A Cry in the WildernessWaller, Mary E. (Mary Ella)
General
A Cry in the Wilderness
Waller, Mary E. (Mary Ella)
New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Québec (Province) -- Fiction
"When he come out he said he would relieve me of all further
responsibility, which I took pains to inform him included a day-old
baby, thinking that would fetch some explanation from him. But he did
n't seem to lay any weight on _that_ part of it. He made all the
arrangements himself, and I took a back seat. I see I was n't any more
necessary to him than if I had n't been there. He went out for an hour
and come back with a nurse; and at six that afternoon he drove away in
a hack with her and the baby, an express cart with the body following
on behind.
"I told him the last thing 'fore he went that his wife had given an
envelope with some papers to Doctor Rugvie, and that they were for his
child. He turned and give me a look that was beyond me. I never could
fathom that look! It said more 'n any living human being's look that I
ever see--if only I could have read it! But he never spoke a word, not
even a word of thanks--not that I was expecting or wanted any after
seeing his face as he stood hanging on to the door-jamb. I knew then
he did n't really see me nor anything else except the body of his wife
somewhere in that basement. He did everything as if he 'd been a
machine instead of a human being; and when I see him drive off I did
n't know much more 'n I did when I took the woman in, except that she
was married."
She was silent. I drew a long breath.
"Is that all you know?" I felt I could not be left so, suspended as it
were over the abyss of the unknown in my life.
She sighed. "My dear, this great city is full of just such mysteries
that no human being can fathom. I, for one, don't try to. I can only
lend a helping hand, and ask no questions; 't ain't best. Well, I 've
been talking a blue streak for a half an hour, but I 've had to. When
you laid there on the cot, you was the living image of that other, only
thinner, smaller like. You told me you was born in this city
twenty-six years ago come the third of next December; that you did n't
know who your father was, but that your mother was married. Her
husband's name was the same as the one on the telegram. I 've put two
and two together, and perhaps I 've made five out of it. Anyway it's
your right to know. I 'm sure Doctor Rugvie will back me up in this."
For a moment I made no answer. Then I spoke:
"Are you sure there is no more? You can't recall anything that Doctor
Rugvie said about that paper in the envelope?"
"Well, yes, I can; a little more. After all, it's what will help you
most--and yet I ain't sure--"
"Tell me, do--do." My hands clasped each other nervously.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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