LITMIR.BIZ

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to take your answer to him to-night; he is waiting in my rooms to receive it."

      Then, softening down all that was harsh in the proposal and magnifying all its better points, Dr. Spenlove related to her what had passed between Mr. Gordon and himself. She listened in silence, and he could not judge from her demeanor whether he was to succeed or to fail. Frequently she turned her face from his tenderly searching gaze, as though more effectually to conceal her thoughts from him. When he finished speaking she showed that she had taken to heart his counsel not to decide hastily, for she did not speak for several minutes. Then she said plaintively:

      "There is no appeal, doctor?"

      "None," he answered in a decisive tone.

      "He sought you out and made you his messenger, because of his impression that you had influence with me, and would advise me for my good?"

      "As I have told you-in his own words as nearly as I have been able to recall them."

      "He was right. There is no man in the world I honor more than I honor you. I would accept what you say against my own convictions, against my own feelings. Advise me, doctor. My mind is distracted-I cannot be guided by it. You know what I am, you know what I have been, you foresee the future that lies before me. Advise me."

      The moment he dreaded had arrived. The issue was with him. He felt that this woman's fate was in his hands.

      "My advice is," he said in a low tone, "that you accept Mr. Gordon's offer."

      "And cast aside a mother's duty?"

      "What did you cast aside," he asked sadly, "when you went with your child on such a night as this toward the sea?"

      She shuddered. She would not look at her child; with stern resolution she kept her eyes from wandering to the spot upon which the infant lay. She even moved away from the little body so that she should not come in contact with it.

      A long silence ensued, which Dr. Spenlove dared not break.

      "I cannot blame him," she then said, her voice now and again broken by a sob, "for making conditions. It is his respectability that is at stake, and he is noble and generous for taking such a risk upon himself. It would be mockery for me to say that I love my child with a love equal to that I should have felt if she had come into the world without the mark of shame with which I have branded her. With my love for her was mingled a loathing of myself, a terror of the living evidence of my fall. But I love her, doctor, I love her-and never yet so much as now when I am asked to part with her! What I did a while ago was done in a frenzy of despair; I had no food, you see, and she was crying for it; and the horror and the anguish of that hour may overpower me again if I am left as I am. I will accept Mr. Gordon's offer, and I will be as good a wife to him as it is in my power to be-but I, also, have a condition to make. Mr. Gordon is much older than I, and it may be that I shall outlive him. The condition I make is-and whatever the consequences I am determined to abide by it-that in the event of my husband's death and of there being no children of our union, I shall be free to seek the child I am called upon to desert. In everything else I will perform my part of the contract faithfully. Take my decision to Mr. Gordon, and if it is possible for you to return here to-night with his answer I implore you to do so. I cannot close my eyes, I cannot rest, until I hear the worst. God alone knows on which side lies the right, on which the wrong!"

      "I will return with his answer," said Dr. Spenlove, "to-night."

      "There is still something more," she said in an imploring tone, "and it must be a secret sacredly kept between you and me. It may happen that you will become acquainted with the name of the guardian of my child. I have a small memorial which I desire she shall retain until she is of age, say until she is twenty-one, or until, in the event of my husband's death, I am free to seek her in years to come. If you do not discover who the guardian is I ask you to keep this memorial for me until I reclaim it-which may be never. Will you do this for me?"

      "I will."

      "Thank you for all your goodness to me. But I have nothing to put the memorial in. Could you add to your many kindnesses by giving me a small box which I can lock and secure? Dear Dr. Spenlove, it is a mother who will presently be torn from her child who implores you."

      He bethought him of a small iron box he had at home, which contained some private papers of his own. He could spare this box without inconvenience to himself, and he promised to bring it to her-and so, with sincere words of consolation, he left her.

      In the course of an hour he returned. Mr. Gordon had consented to the condition she imposed.

      "Should I be thankful or not?" she asked wistfully.

      "You should be thankful," he replied. "Your child, rest assured, will have a comfortable and happy home. Here is the box and the key. It is a patent lock-no other key will unlock it. I will show you how to use it. Yes, that is the way." He paused a moment, his hand in his pocket. "You will be ready to meet Mr. Gordon at three to-morrow?"

      "And my child?" she asked, with tears in her voice. "When will that be taken from me?"

      "At twelve." His hand was still fumbling in his pocket, and he suddenly shook his head, as if indignant with himself. "You may want to purchase one or two little things in the morning. Here are a few shillings. Pray accept them."

      He laid on the table the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to London.

      "Heaven reward you," said the grateful woman, "and make your life bright and prosperous!"

      Her tears bedewed his hand as she kissed it humbly, and Dr. Spenlove walked wearily home once more, penniless, but not unhappy.

      CHAPTER VIII.

      WHAT WAS PUT IN THE IRON BOX

      The mother's vigil with her child on this last night was fraught with conflicting emotions of agony and rebellion. Upon Dr. Spenlove's departure she rose and dressed herself completely, all her thoughts and feelings being so engrossed by the impending separation that she took no heed of her damp clothes. She entertained no doubt that the renunciation was imperative and in the interests of her babe; nor did she doubt that the man who had dictated it was acting in simple justice to himself and perhaps in a spirit of mercy toward her; but she was in no mood to regard with gratitude one who in the most dread crisis in her life had saved her from destruction. The cause of this injustice lay in the fact that until this moment the true maternal instinct had not been awakened within her breast. As she had faithfully expressed it to Dr. Spenlove the birth of her babe had filled her with terror and with a loathing of herself. Had there been no consequences of her error apparent to the world she would have struggled on and might have been able to preserve her good name; her dishonor would not have been made clear to censorious eyes; but the living evidence of her shame was by her side, and, left to her own resources, she had conceived the idea that death was her only refuge. Her acceptance of the better course that had been opened for her loosened the floodgates of tenderness for the child who was soon to be torn from her arms. Love and remorse shone in her eyes as she knelt by the bedside and fondled the little hands and kissed the innocent lips.

      "Will you not wake, darling," she murmured, "and let me see your dear eyes? Wake, darling, wake! Do you not know what is going to happen? They are going to take you from me. We may never meet again-and if we do you have not even a name by which I can call you! But perhaps that will not matter. Surely you will know your mother, surely I shall know my child, and we shall fly to each other's arms! I want to tell you all this-I want you to hear it. Wake, sweet, sweet!"

      The child slept on. Presently she murmured:

      "It is hard, it is hard! How can God permit such cruelty?"

      Half an hour passed in this way, and then she became more composed. Her mind, which had been unbalanced by her misfortunes, recovered its equilibrium, and she could reason with comparative calmness upon the future. In sorrow and pain she mentally mapped out the years to come. She saw her future, as she believed, a joyless life, a life of cold duty. She would not entertain the possibility of a brighter side-the possibility of her becoming reconciled to her fate, of her growing to love her husband, of her having other children who would be as dear to her as this one was. In the state of her feelings it seemed to her monstrous to entertain such ideas,

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