It was the afternoon of a cool, showery summer day, when Mr. Raeburn
and Mary drove through a handsome stone gateway, and up an avenue of
maples, to the fine old-fashioned mansion of Mr. Phillips. As they
stood on the steps, Mr. Raeburn noticed that Mary had been much
agitated by recognizing scenes once familiar to her baby eyes, and he
begged her to try to be calm. "Remember," he said, "we have no
positive, reliable evidence that you are the lost child of Mr. and Mrs.
Phillips. You must not suddenly proclaim yourself. They have probably
despaired so long that they will be unable to credit your story, if too
abruptly told, and any repulse would be very painful to you. Leave it
to me to let the joyful light gradually in upon their minds, and second
me when I refer to you."
"I will do so; trust me," replied Mary, in a low voice.
When the servant came to the door, Mr. Raeburn inquired for Mr.
Phillips only, thinking it best that the first communication should be
made to him alone. They were shown into a pleasant library, opening on
to a piazza by French windows, looking towards the river. Mary seated
herself on a sofa, in the most shadowed part of the room, and kept her
face hidden by a thick veil. She sat in silence, except that to her
ear the beatings of her loving, impatient heart were audible. It
seemed to her a long hour that they were kept waiting, though it was
probably not more than fifteen minutes. Then the door gently opened,
and Mr. Phillips entered. Mary half rose, then sank back, faint with
happiness, for she had recognized his face,--_it was that of her
dream-father_!
Mr. Phillips was of middle age; the dark-brown curls of his hair were
slightly tinged with silver. His face was very thoughtful, if not sad
in expression. His form was stately, and his manner courteous and
refined,--a gentleman, every inch of him.
He pleasantly greeted by name Mr. Raeburn, who then introduced his
companion as "Miss Morton." Mary rose, courtesied, and again sank into
her seat. The galloping heart was getting almost too much for
her,--she was gasping under her veil.
Mr. Phillips apologized for keeping his visitor so long waiting, and
added, "When word was brought me of your arrival, I was assisting in
carrying Mrs. Phillips from her sitting-room to her bedchamber. She is
ill."
Mary started, and a new terror seized her.
"Not seriously ill, I hope?" said Mr. Raeburn.
"No, we trust not, now; but she has been very ill from a fever, and is
still extremely delicate. She has been a good deal of an invalid for
the past fifteen years," said Mr. Phillips with a sigh.
After a plan formed that morning, Mr. Raeburn then requested the
opinion of Mr. Phillips, as a lawyer, on an important land claim in
which he was interested.
As they talked on and on, Mary still sat silent and motionless. She
was hardly impatient any longer, for had she not her father's face to
watch, and his voice to listen to?
At length there was a pause; then the two gentlemen began to talk about
the lovely scenery around them, the river, the estate, the Phillips
mansion and family, and finally Mr. Raeburn said, "I think I have
heard, Mr. Phillips, a sad story of your having once lost a little
child in some mysterious way. Perhaps at this remote day you will not
be unwilling to give me the facts of this loss."
"Certainly not, my dear sir," replied Mr. Phillips, "if you care to
hear so melancholy a tale. All I myself know can be soon told. Our
first child was a daughter,--a lovely, engaging little creature, the
very light of our eyes. She was rather delicate, and most carefully
tended and watched till she was past three years of age. Then, one
summer day, I invited my wife to accompany me to New York, where I had
business, and she had--as what woman has not?--shopping to attend to.
She hesitated, as little Mary's nurse was young and rather thoughtless,
but I over-persuaded her and she went, giving at the last moment many
charges to the young girl concerning the child.
"I remember how lovingly little Mary kissed us good by that morning,
and how, still unsatisfied, she ran after the carriage, commanding the
coachman, in a pretty, imperious way she had, to stop till she could
get another kiss. I was a little vexed, fearing we should miss the
train, yet she was obeyed, lifted up, kissed, and put down into her
nurse's arms, and that was the last we ever saw of her. How thankful I
have always been that we stopped for her good-by kiss. Many a time
since, in my sleep, I have felt that last kiss on my lips.
