THE GOLDEN CLASP RELINKED.
Lillian Hamilton followed her guide with unsteady step along the hall
toward the little front parlor where her heart was to take up the broken
link which had been for so many years severed in the chain of her
eventful life; and her thoughts stood still with a mingled sensation of
awe and fear, as her shrinking feet bore her forward to the relinking.
The door opened, and opposite on a sofa sat two young people, evidently
in close conversation. Lillian stepped back.
"'Make omens, go make omens,' Crazy Dimis once said, you remember." It
was Willie who was speaking, but Mrs. Gaylord interrupted him.
"Omens will make themselves sometimes without our help, my boy. Lily,
dear Lily, the hour has come for you to gather them." Mrs. Hamilton
stepped forward into the room. "Here is a lady, my child, who wants to
see you," and she motioned Willie to come to her as she darted back into
the hall. Without a moment's hesitation, the boy dropped from his seat
and sped across the floor after his usual manner, for the old timidity
had left him during his years in Boston; but the tearful eyes of the
visitor were upon him.
When the door closed Lily said, "Did I understand that you wanted to see
me?" She had risen from the sofa, and now stood before the new-comer,
her large, dreamy eyes full of wonder and amazement.
"Lily Pearl!" fell from the quivering lips in a low minor strain, as the
mother bird cries for its lost. "Lily Pearl! My Lily! My baby!" and the
pleading arms were outstretched. With a shriek of excitement and joy the
young girl sprang forward, and the head was once more pillowed on on the
breast where so many years ago in infancy it had rested for a few short
moments.
"My mother! It is, it must be, my mother!" Tears such as seldom moisten
woman's eyes fell in a baptismal shower on the beautiful face that lay
so lovingly over the wildly throbbing heart, where the sweet flowers of
God's purest affections had blossomed, faded, died. The minutes flew
past on airy wings, and still the mother and daughter remained clasped
in each other's arms, and heart pulsated against heart, and life mingled
itself with life, until parent and child were bound together, never to
be rudely torn asunder until the icy hand of death should break the
welded link. Raising the head tenderly, she looked into the lovely face
long and lovingly. "Pearl's noble brow and expressive mouth," she said
at last. "But they were right; you have your mother's eyes, my darling.
May they never weep such hopeless tears as have mine."
"Who is 'Pearl,' Mother? And who am I?" The dreamy eyes had put away
their beams of ecstacy, and the old wondering light had come back as she
asked these questions, "Who am I? And who is Pearl?"
[Illustration: MEETING OF LILY PEARL AND HER MOTHER.]
"You shall know all, _everything_, my child; but my heart is too full of
its present joy to relish the thought of bringing up the hateful past
for one moment. But you must know. 'Pearl' is my husband and your
father, and a truer or nobler man never lived. We were married before I
was as old as you, my darling, while a school girl in Philadelphia, but
my mother, who was proud and aspiring, looked with disfavor upon our
union, for he was the son of a poor widow. And coming on from her
southern home she compelled me by her resistless power to go with her,
leaving the idol of my young heart behind--forever as she intended, but
it has proved otherwise. In 'Cliff House,' by the sea, you were born;
and as I clasped you to my heart, overflowing with maternal love, I
said, 'She shall be called Lily-Pearl (_our_ names combined), and then
they took you from me, and days after, when reason and consciousness
returned, I was told that my beautiful Lily had been 'transplanted to a
purer clime,' and my soul was desolate. We traveled in Europe, and every
pleasure that could be gleaned from social life and the pleasures of
sight-seeing were thrown into my years, yet my heart was unsatisfied. I
loved Pearl Hamilton; the little life that had sprung from our union had
grievously torn my own in the severing, and nothing could heal the
wound. Added to this was the continuous suspicion that a bitter wrong
had been done me. The more I thought it over and reviewed the attending
circumstances, the more did this suspicion fasten itself upon my soul. I
accused my mother of treachery, attempted to draw from her some
explanations regarding certain things, but her superior power always
succeeded in silencing my wailing cry, and time rolled on. It was by
accident that I heard of a Mrs. Gaylord's adopted daughter. George St.
Clair, whom my mother had insisted upon my accepting as her son-in-law,
joined the army about the time that I left my home under a mother's
curse. With an aunt in New Orleans I found refuge. Here I conceived the
idea of drowning my long-endured sorrows in the engrossing cares of the
hospitals. Almost a year ago, while nursing my husband, who had been
badly wounded, George St. Clair was brought in, who also had been laid
aside from duty by a fearful wound. From his sister, who had come to
nurse him, I heard the sad story of your disappearance and probable
loss."
