“It is I, Sappho; open the door, Aunt Sally.”
She heard the click of the key as it turned in the lock, and in another moment she stood within the entry facing her aunt’s curious, frightened face. In another moment she dropped her weary frame in a chair in the reception room. Sappho told her aunt the whole story. The elder woman was nonplussed and startled; she had not counted that anyone would be able to identify her niece with poor, unfortunate Mabelle Beaubean. They sat there for a long time going over the situation, and consulting about what was best to be done. Sappho told her aunt that she was determined to take the boy with her in future. Madam Frances said nothing, for she saw that her niece was determined.
“I must leave Boston; that is clear,” said Sappho.
“Certainly, that will be best for a while,” replied her aunt. “But you must remember that it is always darkest just before the dawn.”
“I shall return to New Orleans and lose myself in that city. I shall get work there, and my case will not be noticed, because it is not uncommon. In time I shall forget.”
“As soon as you are settled there I will join you with the boy. I will continue to tell fortunes, and we shall live very happily, no doubt. I shall not be here long; my sands are almost run, but I should like to see you safe and happy before I go. But remember what I say to you now, Sappho child: in doing your duty, happiness will come to you, the greater and more abiding for the trouble which has preceded it.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Sappho; “but, Aunt Sally, I shall take the boy with me tomorrow when I leave for the South. I will never part with him again on earth.”
“Well, my dear child, I see no necessity for you to become a martyr in order to do your duty. However, do as you think best. Now go and try to get a little rest.”
“Here is one of my mother’s diamond rings; take it, Aunt Sally, and sell it for me. I have no money.”
The old woman took the ring, and Sappho went into the small side-room where Alphonse slept. She undressed and lay down beside the boy, but not to sleep. She gazed on the innocent face with mingled feelings of sorrow and regret as she thought of the lonely, loveless life of the child. She had been so wicked to put him from her. It was her duty to guide and care for him. She would do her duty without shrinking. Her head ached and her eyes burned and were hot and dry; they refused to close. So the moments flew by as she tormented herself with fancies of Will’s horror of her when he should learn her story on the morrow, and remembrances of John Langley’s coarse insults, which even now made her cheeks burn with shame. She wept bitter tears over her cherished love dream. But under it all there was a feeling of relief now that she had made up her mind to a future which the child should share. Her shipwrecked life seemed about to find peace. There was a new light in her eyes as she gazed on the sleeping child. Impulsively she folded him in her arms, and Alphonse awoke. The awakening of childhood is beautiful. She gazed with newfound ecstacy at the rosy face, the dimpled limbs, and thought that he was hers. Her feeling of degradation had made her ashamed of the joys of motherhood, of pride of possession in her child. But all that feeling was swept away. Alphonse looked at her first in wonder and then in alarm. Again she kissed him passionately—the frail little child, whose delicate frame seemed cut from alabaster. She had only this tender creature to cling to in all the world; the only plank between her and desperation.
“I am your mother, Alphonse,” she said in answer to his looks of inquiry.
“My mamma is gone away to heaven,” replied the child solemnly, as he watched her earnestly with great dark eyes of wonder.
“No, dear, I am your mamma, come back to keep you with me always. Won’t you love your poor unhappy mamma?”
The child put up one slender hand and smoothed her cheek.
“You’re the pretty lady I saw at the fair. I didn’t know you were my mamma.”
“Mamma couldn’t claim you then, darling, but now she’s going to take you away, and you will always live with her. Won’t you like that?”
The boy nodded his sleepy little head, put up his dewy red mouth and pressed a sweet, wet kiss on her face, then he nestled confidingly in her arms and fell fast asleep again. She held him closely folded against her throbbing heart, and something holy passed from the sweet contact of the soft, warm body into the cold chilliness of her broken heart. The mother-love chased out all the anguish that she had felt over his birth. She wondered how she had lived without him—how she could have remained separated from him. In this new and holy love that had taken possession of her soul was the compensation for all she had suffered. She could not see it then, but in the long intervals of time it would be revealed to her understanding. Now she felt that her losses could not be paid, but in the years which followed she learned to value the strong, chastening influence of her present sorrow, and the force of character it developed, fitting her perfectly for the place she was to occupy in carrying comfort and hope to the women of her
