Part 5 (2/2)

”And this seizure, Mrs. Moore. Tell me exactly how it was brought about,” thinking to turn the current of her thoughts even for a moment.

She told him how Anna had gone out in the early afternoon, without saying where she was going, and how she had returned to the house about five o'clock, looking so pale and ill, that Hannah, an old family servant who still lived with them, noticed it and begged her to sit down while she went to fetch her a cup of tea. The maid left her sitting by the fire-place reading a paper, and the next thing was the terrible cry that brought them both. They found her lying on the floor unconscious with the crumpled newspaper in her hand.

”See, here is the paper now, doctor,” and he stooped to pick up the crumpled sheet from which the girl had read her death warrant.

Together they went over it in the hope that it might furnish some clue.

Mrs. Moore's eyes were the first to fall on the fatal paragraph. She read it through, then showed it to the doctor.

”That is undoubtedly the cause of the seizure,” said the doctor.

”Oh, my poor, poor darling,” moaned the mother, and the first tears fell.

In the first bitterness of regret, Mrs. Moore imagined that in selfishly abandoning herself to her own grief, she must have neglected her daughter, and her remorse knew no bounds. Again and again she bitterly denounced herself for giving way to sorrow that now seemed light and trivial, compared to the black hopelessness of the present.

Anna's mind wandered in her delirium, and she would talk of her marriage and beg Sanderson to let her tell her mother all. Then she would fancy that she was again with Mrs. Tremont and she would go through the pros and cons of the whole affair. Should she marry him secretly, as he wished? Yes, it would be better for poor mama, who needed so many comforts, but was it right? And then the pa.s.sionate appeal to Sanderson. Couldn't he realize her position?----

”Yes, darling, it is all right. Mother understands,” the heartbroken woman would repeat over and over again, but the sick girl could not hear.

And so the days wore on, till at last Anna's wandering mind turned back to earth, and again took up the burden of living. There was nothing for her to tell her mother. In her delirium she had told all, and the mother was prepared to bravely face the worst for her daughter's sake.

The terrible blow brought mother and daughter closer together than they had been for years. In their prosperity, the young girl had been busy with her governess and instructors, while her mother had made a fine art of her invalidism and spent the greater part of her time at health resorts, baths and spas.

By mutual consent, they decided that it was better not to attempt to seek redress from Sanderson. Anna's letters, written during her convalescence, had remained unanswered, and any effort to force him, either by persuasion or process of law, to right the terrible wrong he had done, was equally repulsive to both mother and daughter.

Mrs. Standish Tremont was also equally out of the question, as a court of final appeal. She had been so piqued with Anna for interfering with her most cherished plans regarding Sanderson and Grace Tremont, that Anna knew well enough that there would only be further humiliation in seeking mercy from that quarter.

So mother and daughter prepared to face the inevitable alone. To this end, Mrs. Moore sold the last of her jewelry. She had kept it, thinking that Anna would perhaps marry some day and appreciate the heirlooms; but such a contingent was no longer to be considered, and the jewelry, and the last of the family silver, were sent to be sold, together with every bit of furniture with which they could dispense, and mother and daughter left the little cottage in Waltham, and went to the town of Belden, New Hamps.h.i.+re,--a place so inconceivably remote, that there was little chance of any of their former friends being able to trace them, even if they should desire to do so.

As the summer days grew shorter, and the hour of Anna's ordeal grew near, Mrs. Moore had but one prayer in her heart, and that was that her life might be spared till her child's troubles were over. Since Anna's illness in the early spring, she had utterly disregarded herself. No complaint was heard to pa.s.s her lips. Her time was spent in one unselfish effort to make her daughter's life less painful. But the strain of it was telling, and she knew that life with her was but the question of weeks, perhaps days. As her physical grasp grew weaker, her mental hold increased proportionately, and she determined to live till she had either closed her child's eyes in death, or left her with something for which to struggle, as she herself was now struggling.

But the poor mother's last wish was not to be granted. In the beginning of September, just when the earth was full of golden promise of autumn, she felt herself going. She felt the icy hand of death at her heart and the grim destroyer whispered in her ear: ”Make ready.”

Oh, the anguish of going just then, when she was needed so sorely by her deceived and deserted child.

”Anna, darling,” she called feebly, ”I cannot be with you; I am going--I have prayed to stay, but it was not to be. Your child will comfort you, darling. There is nothing like a child's love, Anna, to make a woman forget old sorrows--kiss me, dear----” She was gone.

And so Anna was to go down into the valley of the shadow of death alone, and among strangers.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN DAYS OF WAITING.

”Bent o'er her babe, her eyes dissolved in dew, The big drops mingled with the milk he drew Gave the sad presage of his future years-- The child of misery, baptized in tears.”--_John Langhorne_.

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