Lily had slipped from her mother's knee, and, sitting at her feet, was
gazing intently into the dear face, as the dear voice ceased. "Tell me,
O, tell me!" she exclaimed, pushing back her dark hair with the old
childhood's gesture: "Is Mrs. Belmont your mother, and my--"
"Yes, darling; but notwithstanding all, you shall see and will forgive
her! Think, my dear, how strangely we have been led together! Had it not
been for that terrible experience I might never have heard of Mrs.
Gaylord's adopted daughter, or the resemblance between us. Then how
strange was it that, in my first burst of bliss, with feeble hands, not
knowing what I did, I should have fastened to your fluttering,
struggling life the cord that was to draw us together after so many
years of separation! I had called you 'Lily-Pearl,' and the strange
appellation could not be lost! Sixteen years afterward, the end of this
unbroken cord was again put into my hands, and with a continuous
yearning it has brought us together. Old Vina was right! 'De Lord will
take care ob His childerns, neber fear!' I know you have many questions
to ask and there is much to be told you, but, darling, Mrs. Gaylord and
your friend will desire to come back to their room and we must not
exclude them. First tell me, how is it that he is called your brother?
How did you come here when you were left somewhere on the Maryland
shore?"
"Because of my love for the sea and my desire to get out upon the waves
'where the pearls had thrown me, and my beautiful mother had picked me
up.' When lying in my trundle bed one night I heard my foster parents
talking about 'the five hundred dollars' that had been paid them, and
laughed as one said, 'I guess her mother would not think her much of a
'Lily-Pearl' could she see her now.' Lily-Pearl! I asked Maria about it,
and she told me that my beautiful mother had cast me off and hers had
taken me in, and I ought to love her. But the pretty story grew in my
little heart until it became a part of it, and I lived and loved the sea
for its sake. I was a pearl, and had grown down where the pearls grew
and the waves talked to me about it, and one day as I was wandering on
the beach I sprang into a boat and floated out on the billows where I
had so longed to go. I was happy, and sang and played with the bright
sunbeams on the waters until the night came and a storm arose; and O how
the billows roared and the winds howled! My beautiful dream of happiness
was gone, and I sank down into the wet, dirty boat, for the rain to
pelt and the salt waves to dash over me. I do not know when it was, but
Willie's father found me. On board his ship we came to Boston. Upon its
arrival he took me to his home, only a little way from here, where I was
to be a companion to his crippled boy, who has been the dearest brother
to me ever since. He is four years older than I. His mother before she
died gave him to me and told me never to leave him, but his sister Fanny
did not like my being there for her to support, and so I went away. Mr.
Ernest, the pastor of the church yonder, told Mrs. Gaylord about me, and
I came here to read to her; here you have found me. But, Mother, I can
never forget or forsake him. It was he who taught me to seek knowledge
and read good books and love God; all I am he put it into my heart to
be."
"My dear child, your mother would have you cherish tenderly these early
tokens of love. But call your friends, darling, and let us talk together
of what must be. It is hard after all I have experienced to compel my
hand to sever a single earthly tie; but what can be done to lighten the
blow shall not be withheld."
It took days to clear away the mysteries and shadows and dig thorns out
of the path where so many feet were to walk unitedly, although not
together at all times under the sunshine and the clouds; but at last the
work was done and Mrs. Hamilton was to return to Philadelphia alone, as
she had come. Here she was to meet her husband and break to him the
joyful tidings that the dead was alive and the lost found. Here also she
was to make ready for her daughter's reception as soon as the cold winds
of autumn should sweep down from the north, and Mrs. Gaylord desired to
return to her southern home.
"I shall have no wish to remain here alone," was her plaintive
conclusion when the results were being finally talked over. "No more
music lessons or German from poor Mrs. Rouche, Lily, and another heart
will grieve at your going."
"Better so than to have any one sorrow at my coming," and Lily's happy
face beamed with joy. "You will remain a few days longer?" she pleaded,
breaking a short silence, and the wistful eyes seconded the petition.
"Until after the sabbath," was Mrs. Hamilton's quiet response. "Somehow
I have a fancy to go to that little church yonder; it reminds me so much
of one I attended in the suburbs of a Scottish village. And then too,
darling, I have been thinking I must have your full length photograph to
show your father on my return, for it will be hard to make him believe
my story without this pretty face to corroborate it." And she patted the
full-rounded cheek fondly. "If Mrs. Gaylord will favor me with hers I
will be very glad to be its possessor."
