loved--now that I was in the sametown with her!
Regaining the outer rows of houses still left standing, I looked aboutme, intending to return by the street which was known to me already.Just as I thought I had discovered it, I noticed another living creaturein the solitary city. A man was standing at the door of one of theoutermost houses on my right hand, looking at me.
At the risk of meeting with another rough reception, I determined tomake a last effort to discover Mrs. Van Brandt before I returned to theboat.
Seeing that I was approaching him, the stranger met me midway. His dressand manner showed plainly that I had not encountered this time a personin the lower ranks of life. He answered my question civilly in his ownlanguage. Seeing that I was at a loss to understand what he said, heinvited me by signs to follow him. After walking for a few minutes ina direction which was quite new to me, we stopped in a gloomy littlesquare, with a plot of neglected garden-ground in the middle of it.Pointing to a lower window in one of the houses, in which a light dimlyappeared, my guide said in Dutch: "Office of Van Brandt, sir," bowed,and left me.
I advanced to the window. It was open, and it was just high enough to beabove my head. The light in the room found its way outward through theinterstices of closed wooden shutters. Still haunted by misgivings oftrouble to come, I hesitated to announce my arrival precipitately byringing the house-bell. How did I know what new calamity might notconfront me when the door was opened? I waited under the window andlistened.
Hardly a minute passed before I heard a woman's voice in the room. Therewas no mistaking the charm of those tones. It was the voice of Mrs. VanBrandt.
"Come, darling," she said. "It is very late--you ought to have been inbed two hours ago."
The child's voice answered, "I am not sleepy, mamma."
"But, my dear, remember you have been ill. You may be ill again if youkeep out of bed so late as this. Only lie down, and you will soon fallasleep when I put the candle out."
"You must _not_ put the candle out!" the child returned, with strongemphasis. "My new papa is coming. How is he to find his way to us, ifyou put out the light?"
The mother answered sharply, as if the child's strange words hadirritated her.
"You are talking nonsense," she said; "and you must go to bed. Mr.Germaine knows nothing about us. Mr. Germaine is in England."
I could restrain myself no longer. I called out under the window:
"Mr. Germaine is here!"
CHAPTER XXXVI. LOVE AND PRIDE.
A CRY of terror from the room told me that I had been heard. For amoment more nothing happened. Then the child's voice reached me, wildand shrill: "Open the shutters, mamma! I said he was coming--I want tosee him!"
There was still an interval of hesitation before the mother opened theshutters. She did it at last. I saw her darkly at the window, with thelight behind her, and the child's head just visible above the lower partof the window-frame. The quaint little face moved rapidly up and down,as if my self-appointed daughter were dancing for joy!
"Can I trust my own senses?" said Mrs. Van Brandt. "Is it really Mr.Germaine?"
"How do you do, new papa?" cried the child. "Push open the big door andcome in. I want to kiss you."
There was a world of difference between the coldly doubtful tone of themother and the joyous greeting of the child. Had I forced myself toosuddenly on Mrs. Van Brandt? Like all sensitively organized persons, shepossessed that inbred sense of self-respect which is pride under anothername. Was her pride wounded at the bare idea of my seeing her, desertedas well as deceived--abandoned contemptuously, a helpless burden onstrangers--by the man for whom she had sacrificed and suffered so much?And that man a thief, flying from the employers whom he had cheated! Ipushed open the heavy oaken street-door, fearing that this might be thetrue explanation of the change which I had already remarked in her. Myapprehensions were confirmed when she unlocked the inner door, leadingfrom the courtyard to the sitting-room, and let me in.
As I took her by both hands and kissed her, she turned her head, so thatmy lips touched her cheek only. She flushed deeply; her eyes looked awayfrom me as she spoke her few formal words of welcome. When the childflew into my arms, she cried out, irritably, "Don't trouble Mr.Germaine!" I took a chair, with the little one on my knee. Mrs. VanBrandt seated herself at a distance from me. "It is needless, I suppose,to ask you if you know what has happened," she said, turning paleagain as suddenly as she had turned red, and keeping her eyes fixedobstinately on the floor.
