“That’s just it—I couldn’t define it. Think—think of rejecting a creature like that! Why—if he had been mine——”
Celia was not listening. She had taken in hers one of his little strong, firm, white hands, beautiful in shape, in texture surpassing, and, quite absorbed in him, pressing it as earnestly as if she entered into a compact with him, was saying over to him just “Larry ... Larry ...” in her voice itself a communication and a caress.
After a little he wearied of these women, and turned his back upon them to look at their horse. They became aware of a woman not far from the carriage-step, clothed in the nondescript dark cotton dress of a poor farmer’s wife, a once bright kerchief around her neck. She was swart in color, with straight, good features, severer in expression than were her brown eyes, which suggested possibilities of kindness when need should arise. She smiled deferentially and said nothing. It might easily be supposed that English was not her tongue. Miss Havens fell upon her with questions, which Celia cut short by hurrying their departure.
But the thought of Larry would not leave her, and it brought disturbance almost, making her feel, as she had never felt, a loneliness in her life, an emptiness. The appeal he had made to her was beyond anything she had imagined of her nature; the sense of him haunted her, his image passed before her ten times an hour, a heroic yet divinely innocent little figure, possessing indescribable affinities with her deepest soul, or, if this were infatuated imagination, fulfilling at the very least her every taste.
When Miss Havens had left, not before, she returned to see him, alone. And after that, at intervals growing more frequent, she went, sinking deeper, as she found, in attachment to this child, instead of recovering from her unaccountable fancy, as it had seemed not quite impossible one might.
A drop of bitter it was to her, as when in blowing bubbles one gets a taste of soapwater, to realize after a time that her interest in Larry had become a subject of discussion in the village. Even some perversion of her remark that he looked like a small predestined Knight of the Grail came back to her ears, with the effect of a humorous sally. It was almost enough to make one resolve not to see him any more. Such a thought, however, could be but momentary: her new love had too strong a hold on her, and she was grown philosophical, she believed, where village gossip was concerned.
Dimly there formed in the background of her mind the thought that sometime, if certain matters could be arranged, she might make herself responsible for Larry’s future. She had no idea of forsaking him, ever; but he was happy, for the present, and well cared for where he was. The woman was kind to him, and she was a person of natural good sense. Celia could see him as often as she pleased; in a manner already she directed his small affairs. The subsidized Cape Verde Islander bathed and kept him clean and observed hygienic practices, to her full of mystery. Closely as her heart was involved, a perfect prudence restrained Celia: there certainly was no occasion for haste in coming to any determination, and the thought lurked within vague undergrowths of her mind that perhaps time would bring forth some effect of taint in this fruit of strange parentage, which the present superbly triumphed over.
It was after an absence from him of perhaps a week, that, coming upon Larry as he played among the weeds, she spied upon the ground near him a toy of the richest and gaudiest. The sight of it gave her heart a sharp pang before her brain had framed the smallest theory of it. She had taken Larry upon her arm—his weight did but charm her; holding him, she went about the house calling for Julia, the foster-mother. She was not to be found, though the doors were open. Celia sat down with Larry upon the door-step and took up the dazzling puppet, a male doll with a squeak. She turned it about, sniffing it with faint, jealous dislike, as if by some emanation from it to divine whence it came, what it meant. Unenlightened, she at last, though without hope, asked the baby, “Who gave it to you, Larry?” He only put out his hand for it masterfully, fumbled its satins, waved it up and down in the air, and cast it far.
Celia derived from the woman, returning by and by from the field, that the doll was the gift of Judith Bray. The woman did not know the young lady’s name, but her broken and laborious description was perfectly illuminating to Celia. According to the woman’s story, Judith had 428 been there three times within the week, bringing extravagant gifts for Larry, over whom she screamed with admiration and whom she fondled as if she would eat him. Celia felt ice hardening about her heart. That day she spoke decisively to Julia of her intention to take Larry off her hands. When she had understood, Julia unexpectedly gave evidence of satisfaction; explaining that this would be for them a desired thing: her husband had been wishing for some time to move away from there and go to a factory-town, where the child would be a hindrance. Celia remembered the money the couple were supposed to have received, for the care of Larry; the man had no doubt some plan of outlay for his little capital; her scheme and theirs fell into accord. Celia impressed it upon Julia before leaving that Larry was from that moment forth to be regarded as hers, her property. She proposed to fetch him as soon as suitable preparations could be made, after which Julia and her husband, delivered for good and all from the burden and expense of him, would be free to go where they were more likely to make their fortunes than here.
With grave, peculiar tenderness, Celia, before leaving, took up the baby and searched his little face, looked deep into his eyes, which told her of his mysterious little soul no more than before. She knew it was like trying to force open a shut flower. “Whatever happens now, dear,” she said to him, though without audible words, “we two go together. All that happens to you, happens to me. If you are in the future to be bad or afflicted, I am to be unhappy. But I will never repent, remembering the glory of you now.” She wondered, seriously, at so beautiful a thing being permitted to live. She kissed him many more times than she usually did, upon his eyes, his cheeks, his forehead,—he was royally passive under kissing—and having left him, almost as if something had warned her, she went back and pressed him to her a last time. As she started the horse, she held up a finger to Julia at the gate, in reminder of their agreement; Julia smiled back her good trustworthy smile.