"Do you not want Willie's?" The mother smiled.
"Are you so jealous for your friend? Certainly I do want his just as I
saw it yesterday when coming up to the door of the hotel--carriage,
Rover and all. It was a beautiful picture, and I have no desire that it
should fade from my memory. But we are to ride to his home after dinner,
I believe. Will the sister give me welcome? I must thank her for the
part she has taken in the preservation of my child!"
Mrs. Hopkins met them at the gate, for she had become pleased with the
frequent visits of her stylish acquaintance at the hotel,
notwithstanding her indignation at the interference in regard to her
wishes as to "Phebe's" remaining "where she could make herself useful";
but that was passed, and to-day she was smiling and genial. When the
carriage stopped Lily called out: "Where is Willie?"
"Down by the pond, I suppose; he went out immediately after dinner."
"Go with me, Mother, will you? It is lovely, and I want you to see the
spot where I have spent so many hours listening to the waves as they
came around the sand-bar."
Mrs. Hamilton consented, and the ladies alighted while Lily was saying,
"Fanny, my mother has come to thank you for all your kindness and care
of her child for so many years. Mrs. Colonel Hamilton--my mother!"
This introduction was given hurriedly and with a tremulous voice. The
lady extended her hand to the astonished Fanny, who took it in her own
without a word. Her eyes turned to the face of Mrs. Gaylord, who
answered the inquiring look.
"Did Willie not tell you? It is true the drifting waif has found a home
and loving friends who have long mourned for her, and her days of
orphanage are over."
There were tears in Fanny's eyes, and Lily, wishing to turn the current
of thought, said playfully, "It was by this gate that my little bare
feet entered alone to reconnoitre in advance of my guide, to hand over
the information that I did not like to scour knives or wash potatoes,
and I 'wouldn't do it either!'"
"You were very good to take in my poor child and give her shelter so
long, while my heart was breaking to find her. I have a great debt of
gratitude to pay, and if I can cancel the obligations due for any
expense she may have been to you or yours, nothing would give me greater
pleasure than to do so."
Mrs. Hopkins found her voice now, and with great distinctness informed
the lady that there was no debt to pay, either of gratitude or money.
"Willie told me that 'Phebe' had found a friend, and I was glad, but did
not know that a mother had come to take her away from us forever." Here
she broke down, and, turning, hid her face in her hands.
"Not forever, my dear Mrs. Hopkins, for while we both shall live the
friends of these dark days shall not be forgotten or forsaken."
Lily had placed an arm about the weeping woman, as she whispered "Fanny,
you do not know how much I love you. I have given you any amount of
trouble, have been selfish and indolent, oftentimes grieving you with my
bad temper and willful ways. Will you forgive me?"
She did not speak, but an arm gently stole around the neck of the
suppliant, while the ladies looked on with moistened eyes.
Then Lily said, "Under the white marble yonder lies Fanny's mother and
my friend. She loved us both, and if she were here now her soft, blue
eyes would brighten with my great joy." She had turned toward her mother
as she said this, and her own beautiful orbs glistened as she talked.
Fanny bent her head, and for the first time in all the years kissed the
glowing face of the poor "little Phebe." "You are the one to forgive,"
she said, bluntly. "I have been cold and harsh, but it was not because I
did not want you. The years have been lonely ones with you away, and I
could not be reconciled to your leaving us after once more being thrown
back into my home; and you are going to return no more."
"No, Fanny; we will ever be sisters, and you must come to me. Besides,
we will have time to talk this over, for I am to remain through the
summer with Mrs. Gaylord, and will visit you many times. My dear mother,
let us go to the lake for Willie while Mrs. Gaylord rests herself in the
cool parlor." And the two walked together down through the garden to the
meadow brook, thence under the pines, where the carpet of fragrant
leaves lay soft and smooth, until reaching the summit of the gentle
slope, Lily espied the object of her search stretched out upon the green
grass under the old oak tree, where he had often watched her fragile
form in the little open boat as she gleefully pulled the long-stemmed
lily from the clear waters, where the 'pearls were holding it fast,'
until she was hidden from his view by the thick cloud of scalding tears
that had welled up from his desolate heart. Lily remembered it all now,
as she stood for a moment and looked at him.
"You do not know how sorry I am for him," she said, turning her eyes
full upon her companion. "He will be very lonely without me."
"My child, tell me truly, do you love Willie Evans?"