Stories of Many Lands Part 16

"It was some time before the servants were really alarmed, as it was thought she was somewhere in the house or garden, hiding, after her roguish way. I think it was actually dark before they made any serious and thorough effort to find her. Indeed, I set on foot the first systematic search. I roused all our neighbors, and employed the police of our town, and afterwards of New York and other cities; but all was in vain, utterly in vain! No real trace of her could be found. We could not even hear of any child answering to her description, as having been taken from the town on that day, in any direction,--except one, who was seen on the New York boat I have mentioned, and who must, I think, have been younger than ours, or it was ill or stupid, as it was said the woman who had charge of it carried it constantly in her arms, where it lay quite still. Even this child we could only trace as far as New York. It seemed to disappear in the great city as a snowflake melts in the sea.

"Our friends all believed that our little Mary had fallen from the river-bank and had been drowned, and the body carried away by the swift current. Some lads, who were out on the water that day in a sail-boat, said that they saw a child on the bank a little below our house, running about quite alone, apparently chasing b.u.t.terflies. But it was several months before we relaxed our efforts to find her. So many lost children were brought to us in answer to our advertis.e.m.e.nts,--so many poor little homeless ones, whom n.o.body owned,--that it looked as though we were about to set up an orphan asylum. In truth, we sometimes felt like it, for dear little Mary's sake. We could not give her up, for we could not believe her dead. Our sorrow was such a _live_ anguish--without comfort, without rest--that we felt that the dear object _must_ be living and suffering. The tender ties that had bound our hearts to her quivered with pain, but we felt that, though sorely wounded, they were not quite severed.

"Then we had strangely vivid dreams of her. Very sad dreams they were; she always appeared to us pale, and sorrowful, and thin, as though pinched with want. Of late years we have dreamed of her more seldom; and, singularly enough, when we have dreamed, she has worn to both of us a changed and happier look. So we feel at last that somewhere, in this or a better world, 'it is well with the child.'

"The health of Mrs. Phillips received a great shock in this loss; in fact, she has never been quite well since. She has been threatened with consumption, and has been obliged to spend most of her winters in the South. I think she still mourns for her first-born; no other child has yet been able to fill her place."

"You have then other children?" said Mr. Raeburn.

"Yes, three; two boys, of eleven and nine, and a little girl, now nearly five years old."

Here Mary felt a happy glow overspread her veiled face, and her heart palpitated with a new joy.

"Believe me, my dear sir," said Mr. Raeburn, after a pause, "I have not drawn from you this painful story from mere curiosity. My friend now present, Miss Morton, is acquainted with a young girl who believes herself to have been stolen in her early childhood, from a happy home and kind parents, by a vulgar and cruel woman, who hid her for years in a wretched den in the worst part of New York. But, my dear Miss Morton, you can tell the story better than I; will you not do so?"

Mary began in a voice low and tremulous, but of penetrating sweetness, thus: "That poor young girl was, while yet a child, not wholly lost and wicked, rescued from a life of sin and beggary by some good kind friends, whom G.o.d will bless for ever and ever! When they took pity on her, she had forgotten her true last name; it had been frightened out of her memory, or driven out by blows; but she knew that her first name was Mary, though she was only called _Molly_, and she had not forgotten her true parents, though she called them her _dream_ father and mother, because they came to her in her sleep, to kiss her and comfort her.

She was surrounded by squalor and wretchedness; but she never quite forgot her old beautiful home, for her dim sweet memories of it were all she knew of heaven."

Here Mary rose and threw back her veil, as she continued, "And she hopes, she believes that _this_ is her old home, for she recognizes everything around her. O yes, I know that carved mantel, that ebony writing-case, that screen, that bust, and that picture over the cabinet. _It is mamma's portrait!_"

Mr. Phillips uttered an exclamation of joyful surprise and started forward, but immediately fearful of some mistake, calmed himself, and merely said, "Will you let me see you without your bonnet?"

