"God have mercy on me and my child," he murmured stammeringly. "I must, I will live for her sake. I cannot leave her altogether an orphan," though the gaping wound in his own heart kept on bleeding, bleeding incessantly.
VIII.
"There! Here we are at last, no weather for a dog to be out," growled the angry coachman sulkily, jumping down from the box and opening the carriage door with a respectful bow, hat in hand.
Mr. Ogden staggered quickly out and lifted tenderly and carefully a woman's form to the wet ground. Young Burge, the deserted husband, had just come down with the help of the coachman who growled something he could not understand.
He looked at the woman in the darkness and a mist swam before his eyes; he leaned against the coach and his knees shook so that he could not make a single step. The night was black and the wind sobbed down the street, while the rain still fell in torrents.
He could not see clearly—but that voice—that voice! God! "Could they have been right—these wicked, malicious gnomes? Did they know all about her and now, how?" he asked himself while his hands clutched the book convulsively in his helpless agony.
He thought he heard them again whispering, with a derisive chuckle, the whole story of her downfall into his terrified ears.
"How could she ever come to such magnificent clothes?" he thought. "Nonsense! It is simply a hallucination of a morbid, disordered brain. I am sick and miserable and see things where there is nothing to see." This he murmured half aloud to himself, gazing at the retreating form of the woman incredulously. He could not distinguish her features and he made up his mind forcibly, in order to quiet down his excited nerves, that it was nothing else but a foolish trick of his imagination, and the fever which shook him now again was the obvious cause of it all. "Anyway, how could she have obtained all this luxurious outfit? His wife wealthy? Nonsense!"