NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND
Meanwhile Peg was passing her time wearily enough in prison. It was
certainly provoking to be deprived of her freedom just when she was
likely to make it most profitable. After some reflection she determined
to send for Mrs. Clifton, and reveal to her all she knew, trusting to
her generosity for a recompense.
To one of the officers of the prison she communicated the intelligence
that she had an important revelation to make to Mrs. Clifton, absolutely
refusing to make it unless the lady would visit her in prison.
Scarcely had Mrs. Clifton returned home after recovering her child, than
the bell rang, and a stranger was introduced.
"Is this Mrs. Clifton?" he inquired.
"It is."
"Then I have a message for you."
The lady looked at him inquiringly.
"Let me introduce myself, madam, as one of the officers connected with
the city prison. A woman was placed in confinement this morning, who
says she has a most important communication to make to you, but declines
to make it except to you in person."
"Can you bring her here, sir?"
"That is impossible. We will give you every facility, however, for
visiting her in prison."
"It must be Peg," whispered Ida--"the woman that carried me off."
Such a request Mrs. Clifton could not refuse. She at once made ready to
accompany the officer. She resolved to carry Ida with her, fearful that,
unless she kept her in her immediate presence, she might disappear again
as before.
As Jack had not yet returned, a hack was summoned, and they proceeded at
once to the prison. Ida shuddered as she passed within the gloomy portal
which shut out hope and the world from so many.
"This way, madam!"
They followed the officer through a gloomy corridor, until they came to
the cell in which Peg was confined.
Peg looked up in surprise when she saw Ida enter with Mrs. Clifton.
"What brought you two together?" she asked, abruptly.
"A blessed Providence," answered Mrs. Clifton.
"I saw Jack with her," said Ida, "and I ran out into the street. I
didn't expect to find my mother."
"There is not much for me to tell, then," said Peg. "I had made up my
mind to restore you to your mother. You see, Ida, I've moved," she
continued, smiling grimly.
"Oh, Peg," said Ida, her tender heart melted by the woman's misfortunes,
"how sorry I am to find you here!"
"Are you sorry?" asked Peg, looking at her in curious surprise. "You
haven't much cause to be. I've been your worst enemy; at any rate, one
of the worst."
"I can't help it," said the child, her face beaming with a divine
compassion. "It must be so sad to be shut up here, and not be able to go
out into the bright sunshine. I do pity you."
Peg's heart was not wholly hardened. Few are. But it was long since it
had been touched, as now, by this warm-hearted pity on the part of one
whom she had injured.
"You're a good girl, Ida," she said, "and I'm sorry I've injured you. I
didn't think I should ever ask forgiveness of anybody; but I do ask your
forgiveness."
The child rose, and advancing toward her old enemy, took her large hand
in hers and said: "I forgive you, Peg."
"From your heart?"
"With all my heart."
"Thank you, child. I feel better now. There have been times when I have
thought I should like to lead a better life."
"It is not too late now, Peg."
Peg shook her head.
"Who will trust me when I come out of here?" she said.
"I will," said Mrs. Clifton.
"You will?" repeated Peg, amazed.
"Yes."
"After all I have done to harm you! But I am not quite so bad as you may
think. It was not my plan to take Ida from you. I was poor, and money
tempted me."
"Who could have had an interest in doing me this cruel wrong?" asked the
mother.
"One whom you know well--Mr. John Somerville."
"Surely you are wrong!" exclaimed Mrs. Clifton, in unbounded
astonishment. "That cannot be. What object could he have?"
"Can you think of none?" queried Peg, looking at her shrewdly.
Mrs. Clifton changed color.
"Perhaps so," she said. "Go on."
Peg told the whole story, so circumstantially that there was no room for
doubt.
"I did not believe him capable of such great wickedness," ejaculated
Mrs. Clifton, with a pained and indignant look. "It was a base, unmanly
revenge to take. How could you lend yourself to it?"
"How could I?" repeated Peg. "Madam, you are rich. You have always had
whatever wealth could procure. How can such as you understand the
temptations of the poor? When want and hunger stare us in the face we
have not the strength that you have in your luxurious homes."
