand-still when the carriage rattled away from the station. The driver plied his whip freely, and soon left the business section of the city behind. As they sped along Washington Avenue, Edward endeavored to prepare himself for the worst, but he was incapable of calmness and reflection: his whole being rebelled against the supposition that he might be too late.
There was a carriage, which he recognized as Dr. Kreiss's, drawn up before his house. Fairly unmanned by emotion, he sprang up the steps, threw open the door, and met the doctor face to face.
The physician maintained a professional composure.
"Good-morning, Mr. Lindsay," he said. "I regret to say that you have not arrived quite soon enough."
"Great God, doctor! Is it possible?" faltered Edward, whilst the tears sprang to his eyes.
The doctor looked at him curiously.
"Go up-stairs and see your wife and baby," he said, with considerate brevity. He added to himself, as Edward vanished up the stairway, "A case of special providence that it's a boy."
NATHAN CLIFFORD BROWN.
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