Mary hastily uncovered her beautiful head, and stood before him, a soft, timid smile playing about her lips, and a tremulous light of love and joy in her eyes. Mr. Phillips looked from that yearning young face to the one on the canvas,--so wonderfully like they were! "It is enough!" he exclaimed; "I _know_ you for our daughter, our long-lost lamb! O Father in heaven, I thank Thee!"

And the next moment Mary was clasped in her father's arms, her head on his breast, her arms about his neck, laughing and weeping in her pa.s.sionate emotion, so long restrained.

Mr. Raeburn rose and softly loft the room, pa.s.sing out on to the piazza, where he stood for many minutes, apparently admiring the fine scenery, though in fact he could see but little for the tears of tender sympathy that would spring to his kindly eyes. Whichever way he looked there was a water-view.

He returned just in time to see the two boys, George and Herbert, introduced to their sister. They received the good news at first in a bewildered, boyish, awkward way. They blushed and stammered, stepped forward and back, then stood stock still, and looked at Mary in silent, wide-eyed wonder and admiration.

"Ah, boys," she said, "I suppose I seem to you like one come back from the dead, or like another Undine, risen from the water; but won't you take my hand? see, it isn't cold!" Then she shook hands with them and kissed them, and they rapturously returned her caress, and all was right.

"Now, my dear boys," said Mr. Phillips, "you have a task of self-restraint before you. It is necessary that this great joy of ours should be kept awhile from your mother. She is not strong enough to bear it. But she must see Mary and get accustomed to her as soon as possible. I have a plan. A new nurse is needed for Lilly; will you accept the position for a few days, my darling?"

"Most joyfully, papa."

"I give you warning, sister, that it will not be a very jolly life for you," put in Master George. "Lilly is awfully spoiled, and will order you about, and put on all the airs of old Queen Bess."

"That will do, George," said his father, with a wave of his hand.

"You, Mary, I am sure, will soon win Lilly's heart, though she is quite too young to be intrusted with our secret. Having charge of her, you can have frequent access to your mother, and perhaps gradually reveal yourself to her. We must contrive to have you get your first glimpse of her unseen, otherwise you might betray yourself by your emotion.

"And now, my daughter, if you are sufficiently calm, you will give me a brief account of your life since we were so sadly parted, more than twelve long years ago."

Mary told her piteous story very simply, pa.s.sing as lightly as possible over her early sorrows and hards.h.i.+ps, but again and again bringing tears to the eyes of her father and brothers.

When Mr. Phillips heard the name of Patrick Magee, he exclaimed, "Why, I had that villain under pay for months for pretending to search for you in New York, and all along he had you hid in his vile den! He must be made to suffer for it."

"He will suffer, he does suffer, father. Poor, lost creature! I am willing to leave him to G.o.d," said Mary, gently.

Mr. Raeburn returned to his hotel in the town that evening, but called at the Phillips mansion in the morning, to say good by to Mary and her father.

Mary came to him, all radiant with her new happiness. "I have seen my mother twice!" she said. "The first time she was asleep. I stole up softly to her bedside, and held my breath as I bent over her. Her face is no longer rosy and dimpled, like the pictured face, yet far lovelier. In repose it seemed worn and sorrowful, but O, so gentle and sweet! I stood by her a long time, and looked and looked, trying to make up a little for what I had lost. Her dear hand lay on the counterpane. I longed to kiss it, but I dared not. I did kiss a braid of her hair that fell over the pillow, and such a thrill went through me! Her hair is as beautiful and dark as ever, and so are her eyes. I looked straight into them, once this morning. Papa presented me to her, as Lilly's new nurse. She looked so kind and gracious, I thought I should have sunk at her feet, to beg her to bless her child. I could not speak, and papa apologized for me by saying that I was very diffident, but that Lilly seemed to take to me, and he hoped I would do well; and then she smiled on me, and I took that for the blessing.