Before I could answer, the child burst out with the news of her father'sdisappearance in these words:
"My other papa has run away! My other papa has stolen money! It's time Ihad a new one, isn't it?" She put her arms round my neck. "And now I'vegot him!" she cried, at the shrillest pitch of her voice.
The mother looked at us. For a while, the proud, sensitive womanstruggled successfully with herself; but the pang that wrung her was notto be endured in silence. With a low cry of pain, she hid her face inher hands. Overwhelmed by the sense of her own degradation, she was evenashamed to let the man who loved her see that she was in tears.
I took the child off my knee. There was a second door in thesitting-room, which happened to be left open. It showed me a bed-chamberwithin, and a candle burning on the toilet-table.
"Go in there and play," I said. "I want to talk to your mamma."
The child pouted: my proposal did not appear to tempt her. "Give mesomething to play with," she said. "I'm tired of my toys. Let me seewhat you have got in your pockets."
Her busy little hands began to search in my coat-pockets. I let her takewhat she pleased, and so bribed her to run away into the inner room. Assoon as she was out of sight, I approached the poor mother and seatedmyself by her side.
"Think of it as I do," I said. "Now that he has forsaken you, he hasleft you free to be mine."
She lifted her head instantly; her eyes flashed through her tears.
"Now that he has forsaken me," she answered, "I am more unworthy of youthan ever!"
"Why?" I asked.
"Why!" she repeated, passionately. "Has a woman not reached the lowestdepths of degradation when she has lived to be deserted by a thief?"
It was hopeless to attempt to reason with her in her present frame ofmind. I tried to attract her attention to a less painful subject byreferring to the strange succession of events which had brought me toher for the third time. She stopped me impatiently at the outset.
"It seems useless to say once more what we have said on otheroccasions," she answered. "I understand what has brought you here. Ihave appeared to you again in a vision, just as I appeared to you twicebefore."
"No," I said. "Not as you appeared to me twice before. This time I sawyou with the child by your side."
That reply roused her. She started, and looked nervously toward thebed-chamber door.
"Don't speak loud!" she said. "Don't let the child hear us! My dreamof you this time has left a painful impression on my mind. The child ismixed up in it--and I don't like that. Then the place in which I sawyou is associated--" She paused, leaving the sentence unfinished. "I amnervous and wretched to-night," she resumed; "and I don't want to speakof it. And yet, I should like to know whether my dream has misled me, orwhether you really were in that cottage, of all places in the world?"
I was at a loss to understand the embarrassment which she appeared tofeel in putting her question. There was nothing very wonderful, to mymind, in the discovery that she had been in Suffolk, and that she wasacquainted with Greenwater Broad. The lake was known all over the countyas a favorite resort of picnic parties; and Dermody's pretty cottageused to be one of the popular attractions of the scene. What reallysurprised me was to see, as I now plainly saw, that she had some painfulassociation with my old home. I decided on answering her question insuch terms as might encourage her to take me into her confidence. In amoment more I should have told her that my boyhood had been passedat Greenwater Broad--in a moment more, we should have recognized
eachother--when a trivial interruption suspended the words on my lips. Thechild ran out of the bed-chamber, with a quaintly shaped key in herhand. It was one of the things she had taken out of my pockets and itbelonged to the cabin door on board the boat. A sudden fit of curiosity(the insatiable curiosity of a child) had seized her on the subject ofthis key. She insisted on knowing what door it locked; and, when I hadsatisfied her on that point, she implored me to take her immediately tosee the boat. This entreaty led naturally to a renewal of the disputedquestion of going, or not going, to bed. By the time the little creaturehad left us again, with permission to play for a few minutes longer,the conversation between Mrs. Van Brandt and myself had taken a