“I will tell you the meaning of it,” cried the lady, sweeping intothe room with a proud, set face. “You have forced me, against myown judgment, to tell you, and now we must both make the bestof it. My husband died at Atlanta. My child survived.”
“Your child?”
She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. “You have neverseen this open.”
“I understood that it did not open.”
She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There wasa portrait within of a man strikingly handsome and intelligentlooking,but bearing unmistakable signs upon his features of hisAfrican descent.
“That is John Hebron, of Atlanta,” said the lady, “and a noblerman never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in orderto wed him, but never once while he lived did I for an instantregret it. It was our misfortune that our only child took afterhis people rather than mine. It is often so in such matches, andlittle Lucy is darker far than ever her father was. But dark or fair,she is my own dear little girlie, and her mother’s pet.” The littlecreature ran across at the words and nestled up against the lady’sdress. “When I left her in America,” she continued, “it was onlybecause her health was weak, and the change might have done herharm. She was given to the care of a faithful Scotch woman whohad once been our servant. Never for an instant did I dream ofdisowning her as my child. But when chance threw you in my way,Jack, and I learned to love you, I feared to tell you about my child.
God forgive me, I feared that I should lose you, and I had notthe courage to tell you. I had to choose between you, and in myweakness I turned away from my own little girl. For three yearsI have kept her existence a secret from you, but I heard fromthe nurse, and I knew that all was well with her. At last, however,there came an overwhelming desire to see the child once more.
I struggled against it, but in vain. Though I knew the danger, Idetermined to have the child over, if it were but for a few weeks.
I sent a hundred pounds to the nurse, and I gave her instructionsabout this cottage, so that she might come as a neighbor, withoutmy appearing to be in any way connected with her. I pushed myprecautions so far as to order her to keep the child in the houseduring the daytime, and to cover up her little face and hands sothat even those who might see her at the window should notgossip about there being a black child in the neighborhood. If Ihad been less cautious I might have been more wise, but I was halfcrazy with fear that you should learn the truth.
“It was you who told me first that the cottage was occupied.
I should have waited for the morning, but I could not sleep forexcitement, and so at last I slipped out, knowing how difficult itis to awake you. But you saw me go, and that was the beginning ofmy troubles. Next day you had my secret at your mercy, but younobly refrained from pursuing your advantage. Three days later,however, the nurse and child only just escaped from the back dooras you rushed in at the front one. And now to-night you at lastknow all, and I ask you what is to become of us, my child and me?”
She clasped her hands and waited for an answer.
It was a long ten minutes before Grant Munro broke the silence,and when his answer came it was one of which I love to think. Helifted the little child, kissed her, and then, still carrying her, heheld his other hand out to his wife and turned towards the door.
“We can talk it over more comfortably at home,” said he. “I amnot a very good man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one thanyou have given me credit for being.”
Holmes and I followed them down the lane, and my friendplucked at my sleeve as we came out.
“I think,” said he, “that we shall be of more use in London thanin Norbury.”
Not another word did he say of the case until late that night,when he was turning away, with his lighted candle, for his bedroom.
“Watson,” said he, “if it should ever strike you that I am gettinga little overconfident in my powers, or giving less pains to a casethan it deserves, kindly whisper ‘Norbury’ in my ear, and I shall beinfinitely obliged to you.”
The Stock-Broker’s Clerk
Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in thePaddington district. Old Mr. Farquhar, from whom I purchased it,had at one time an excellent general practice; but his age, and anaffliction of the nature of St. Vitus’s dance from which he suffered,had very much thinned it. The public not unnaturally goes on theprinciple that he who would heal others must himself be whole,and looks askance at the curative powers of the man whose owncase is beyond the reach of his drugs. Thus as my predecessorweakened his practice declined, until when I purchased it fromhim it had sunk from twelve hundred to little more than threehundred a year. I had confidence, however, in my own youth andenergy, and was convinced that in a very few years the concernwould be as flourishing as ever.
For three months after taking over the practice I was kept veryclosely at work, and saw little of my friend Sherlock Holmes, for Iwas too busy to visit Baker Street, and he seldom went anywherehimself save upon professional business. I was surprised, therefore,when, one morning in June, as I sat reading the British MedicalJournal after breakfast, I heard a ring at the bell, followed by thehigh, somewhat strident tones of my old companion’s voice.
“Ah, my dear Watson,” said he, striding into the room, “I amvery delighted to see you! I trust that Mrs. Watson has entirelyrecovered from all the little excitements connected with ouradventure of the Sign of Four.”
“Thank you, we are both very well,” said I, shaking him warmlyby the hand.
“And I hope, also,” he continued, sitting down in the rockingchair,“that the cares of medical practice have not entirelyobliterated the interest which you used to take in our little deductiveproblems.”
“On the contrary,” I answered, “it was only last night that Iwas looking over my old notes, and classifying some of our pastresults.”
“I trust that you don’t consider your collection closed.”
