CHAPTER IV.
WHAT IT MEANT.
Some of my readers, perhaps all of them, will have concluded that Mrs.
Dempster was a little out of her mind. Such, indeed, was the fact, and
one not greatly to be wondered at, after such a peculiar experience as
she had had. Some small degree of congestion, and the consequent
pressure on some portion of the brain, had sent certain faculties to
sleep, and, perhaps, roused others into morbid activity. That it is
impossible to tell where sanity ends and insanity begins, is a trite
remark indeed; but like many things which it is useless to say, it has
the more need to be thought of. If I yield to an impulse of which I
know I shall be ashamed, is it not the act of a madman? And may not
the act lead to a habit, and at length to a despised, perhaps feared
and hated, old age, twisting at the ragged ends of a miserable life?
However certain it is that mental disorder had to do with Mrs.
Dempster's departure from her home, it is almost as certain she would
never have gone had it not been for the unpaid bills haunting her
consciousness, a combination of demon and ghost. The misery had all
the time been growing upon her, and must have had no small share in
the subversion of her microcosm. When that was effected, the evil
thing that lay at the root of it all rose and pounced upon her. Wrong
is its own avenger. She had been doing wrong, and knowingly for years,
and now the plant of evil was blossoming towards its fruit. If one say
the evil was but a trifle, I take her judgment, not his, upon that.
She had been lazy towards duty, had persistently turned aside from
what she knew to be her business, until she dared not even look at it.
And now that the crisis was at hand, as omened by that letter from the
butcher, with the sense of her wrong-doing was mingled the terror of
her husband. What would he think, say, and do? Not yet had she, after
all these years, any deep insight into his character; else perhaps she
might have read there that, much as he loved money, the pleasure of
seeing signal failure follow the neglect of his instructions would
quite compensate him for the loss. What the bills amounted to, she had
not an idea. Not until she had made up her mind to leave her home
could she muster the courage to get them together. Then she even
counted up the total and set down the sum in her memory--which sum
thereafter haunted her like the name of her devil.
As to the making up of her mind--she could remember very little of
that process--or indeed of the turning of her resolve into action. She
left the house in the plainest dress her wardrobe could afford her,
and with just one half-crown in her pocket. Her design was to seek a
situation, as a refuge from her husband and his wrath. It was a
curious thing, that, while it gave her no trouble to leave her baby,
whom indeed she had not that day seen, and to whom for some time she
had ceased to be necessary, her only notion was to get a place as
nurse.
At that time, I presume, there were few or no such offices for
engaging servants as are now common; at all events, the plan Mrs.
Dempster took, when she had reached a part of London she judged
sufficiently distant for her purpose, was to go from shop to shop
inquiring after a situation. But she met with no prospect of success,
and at last, greatly in need of rest and refreshment, went into a
small coffee shop. The woman who kept it was taken by her appearance,
her manners, and her evident trouble, and, happening to have heard of
a lady who wanted a nurse, gave her the address. She went at once, and
applied for the place. The lady was much pleased with her, and agreed
to take her, provided she received a satisfactory character of her.
For such a demand Mrs. Dempster was unprepared; she had never thought
what reference she could give, and, her resources for deception easily
exhausted, gave, driven to extremity, the name and address of her
mother. So met the extremes of loss and salvation! She returned to the
coffee shop, and the lady wrote at once to the address of the young
woman's late mistress, as she supposed.
The kindness of her new friend was not exhausted; she gave her a share
of her own bed that night. Mrs. Dempster had now but two shillings,
which she offered her, promising to pay her the rest out of the first
wages she received. But the good woman would take no more than one of
them, and that in full payment of what she owed her, and Mrs. Dempster
left the shop in tears, to linger about the neighbourhood until the
hour should arrive at which the lady had told her to call again.
Apparently she must have cherished the hope that her mother, divining
her extremity, would give her the character she could honestly claim.