"Pardon me," said Mrs. Clifton, touched by these words, half bitter,
half pathetic. "Let me, at any rate, thank you for the service you have
done me now. When you are released from your confinement come to me. If
you wish to change your mode of life, and live honestly henceforth, I
will give you the chance."
"After all the injury I have done you, you are yet willing to trust me?"
"Who am I that I should condemn you? Yes, I will trust you, and forgive
you."
"I never expected to hear such words," said Peg, her heart softened, and
her arid eyes moistened by unwonted emotion; "least of all from you. I
should like to ask one thing."
"What is it?"
"Will you let her come and see me sometimes?" pointing to Ida as she
spoke. "It will remind me that this is not all a dream--these words
which you have spoken."
"She shall come," said Mrs. Clifton, "and I will come too, sometimes."
"Thank you."
They left the prison behind them, and returned home.
There was a visitor awaiting them.
"Mr. Somerville is in the drawing room," said the servant. "He said he
would wait till you came in."
Mrs. Clifton's face flushed.
"I will go down and see him," she said. "Ida, you will remain here."
She descended to the drawing room, and met the man who had injured her.
He had come with the resolve to stake his all upon one desperate cast.
His fortunes were desperate. But he had one hope left. Through the
mother's love for the daughter, whom she had mourned so long, whom as he
believed he had it in his power to restore to her, he hoped to obtain
her consent to a marriage which would retrieve his fortunes and gratify
his ambition.
Mrs. Clifton entered the room, and seated herself quietly. She bowed
slightly, but did not, as usual, offer her hand. But, full of his own
plans, Mr. Somerville took no note of this change in her manner.
"How long is it since Ida was lost?" inquired Somerville, abruptly.
Mrs. Clifton heard this question in surprise. Why was it that he had
alluded to this subject?
"Seven years," she answered.
"And you believe she yet lives?"
"Yes, I am certain of it."
John Somerville did not understand her. He thought it was only because a
mother is reluctant to give up hope.
"It is a long time," he said.
"It is--a long time to suffer," said Mrs. Clifton, with deep meaning.
"How could anyone have the heart to work me this great injury? For seven
years I have led a sad and solitary life--seven years that might have
been gladdened and cheered by my darling's presence!"
There was something in her tone that puzzled John Somerville, but he was
far enough from suspecting that she knew the truth, and at last knew him
too.
"Rosa," he said, after a pause, "I, too, believe that Ida still lives.
Do you love her well enough to make a sacrifice for the sake of
recovering her?"
"What sacrifice?" she asked, fixing her eye upon him.
"A sacrifice of your feelings."
"Explain. You speak in enigmas."
"Listen, then. I have already told you that I, too, believe Ida to be
living. Indeed, I have lately come upon a clew which I think will lead
me to her. Withdraw the opposition you have twice made to my suit,
promise me that you will reward my affection by your hand if I succeed,
and I will devote myself to the search for Ida, resting not day or night
till I have placed her in your arms. This I am ready to do. If I
succeed, may I claim my reward?"
"What reason have you for thinking you would be able to find her?" asked
Mrs. Clifton, with the same inexplicable manner.
"The clew that I spoke of."
"And are you not generous enough to exert yourself without demanding of
me this sacrifice?"
"No, Rosa," he answered, firmly, "I am not unselfish enough. I have long
loved you. You may not love me; but I am sure I can make you happy. I am
forced to show myself selfish, since it is the only way in which I can
win you."
"But consider a moment. Put it on a different ground. If you restore me
my child now, will not even that be a poor atonement for the wrong you
did me seven years since"--she spoke rapidly now--"for the grief, and
loneliness, and sorrow which your wickedness and cruelty have wrought?"
"I do not understand you," he said, faltering.
"It is sufficient explanation, Mr. Somerville, to say I have seen the
woman who is now in prison--your paid agent--and that I need no
assistance to recover Ida. She is in my house."
"Confusion!"
He uttered only this word, and, rising, left the presence of the woman
whom he had so long deceived and injured.
His grand scheme had failed.