Unclaimed

“You’ve seen the patient this morning, then?”

The Doctor closed the door of the little office and seated himself. “You talked with her?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Remington’s fingers twisted in the folds of her silk mourning. “She clung to me and begged me to rescue her from the plot against her.”

“She refuses to see the child. Swears it isn’t hers.”

“How can she go on lying?” Mrs. Remington spoke with slow abhorrence.

“She fooled us all.” The doctor tipped his chair, one hand smoothing his neat little beard. “Even the surgeon! Think of operating for a tumor and finding a child developed so far it lives.”

“This morning she lay there so gaunt—” Mrs. Remington’s thin lips trembled. “I told her if she’d only trust me, I’d understand. And she would only beg me to help her. She’s never lied. Thirty years she’s been my maid—since she was a girl. She’s been a good woman, religious, faithful. But since you suggested that was the trouble—four months ago—she’s been crazy with denying it. I must get at the truth. I need her. I’m selfish. But I haven’t much left, and she’s been fond of me.” Mrs. Remington raised her hand to hide the twitching of her lips, a long, blue-veined hand.

“She’ll be out in a fortnight.” The doctor stared through the window at the patch of sunlit lawn in front of the hospital. “She’s got an amazing constitution for a woman of forty.”

“But I can’t take her! I hate lies. I’ve been lied to—” Mrs. Remington threw back her slender old shoulders. “How could I take her, with this monstrous lie?”

“Well—” The doctor rose, letting his chair drop. “You know, I think she’s not lying. I think she believes what she says.”

“She couldn’t—if that child is hers.”

“Mrs. Remington, did you ever shut your eyes to something you didn’t wish to see? Something in another person, perhaps?”

The faint color in the woman’s face dragged out, leaving ravaged, wrinkled skin.

“We all do that, I fancy,” the doctor continued. “We try to about ourselves. Most of us don’t succeed very well. But suppose a terrible thing happens. You can’t see how it could have happened. You pray that it may not be true. Your whole life contradicts it. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” The monosyllable escaped through unmoving lips.

“Your Mary was a simple woman. Something happened. She saw the fabric of her existence ruined. She refused to believe. Her devotion to you helped. She was more successful than most of us. She convinced herself.”

“So that she believed—Oh, that’s impossible.” In each of Mrs. Remington’s cheeks glowed a red spot.

“Nothing is impossible. Even if she was drugged when she was assaulted, my theory holds good for the months since. And if we force the truth on her, she’ll go mad.”

Mrs. Remington’s demanding black eyes held the doctor’s for a moment.

“Very well,” she said, finally. “If you believe that, I can accept it. And the child? What is to be done with that?”

“There are foundling asylums. If you wished the financial responsibility, there are women who would care for it.”

“It is a healthy child?”

“Fine!” exclaimed the doctor, with a touch of professional enthusiasm. “Perfectly formed little girl, except one slight thing. Nothing serious. A trace of web-toe. Interesting, because it runs in families. Might serve to track the father, only you aren’t after notoriety.”

“That—that runs in families!” Mrs. Remington’s words were a dry whisper. She turned away from the doctor, putting up a hand to draw the crepe veil over her face. When she turned toward him, the veil blurred her features. Only her eyes showed, deep-sunken, black.

“I will pay for the child’s care.” She rose, swaying. The doctor stepped toward her, but she avoided his arm. “I can’t well take the child—and Mary. Find a woman—a good woman. You may tell Mary I am waiting for her.”

The doctor laid his hand on the door.

“You are not looking well yourself, Mrs. Remington,” he said. “This has been a strain, coming so soon after your husband’s death. You should go away—forget unpleasant things——”

“Believe they are not true?” Mrs. Remington bowed. “I am quite well, I thank you. Good morning.”

And she walked out of the building, where her carriage, with its restless sleek horses, stood waiting in the April sun.