A FAIRY CHANGELING.
"Mark! Mark! it is a child, a poor forsaken baby," said Patty, stooping
down and gathering into her womanly arms the weeping waif-fragment of
the seething sea of humanity so strangely drifted to her door. "A child!
Dear Heaven! such a very little child!"
She hurried into the kitchen and laid the bundle on the table in the
circle of lamplight, and with careful, eager fingers, began to loosen
the wrappings.
"A child!" said Mark, amazed and dull--"a child!"
Then with sudden anger he cried out:
"A child, to the homeless! A child to us, who will not be able to care
for our own--a child for forced exiles! Why did they not carry it to the
poor-house? There, at least, it might have stayed!"
"Hush, dear!" said Patty. "God only asks of us duty for to-day. To-night
we have a home, and can take the stranger in. God will take care of it
to-morrow."
"Not that I grudge the poor little wretch," said Mark, looking over his
wife's shoulder.
Patty unpinned the tartan shawl, and snugly wrapped within lay a little
babe; a delicate veil covered the small face within the lace and satin
cap, and Patty lifted in motherly hands one of the most singularly
lovely infants that sun had ever looked upon. Dimpled, snow-white, with
exquisitely molded features, and neck and hands; soft rings of golden,
silken hair, a faint perfume of costly odors breathing from its
garments.
Patty's tender heart melted at the divine innocence, loveliness,
helplessness of the little one, and raising the rosebud face to her own,
she kissed it softly again and again.
This motion caused the white cashmere cloak to fall back, and Mark gave
a cry at some dark thing broadly pinned against the quilted satin
lining.
As his wife kissed the babe, murmuring: "Little, lovely angel! Who sent
you? Who could abandon you?" Mark unpinned this object and held it near
the light. Then he gave such a cry that his wife, clasping the babe
closer, turned to him in alarm. In his shaking hand he held a packet of
bank-notes. He cried out:
"Patty! Patty! Did God send this? See! Just the amount of my debt!
Patty! Patty! am I safe? Is this ours?"
"How much is there?" she demanded, breathlessly.
"Twenty fives! A hundred pounds!"
"Mark, just what we owe?"
"Just that. Oh, Patty, we are saved!"
He staggered to a seat, white and weak, and then, first, Patty realized
what his anguish of soul had been. The strong young farmer shook like a
reed; drops of perspiration rolled over his face.
"But is it ours?" demanded Patty, sitting down also, and beginning to
unfasten the baby's cap and cloak.
"See if there is anything more--any message--any word--quick--oh, Patty,
Patty. I am weak!"
Patty rose up, stroked his cheek, kissed him, said: "Courage, Mark!
Heaven has helped us!" and then she set to searching the child.
On the lace bosom of the little dress was sewed a letter. She unfastened
it and held it to her husband.
"You read it, Mark. I am so frightened, my eyes are dim. See, it is to
us; it says on the outside--'TO MARK AND PATTY BRACE.'"
Mark restrained himself, and as Patty softly rocked the child to and fro
on her breast, he read aloud:
"To you a most sorrowful mother sends this little child. You
have never seen that mother, probably you never will; but she
has heard of you--of honest Mark Brace and Patty Brace, his
kind, good wife. Oh, be tender to this little child, deprived
of father and of mother. Be patient with it; think how its
mother's heart ached at parting: think of your own little
child. Let this baby be yours, and your child's sister. It is
lovely and white as an angel. Will you try to keep its soul
white and pure, and bring it up simply, like your own, just
to be good? There is a little mark on the right shoulder--a
little red leaf. But I may never be able to claim my own
again. Then let it be yours, and rear it, as you will answer
for it to God. With the child the mother sends you a hundred
pounds, and every year will send you the same. This is a
child of noble blood and honest birth. Its mother prays you,
for the sake of mercy and pity, to make no effort to find
her. Never show this letter, never try to learn the child's
surname; her Christian name is DORIS. Will you say you have
taken charge of the child for a lady who has gone abroad? Say
only that, and night and day a heart's best prayers will go
up for you, who are good to little Doris."
Mark and Patty looked at each other in silence.
"Oh, Mark! you doubted--doubted God and prayer!"
"Did I? May God pardon me--I was wild with misery!"
"Whose child can this be?" said Patty.
"Patty," said Mark, "if we use this money, as we must and shall, it is
part of a bargain, you know--a bargain to keep the child tenderly and
faithfully, and make no effort to discover who sends it. We must keep
faith."
