A young girl, the only daughter of a poor widow, removed from the
country to Philadelphia to earn her living by covering umbrellas. She
was very handsome; with glossy black hair, large beaming eyes, and "lips
like wet coral." She was just at that susceptible age when youth is
ripening into womanhood, when the soul begins to be pervaded by "that
restless principle, which impels poor humans to seek perfection in
union."
At a hotel near the store for which she worked an English traveller,
called Lord Henry Stuart, had taken lodgings. He was a strikingly
handsome man, and of princely carriage. As this distinguished stranger
passed to and from his hotel, he encountered the umbrella girl, and was
attracted by her uncommon beauty. He easily traced her to the store,
where he soon after went to purchase an umbrella. This was followed up
by presents of flowers, chats by the wayside, and invitations to walk or
ride; all of which were gratefully accepted by the unsuspecting rustic;
for she was as ignorant of the dangers of a city as were the squirrels
of her native fields. He was merely playing a game for temporary
excitement. She, with a head full of romance, and a heart melting under
the influence of love, was unconsciously endangering the happiness of
her whole life.
Lord Henry invited her to visit the public gardens on the Fourth of
July. In the simplicity of her heart, she believed all his flattering
professions, and considered herself his bride elect; she therefore
accepted the invitation with innocent frankness. But she had no dress
fit to appear in on such a public occasion, with a gentleman of high
rank, whom she verily supposed to be her destined husband. While these
thoughts revolved in her mind, her eye was unfortunately attracted by a
beautiful piece of silk, belonging to her employer. Could she not take
it, without being seen, and pay for it secretly, when she had earned
money enough? The temptation conquered her in a moment of weakness. She
concealed the silk, and conveyed it to her lodgings. It was the first
thing she had ever stolen, and her remorse was painful. She would have
carried it back, but she dreaded discovery. She was not sure that her
repentance would be met in a spirit of forgiveness.
On the eventful Fourth of July, she came out in her new dress. Lord
Henry complimented her upon her elegant appearance, but she was not
happy. On their way to the gardens, he talked to her in a manner which
she did not comprehend. Perceiving this, he spoke more explicitly. The
guileless young creature stopped, looked in his face with mournful
reproach, and burst into tears. The nobleman took her hand kindly, and
said, "My dear, are you an innocent girl?"
"I am, I am," she replied, with convulsive sobs. "Oh, what have I ever
done, or said, that you should ask me such a question?"
The evident sincerity of her words stirred the deep fountains of his
better nature. "If you are innocent," said he, "God forbid that I should
make you otherwise. But you accepted my invitations and presents so
readily, that I supposed you understood me."
"What _could_ I understand," said she, "except that you intended to make
me your wife?"
Though reared amid the proudest distinctions of rank, he felt no
inclination to smile. He blushed and was silent. The heartless
conventionalities of the world stood rebuked in the presence of
affectionate simplicity. He conveyed her to her humble home, and bade
her farewell, with a thankful consciousness that he had done no
irretrievable injury to her future prospects. The remembrance of her
would soon be to him as the recollection of last year's butterflies.
With her, the wound was deep. In the solitude of her chamber she wept in
bitterness of heart over her ruined air-castles. And that dress, which
she had stolen to make an appearance befitting his bride! Oh, what if
she should be discovered? And would not the heart of her poor widowed
mother break, if she should ever know that her child was a thief?
Alas, her wretched forebodings proved too true. The silk was traced to
her; she was arrested on her way to the store and dragged to prison.
There she refused all nourishment, and wept incessantly. On the fourth
day, the keeper called upon Isaac T. Hopper, and informed him that there
was a young girl in prison, who appeared to be utterly friendless, and
determined to die by starvation. The kind-hearted Friend immediately
went to her assistance. He found her lying on the floor of her cell,
with her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break.
He tried to comfort her, but could obtain no answer.
"Leave us alone," said he to the keeper. "Perhaps she will speak to me,
if there is no one to hear." When they were alone together, he put back
the hair from her temples, laid his hand kindly on her beautiful head,
and said in soothing tones, "My child, consider me as thy father. Tell
me all thou hast done. If thou hast taken this silk, let me know all
about it. I will do for thee as I would for my own daughter; and I doubt
not that I can help thee out of this difficulty."
After a long time spent in affectionate entreaty, she leaned her young
head on his friendly shoulder, and sobbed out, "Oh, I wish I was dead.