But as she drew near the door which she hoped would prove a refuge,
her mother was approaching it also, and at the turning of a corner
they ran into each other's arms. The elderly lady had a hackney coach
waiting for her in the next street, and Mrs. Dempster, too tired to
resist, got into it at once at her mother's desire. Ere they reached
the mother's house, which, as I have said, was a long way from Mr.
Dempster's, the daughter told everything, and the mother had perceived
more than the daughter could tell: her eyes had revealed that all was
not right behind them. She soothed her as none but a mother can,
easily persuading her she would make everything right, and undertaking
herself to pay the money owing to the butcher. But it was soon evident
that for the present there must be no suggestion of her going back to
her husband; for, imagining from something, that her mother was taking
her to him, she jumped up and had all but opened the door of the cab
when her mother succeeded in mastering her. As soon as she was
persuaded that such had never been the intention, she was quiet. When
they reached the house she was easily induced to go to bed at once.
Her mother lived in a very humble way, with one servant, a trustworthy
woman. To her she confided the whole story, and with her consulted as
to what had better be done. Between them they resolved to keep her,
for a while at least, in retirement and silence. To this conclusion
they came on the following grounds: First, the daughter's terror and
the mother's own fear of Mr. Dempster; next, it must be confessed, the
resentment of both mistress and servant because of his rudeness when
he came to inquire after her; third, the evident condition of the poor
creature's mind; and last, the longing of the two women to have her to
themselves, that they might nurse and cosset her to their hearts'
content.
They were to have more of this indulgence, however, than, for her
sake, they would have desired, for before morning she was very ill.
She had brain fever, in fact, and they had their hands full,
especially as they desired to take every precaution to prevent the
neighbourhood from knowing there was any one but themselves in the
house.
It was a severe attack, but she passed the crisis favourably, and
began to recover. One morning, after a quieter night than usual, she
called her mother, and told her she had had a strange dream--that she
had a baby somewhere, but could not find him, and was wandering about
looking for him.
"Wasn't it a curious dream, mamma?" she said. "I wish it were a true
one. I knew exactly what my baby was like, and went into house after
house full of children, sure that I could pick him out of thousands. I
was just going up to the door of the Foundling Hospital to look for
him there when I woke."
As she ceased, a strange trouble passed like a cloud over her forehead
and eyes, and her hand, worn almost transparent by the fever followed
it over forehead and eyes. She seemed trying to recall something
forgotten. But her mother thought it better to say nothing.
Each of the two nights following she had the same dream.
"Three times, mother," she said. "I am not superstitious, as you know,
but I can't help feeling as if it must mean something. I don't know
what to make of it else--except it be that I haven't got over the
fever yet. And, indeed, I am afraid my head is not quite right, for I
can't be sure sometimes, such a hold has my dream of me, that I
haven't got a baby somewhere about the world. Give me your hand,
mother, and sing to me."
Still her mother thought it more prudent to say nothing, and do what
she could to divert her thoughts; for she judged it must be better to
let her brain come right, as it were, of itself.
In the middle of the next night she woke her with a cry.
"O, mother, mother! I know it all now. I am not out of my mind any
more. How I came here I cannot tell--but I know I have a husband and a
baby at Hackney--and--oh, such a horrible roll of butcher's bills!"
"Yes, yes, my dear! I know all about it," answered her mother. "But
never mind; you can pay them all yourself now, for I heard only
yesterday that your aunt Lucy is dead, and has left you the hundred
pounds she promised you twenty years ago."
"Oh, bless her!" cried Mrs. Dempster, springing out of bed, much to
the dismay of her mother, who boded a return of the fever. "I must go
home to my baby at once. But tell me all about it, mamma. How did I
come here? I seem to remember being in a carriage with you, and that
is the last I know."
Then, upon condition that she got into bed at once, and promised not
to move until she gave her leave, her mother consented to tell her all
she knew. She listened in silence, with face flushed and eyes glowing,
but drank a cooling draught, lay down again, and at daybreak was fast
asleep. When she awoke she was herself again.