"I slept in the nursery with Lilly last night, in the very bed, I believe, I used to sleep in; and when I knelt beside it, I could think of no words to say but those of my little childish prayer, '_Now I lay me down to sleep._' Was n't it strange?"

At this moment Lilly came dancing into the parlor, to claim her new friend. The child was a dainty little thing, as restless and radiant as a b.u.t.terfly,--evidently a little spoiled, yet very charming.

The tears sprang to Mary's eyes, as her good friend rose to take leave.

She weighed down his memory with messages for the dear ones to whom he was going; and, as he gave her his hand in parting, she lifted up her sweet, ingenuous face, with a timid, grateful smile, and kissed him, for the first time. She had never before felt that she had a social position equal to his and dear Bessie's.

Mr. Phillips accompanied Mr. Raeburn to the station, and parted from him with much regret and many heartfelt thanks and blessings.

A few days later there came to Mary letters from all her friends in Berks.h.i.+re,--letters of loving congratulation, most grateful to her heart. One from Mr. Raeburn contained the intelligence that Patrick Magee had been released from prison in a very solemn way. After a terrible attack of delirium, he had fallen into a stupor, and died. So that sinful and blinded soul had gone stumbling down the dark valley, and forth into the unknown world, where neither human pity nor judgment could reach him.

"O, I hope G.o.d forgave him at the last, as I forgive him," said Mary, weeping.

"Why, sister Mary," said George Phillips, "you are n't crying for that old reprobate, are you?"

"No, Georgie; only crying because n.o.body _can_ cry for him. You see, Georgie dear, I have been wicked myself, and know how to pity the erring."

"_You_ wicked, Mary! I suppose you have in your mind the few little lies you told when you were the bound slave of that old Irish ogre and his ogress. It's my opinion the angel that writes down things don't make much account of such sins."

Day by day, Mary won her way to the inmost hearts of all the household.

Mrs. Phillips was especially interested in the young stranger, who seemed so superior to her station,--who moved about so softly, and was so careful and watchful. She loved to have her in her apartments, and often sat and gazed at her, so mournfully, so searchingly, that Mary longed inexpressibly to kneel by her side and tell her all.

At last the time came. It was Sunday, and little Lilly's birthday.

Mrs. Phillips was so much better that she was brought down stairs, for the first time for many weeks, and seated on the vine-shaded piazza, overlooking the river. She looked very happy, and there was a delicate rose-tint on her cheek. All the family were gathered around her; it was a jubilee of love. Her husband sat at her side; the boys stood near, leaning over the railing, watching the graceful sloops sailing by. Mary sat on a low stool before her, showing some Bible pictures to Lilly, who wore a birthday wreath of blue violets and white rosebuds.

Suddenly the child was heard to say, "This is my birthday, you know, Mary, and that's why it's so pleasant. When is your birthday?"

"O, never mind," said Mary, blus.h.i.+ng, "look at this picture."

"No, no, not till you tell me when your birthday comes."

"I cannot tell you, dear."

"Why, don't you know? I 'm only five years old, and I know mine."

"Why, how is this, Mary?" asked Mrs. Phillips; "don't you really know your birthday?"

Mary hesitated a moment, then replied, "There were some sad circ.u.mstances in my childhood that prevented me from knowing much even about myself. I do not know _exactly_ how old I am, but I think about fifteen."

"About fifteen!" repeated Mrs. Phillips, in a dreamy way, "and your name _Mary_. John, our Mary would have been just about her age, could we have kept her; and do you know I fancy she would have looked very much like this young girl. I suppose this coincidence of age and name has given me a peculiar interest in her. I felt strangely drawn towards her at first sight. I have an odd idea that she looks like our family, somewhat as I used to look; and, stranger still, like _you_, John."

At this, all instinctively drew near to the mother. Mr. Phillips took her hand, and said calmly, "My dear Caroline, n.o.body on earth has a better right to look like our Mary, like you and like me, than this dear young girl."

"O John, John, tell me! Can she he! O blessed G.o.d!--"