What will my poor mother say when she knows of my disgrace?"
"Perhaps we can manage that she never shall know it," replied he.
Alluring her by this hope, he gradually obtained from her the whole
story of her acquaintance with the nobleman. He bade her be comforted,
and take nourishment; for he would see that the silk was paid for, and
the prosecution withdrawn.
He went immediately to her employer, and told him the story. "This is
her first offence," said he. "The girl is young, and she is the only
child of a poor widow. Give her a chance to retrieve this one false
step, and she may be restored to society, a useful and honored woman. I
will see that thou art paid for the silk." The man readily agreed to
withdraw the prosecution, and said he would have dealt otherwise by the
girl, if he had known all the circumstances. "Thou shouldst have
inquired into the merits of the case," replied Friend Hopper. "By this
kind of thoughtlessness, many a young creature is driven into the
downward path, who might easily have been saved."
The kind-hearted man next proceeded to the hotel, and with Quaker
simplicity of speech inquired for Henry Stuart. The servant said his
lordship had not yet risen. "Tell him my business is of importance,"
said Friend Hopper. The servant soon returned and conducted him to the
chamber. The nobleman appeared surprised that a stranger, in the plain
Quaker costume, should thus intrude upon his luxurious privacy. When he
heard his errand, he blushed deeply, and frankly admitted the truth of
the girl's statement. His benevolent visitor took the opportunity to
"bear a testimony" against the selfishness and sin of profligacy. He did
it in such a kind and fatherly manner, that the young man's heart was
touched. He excused himself, by saying that he would not have tampered
with the girl, if he had known her to be virtuous. "I have done many
wrong things," said he, "but thank God, no betrayal of confiding
innocence weighs on my conscience. I have always esteemed it the basest
act of which man is capable." The imprisonment of the poor girl, and the
forlorn situation in which she had been found, distressed him greatly.
When Friend Hopper represented that the silk had been stolen for _his_
sake, that the girl had thereby lost profitable employment, and was
obliged to return to her distant home, to avoid the danger of exposure,
he took out a fifty dollar note, and offered it to pay her expenses.
"Nay," said Isaac. "Thou art a very rich man, I presume. I see in thy
hand a large roll of such notes. She is the daughter of a poor widow,
and thou hast been the means of doing her great injury. Give me
another."
Lord Henry handed him another fifty dollar note, and smiled as he said,
"You understand your business well. But you have acted nobly, and I
reverence you for it. If you ever visit England, come to see me. I will
give you a cordial welcome, and treat you like a nobleman."
"Farewell, friend," replied the Quaker. "Though much to blame in this
affair, thou too hast behaved nobly. Mayst thou be blessed in domestic
life, and trifle no more with the feelings of poor girls; not even with
those whom others have betrayed and deserted."
When the girl was arrested, she had sufficient presence of mind to
assume a false name, and by that means, her true name had been kept out
of the newspapers. "I did this," said she, "for my poor mother's sake."
With the money given by Lord Stuart, the silk was paid for, and she was
sent home to her mother well provided with clothing. Her name and place
of residence forever remained a secret in the breast of her benefactor.
Years after these events transpired, a lady called at Friend Hopper's
house, and asked to see him. When he entered the room, he found a
handsomely dressed young matron, with a blooming boy of five or six
years old. She rose quickly to meet him, and her voice choked as she
said, "Friend Hopper, do you know me?" He replied that he did not. She
fixed her tearful eyes earnestly upon him, and said, "You once helped me
when in great distress." But the good missionary of humanity had helped
too many in distress, to be able to recollect her without more precise
information. With a tremulous voice, she bade her son go into the next
room for a few minutes; then dropping on her knees, she hid her face in
his lap, and sobbed out, "I am the girl who stole the silk. Oh, where
should I now be, if it had not been for you!"
When her emotion was somewhat calmed, she told him that she had married
a highly respectable man, a senator of his native state. Being on a
visit in Friend Hopper's vicinity, she had again and again passed his
dwelling, looking wistfully at the windows to catch a sight of him; but
when she attempted to enter her courage failed.
"But I must return home to-morrow," said she, "and I could not go away
without once more seeing and thanking him who saved me from ruin." She
recalled her little boy, and said to him, "Look at that gentleman, and
remember him well; for he was the best friend your mother ever had."
With an earnest invitation to visit her happy home, and a fervent "God
bless you!" she bade her benefactor farewell.