A month later a baby was born--a boy whom she called Charlie--and when she spoke the name, tears sprang to her eyes for the first time. It was not until I saw those tears that I had the slightest hope of her mind rallying from the shock; but then I knew that the living child would save her. She looked upon him as having been sent direct from heaven to solace her for her loss. She regarded him as an emanation from the departed spirit of her husband. There was certainly something uncommon about the child. He was pretty, but not engaging. He never cried; but it may also be said, he never smiled. He did not suffer, but there was about him none of the joyousness of childhood. It seemed as though the thunder-cloud that had burst over the mother’s head had left its shadow on the child.
Between two and three years after Mr. Wilton’s death a change seemed likely to occur in my own prospects. A rich relation--a physician of high standing--wrote urging me to come to London immediately, on a matter, so he said, of the greatest importance to myself. There was nothing to prevent my complying with his request. The village was in a healthy state; my outside practice might be made to spare me. I wrote stating I would be with him on the following day.
I went to Croft House to say good-bye. It was summer. Mrs. Wilton was sitting out on the lawn with Charlie on a rug close at her feet. She made room for me beside her, and we talked together for a short time of her affairs and of the child. It was not until I had risen to go that I broached the subject of my departure. She looked surprised, alarmed.
“But, Charlie,” she said; “if he should be ill?”
“I would not go if he were ill. I will return at once if he should need me,” I answered earnestly. “But is he not the picture of health? Why, he seems exempt from every childish trouble.”
I told her my relative’s address, knowing she only cared to have it in case she needed me for her boy; then I lifted the child in my arms and kissed him. “Good-bye, little man!” I said cheerfully. He was a splendid little fellow, of whom his mother might well be proud; he resembled his father, too, and was growing more like him every day.
I was about to set the child down, but something--some feeling I cannot define--impelled me to hold him closer; to look into his face--his eyes--more scrutinizingly than I had ever done. And so looking, I shuddered at the thought that then assailed me. Great powers! Could fate be so cruel? Had heaven no pity for this poor mother who, so young, had already surely borne enough of sorrow? I put the boy down quickly and turned away.