her child. Her thoughts, shaped in words, ran somewhat in this fashion:
"In a few hours she will be taken from me; in a few short hours we shall be separated, and then, and then--ah! how can I think of it?--an ocean of waters will divide us. She will not miss me, she does not know me. She will receive another woman's endearments; she will never bestow a thought upon me, her wretched mother, and I--I shall be forever thinking of her! She is all my own now; presently I shall have no claim upon her. Would it not be better to end it as I had
intended--to end it now, this moment?" She rose to her feet, and stood with her lips tightly pressed and her hands convulsively clenched; and then she cried in horror: "No, no! I dare not--I dare not! It would be murder, and he said that God would not forgive me. Oh, my darling, my darling, it is merciful that you are a baby, and do not know what is passing in my mind! If you do not love me now you may in the future, when I shall be free, and then you shall feel how different is a mother's love from the love of a strange woman. But how shall I recognize you if you are a woman before we meet again; how shall I prove to you, to the world, that you are truly mine? Your eyes will be black, as mine are, and your hair, I hope, will be as dark, but there are thousands like that. I am grateful that you resemble me, and not your base father, whom I pray God to strike and punish. Oh, that it were ever in my power to repay him for his treachery, to say to him, 'As you dragged me down so do I drag you down! As you ruined my life so do I ruin yours!' But I cannot hope for that. The woman weeps, the man laughs. Never mind, child, never mind. If in future years we are reunited it will be happiness enough. Dark hair, black eyes, small hands and feet--oh, darling, darling!" She covered the little hands and feet with kisses. "And yes, yes"--with feverish eagerness she gazed at the child's neck--"these two tiny moles, like those on my neck--I shall know you, I shall know you, I shall be able to prove that you are my daughter."
With a lighter heart she resumed her seat, and set to work mending the infant's scanty clothing, which she fondled and kissed as though it had sense and feeling. A church clock in the distance tolled five; she had been listening for the hour, hoping it was earlier.
"Five o'clock," she muttered. "I thought it was not later than three. I am being robbed. Oh, if time would only stand still! Five o'clock. In seven hours she will be taken from me. Seven hours--seven short hours! I will not close my eyes."
But after a while her lids dropped, and she was not conscious of it. The abnormal fatigues of the day and night, the relaxing of the overstrung nerves, the warmth of the room, produced their effect; her head sank upon the bed, and she fell into a dreamful sleep.
It was merciful that her dreaming fancies were not drawn from the past. The psychological cause of her slumbers being beguiled by bright visions may be found in the circumstance that, despite the conflicting passions to which she had proved she was too prone to yield, the worldly ease which was secured to her and her child by Mr. Gordon's offer had removed a heavy weight from her heart. In her visions she saw her baby grow into a happy girlhood, she had glimpses of holiday times when they were together in the fields, or by the seaside, or walking in the glow of lovely sunsets, gathering flowers in the hush of the woods, or winding their way through the golden corn. From girlhood to womanhood in these fair dreams her baby passed, and happy smiles wreathed the lips of the woe-worn woman as she lay in her poor garments on the humble bed by the side of her child.
"Do you love me, darling?" asked the sleeping mother.
"Dearly, dearly," answered the dream child. "With my whole heart, mother."
"Call me mother again. It is like the music of the angels."
"Mother--mother!"
"You will love me always, darling?"
"Always, mother; forever and ever and ever."
"Say that you will never love me less, that you will never forget me."
"I will never love you less. I will never forget you."
"Darling child, how beautiful you are! There is not in the world a lovelier woman. It is for me to protect and guard you. I can do so--I have had experience. Come--let us rest."
They sat upon a mossy bank, and the mother folded her arms around her child, who lay slumbering on her breast.
There had been a few blissful days in this woman's life, during which she had believed in man's faithfulness and God's goodness, but the dreaming hours she was now enjoying were fraught with a heavenly gladness. Nature and dreams are the fairies of the poor and the afflicted.
She awoke as the church clock chimed eight. Again had she to face the stern realities of life. The sad moment of separation was fast approaching.
CHAPTER IX.
MR. MOSS PLAYS HIS PART.
At five o'clock on the afternoon of that day Dr. Spenlove returned to his apartments. Having given away the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to London, he had bethought him of a gentleman living in Southsea of whom he thought he could borrow a sovereign or two for a few weeks. He had walked the distance, and had met with disappointment; the gentleman was absent on business and might be absent several days.
"Upon my word," said the good doctor as he drearily retraced his steps, "it is almost as bad as being shipwrecked. Worse, because there are no railways on desert islands. What on earth am I to do? Get to London I must, by hook or by crook, and there is absolutely nothing I can turn into money."
Then he bethought himself of Mr. Moss, and in his extremity determined to make an appeal in that quarter. Had it not been for what had occurred last night he would not have dreamed of going to this gentleman, of whose goodness of heart he had had no previous experience, and upon whose kindness he had not the slightest claim. Arriving at Mr. Moss' establishment, another disappointment attended him; Mr. Moss was not at home, and they could not say when he would return. So Dr. Spenlove, greatly depressed, walked slowly on, his mind distressed with troubles and perplexities.
He had seen nothing more of Mr. Gordon, who had left him in the early morning with a simple acknowledgment in words of the services he had rendered; nor had he seen anything further of Mrs. Turner. On his road home he called at her lodgings, and heard from her fellow-lodger that she had left the house.
"We don't know where she's gone to, sir," the woman said, "but the rent has been paid up, and a sovereign was slipped under my door. If it wasn't that she was so hard up I should have thought it came from her."
"I have no doubt it did," Dr. Spenlove answered. "She has friends who are well to do, and I know that one of these friends, discovering her position, was anxious to assist her."
"I am glad to hear it," said the woman, "and it was more than kind of her to remember me. I always had an idea that she was above us."
As he was entering his room his landlady ran up from the kitchen.
"Oh, doctor, there's a parcel and two letters for you in your room, and Mr. Moss has been here to see you. He said he would come again."
"Very well, Mrs. Radcliffe," said Dr. Spenlove, and cheered by the news of the promised visit he passed into his apartment. On the table were the letters and the parcel. The latter, carefully wrapped in thick brown paper, was the iron box he had given to Mrs. Turner. One of the letters was in her handwriting, and it informed him that her child had been taken away, and that she was on the point of leaving Portsmouth.
"I