"It will be very easy to be loving and tender to such a lovely baby,"
said Patty. "Look, did you ever see anything so wonderful, so beautiful,
in all your life?"
"Fair as an angel," said Mark, gently kissing the wee white hand. "God
bless the baby, the little angel baby that saved us."
"A hundred a year! This is very much money, just for keeping one little
child," said Patty.
"We must pay ourselves what is fair, and keep the rest to educate the
child, or make her dower."
"And we must keep her soul white and fair. The letter says, we are to
train her like our own, Mark."
"Only, Patty, it is a child of noble blood, and if, some day, the mother
claims her, she must not be ashamed of the child, Patty."
"Oh, Mark!" cried Patty, in terror, "suppose the mother is in all this
storm? Go, Mark--take a light and look for her. Do go!"
"She cannot possibly be lingering here, Patty."
"Oh, Mark, she is no doubt waiting to see what we will do. I am sure I
saw her looking in the window before I took Mattie to bed."
Mark took a lantern from its hook by the chimney-side, and went out into
the storm. There was no trace of any one. The gate was fastened, no
foot-print marked the gravel walk; nothing but sighing wind and plashing
rain filled the darkness. He returned to the house.
"There is no one. Whoever was here has done the errand and gone. I
cannot believe it yet, Patty. My debt is paid! my home is saved! I shall
live where my fathers lived, and die where they died; and all by means
of _this little child_. I feel as if I could never love it enough!"
Patty looked at the babe on her arm. She cried:
"How could a mother give up such a lovely creature! I would rather die!
Oh, poor mother! Mark, a heart has broken to-night in this storm."
"I wonder if the poor soul was married?" said Mark.
"She must have been! Look at the letter, Mark. It is the letter of a
good woman. She wants the child's soul kept white and pure. A wicked
woman would think of the body, but not of the soul!"
The child opened its eyes--eyes like spring violets, softly blue. It
stirred uneasily. Patty went for milk to feed it.
"There are no clothes with it, Mark. Whoever knew us to write to us,
knew about little Mattie, and expected us to let this baby wear her
clothes, and be reared just like our own."
She went for a night-dress that had been worn by Mattie a year before,
and taking off the infant's rich clothes, put on instead the simple
little gown. About the child's neck was a gold chain, with a locket; in
the locket was a tress of curly golden hair, and one of dark shining
brown.
"Mark," said Patty, "let us put the letter and the locket and these rich
clothes away. Some day they may be needed to show whose child this is."
Mark folded the articles together and locked them in a strong box, which
for years had held the especial valuables of the owners of Brackenside
Farm. Never before had such singular treasures been placed among those
simple rustic relics.
"Now," said Patty. "I shall take this baby up and put her in Mattie's
trundle bed; they are sisters now."
She carried the wee stranger up-stairs and laid it by her own little
daughter. Mark held the light.
"There is a great difference between them," said Patty, as she looked at
the two little ones in the same bed. "It is not only that one is two
years and one is two months, but one looks like a child of the nobles,
the other like a child of the people."
"The people are the bone and sinew of the land, and the heart, too,"
said Mark, sturdily. "I don't believe a mother of the people would give
such a baby away in this fashion. You note my words, wife; it is
_pride_, rank pride, that has cast this child out among strangers."
Patty sighed, still looking at the children. Little Doris, a jewel
child, pearly skin, golden hair and brows, and a little red mouth like a
thread of rubies; Mattie, brown, plump, sturdy, child of soil, wind, and
sun.
"I like my own best," said Mark, bravely, "if she is not half so fair.
Our Mattie has what will last all her life--a warm, true, honest little
heart in her strong little body."
"Of course you will like our own best," said Patty half offended. "It
would be a fine story if the coming of this little beauty could crowd
our girl out of the first place in our hearts."
"I wonder if they will love each other," said Mark.
"Of course they will, as they are to be sisters," said Patty, with
edifying faith in humanity.
"And I wonder if she will love us?"
"Surely, since we are to be her parents, and will be always kind and
faithful to her."
"I hope so," said Mark, shaking his head; "but there are some things,
Patty, that do not mix well--as, say, oil and water--and belike blood
will tell, and this little lady will not take to our homely ways.
Besides, we shall always be considering how much is due her for that
hundred pounds a year; and I, for one, will always be remembering how
she came like a little angel to save a home that is like my heart's
blood to me."
Then they went down-stairs, leaving the dark child and the fair child
sleeping together.