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. 20, 1862.] of Jesus itin [sic] its demands. It must have required the strictest incognito, and there was nothing in this poor room, with the evidences of daily labour in it, that could excite suspicion. At last the doctor came. He feared congestion of the brain from the fall and the blow; but was, on the whole, hopeful. For three days and three nights Rupert was delirious. Strangely enough his child’s name never came to his lips, but very often in thick, gasping accents that of Madame Serrano.

“At last he opened his eyes, and out of their dim and sunken pupils came a look of recognition.

‘Santa,’ he said. There was no hesitation; a little distrust, but no surprise. It seemed natural for him to find me there.

‘Are you better?’

‘Thanks! But what is it? How is all this? You are very good,’ he said, and I saw a blush rise to his temples.

‘Where is Ida?’ I asked.

‘Ida, she is safe.’

“And then the past seemed to rush back upon him.

“From the day I found him, I had been cold and calm. It was a fellow-creature requiring assistance, and I rendered it as impassively as a Sister of Charity. He was silent, but his countenance assumed a great expression of pain. I rose and prepared to leave him. I told him I would send some one to attend to him, but during his delirium I had thought it best to remain myself. He thanked me absently.

‘Before you go, would you kindly open that desk,’ he said, ‘and give me two letters which are in it? It is of consequence they should be destroyed in case anything happens to me.’

“I went to the desk. The first thing which I saw was a miniature, which I recognised at once. It was a portrait of Madame Serrano. The painter had given the soft, beseeching smile of her witching lips. Beside it was a little sketch of Ida. At the sight of this, I felt the floor sway to and fro beneath my feet; but, with an effort which sent all the blood to my heart, I took out the letters, closed the desk, and bade adieu to Rupert. He expressed no wish to see me again.

“On reaching the street I sent my servant for a fiacre, and went home well nigh broken-hearted. I could only call upon God, and shudder like a wounded animal under my pain.

“Pain! pain! pain! How mysterious it is that in the great ebb and flow of humanity one human being can have so great a power of torturing another. How infinite is that power, and how ruthlessly is it sometimes wielded? God help us! when, in the future world, we see what we have done, when the hearts we have wounded, and perhaps maddened, by our unkindness, are laid bare to us!

“I had not been dragged, however, through all this suffering without some fruit to my soul. I had too often gone over the fateful past not to have it written out as in a map before me—where I had erred—where I had been to blame; and if weak human nature revolted and said, ‘Not from thy hand, Rupert, not from thy hand should come the punishment—spare me for thy child’s sake!’ my contrite and broken heart said, ‘Oh, God! not my will, but Thine be done!’

“To overcome evil with good, and that at the price of any self-sacrifice, was now my enduring object. I went again to see Rupert. The consequences of the fall were different from what was expected. The brain had not suffered, but the whole general health was prostrated. The shock had produced great weakness, and he had broken a blood-vessel. He could not be moved, partly on account of his health, and partly on account of the rendezvous this miserable lodging was to men engaged like himself.

“I should never have known all this, unless after some days’ struggle with myself before I could face the suffering of another meeting, I went to see him. The first glance at his face was enough. Rupert had not long to live. He knew it also.

‘I am glad you have come,’ he said; ‘there are some things I wish to do, and no one but you can help me. But the pain I endure obliges me to take opium. I am by day utterly unfitted for everything; about the evening I revive. There is another reason. Our companions come to me separately for a few minutes daily at the end of the day; I have to draw up a report of their progress and labours. These are secrets which I can trust to no one but you; do not be afraid of the hour, which you must make as late as possible. At certain distances you will be watched over by two of our associates, who, in different lodgings and in various streets, live in this vicinity. I would offer you an escort, but this might be of more disadvantage than benefit; and besides, it might be safest for your reputation’—with a sneer—‘to have a defender in the worst streets, in case of necessity, instead of one and the same companion through the whole length of Paris.’

‘I am glad to serve you and yours,’ I answered simply.

“I went every night. He maintained a distant, aggrieved manner towards me. Once or twice I spoke of Ida. I besought him to let me have her.

‘To be taught to hate her father! No! Remember you told me you despised me.’

“I threw myself on my knees,—I entreated, I implored him. To have snatched away that child from the fate which would be hers, a poor orphan in this hard world, gave a frantic energy to my prayers. He would not hear me, and turned so pale that I feared the discussion would kill him.

“Twice did I try with the same result. My generosity seemed an offence towards him. It placed him at a disadvantage, and he rejoiced that a revenge was still in his power.

“Two nights ago I went to Rupert for the last time. I finished what he wished to have completed. He was dying, but there was a strange light in his eye as he followed my different movements. When all was put in order I approached him.

‘Thanks,’ he said; ‘and now farewell.’

“He held out his hand.

‘Farewell! I cannot leave you yet, Rupert.’

‘Yes, you must leave me,’ he said, distinctly