"We had intended to stay till the afternoon of the next day, in New
York, but at evening Mrs. Phillips grew so strangely anxious about her
baby girl, whom she had never before left for a night, that we took a
late train for home. Just as we reached our station, I noticed a New
York boat put off from the landing. I have since thought it was
possible our child was on that boat."
Here Mary could scarcely restrain herself from crying out, "She was!
she was!" but she shut her lips and clasped her hands tight, and was
still.
"When we reached home," continued Mr. Phillips, "we found all in
confusion and consternation, Our darling little one was missing! She
had not been seen since five o'clock, at which time she had been left
by her nurse fast asleep, and to all human apprehension in perfect
safety. On that day she had been allowed to have the range of the
house, and taking a freak to have her belated afternoon nap on the
drawing-room sofa, was there put to sleep.
"The nurse took the opportunity to have a little gossip with the cook
and coachman, in the kitchen, and it was a good deal more than an hour,
I believe, though she declared it was not half that time, before she
went to look after her charge. The room was empty; the low window was
open, and our bird had flown forever!
"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 butterflies. 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 advertisements,--so many
poor little homeless ones, whom nobody 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 God 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
passionate emotion, so long restrained.
Mr. Raeburn rose and softly loft the room, passing 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, passing as lightly as possible
over her early sorrows and hardships, 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 God," 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 butterfly,--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
Berkshire,--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 God 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 nobody _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, blushing, "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
circumstances 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, nobody 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 God!--"
She could not utter a word more, but she stretched out her trembling
arms, and Mary crept into them and lay on her mother's breast, the long
hunger of her heart satisfied at last!
[Illustration: Mary and her mother]
"Yes, dear, this _is_ our lost child, given back to us by a gracious
God," said Mr. Phillips. But there was no need to tell her that; she
knew all now. Kissing her darling, patting her head, and murmuring
over her sweet pet names, as though Mary were still the baby girl she
had lost, she sat for a few bewildered, rapturous moments, then sank
back in a swoon. She lay with such a smile on her lips that those
about her were little alarmed. She had only fainted under her burden
of happiness. She afterwards said that this swoon was like a trance of
heavenly joy. She revived with a sigh, thinking it all a dream,--but
we know it was n't.
I don't know that I have anything more to tell you, except that Mrs.
Phillips got well very rapidly, and did n't have to go South with the
birds that year. Joy and Love are very good physicians, though they
practice without a diploma, in defiance of medical professors and all
the college of surgeons.
Yes, one other thing. There was a great Christmas gathering at the
Phillips mansion that year. The Raeburns and Mortons were there, with
a host of Mary's uncles, aunts, and cousins, and actually two pairs of
grandparents. Only think how rich she was!
On Christmas-eve there was dancing and charade-acting, there were games
and _tableaux_ in the great hall; and last and best of all, there was
story-telling around the fragrant wood-fire in the library.
Of all the stories told that night, there was none to compare,
everybody said, with the one related by pretty Bessie Raeburn, of a
certain Christmas adventure of hers, and of what came of it.
A CHARADE
I love my _first_ on a summer eve,
Or a breezy autumn morning;
My soul bounds with it, and my heart
Laughs out, all trouble scorning.
I love it by the wild sea-beach,
When fades the sunset splendor,
And the new moon, like a fairy boat,
Sails through the sky-deeps tender.
My _second_ brings up visions sad
Of life's most fearful duty,--
Of green mounds hiding from our sight
Dear forms of youth and beauty.
My _third_, if speaking slowly, clouds
The brightest day with sadness;
If quickly, thrills the air, and wakes
The gloomiest morn to gladness.
It calls, and through the churchyard gate
A funeral is creeping;
It calls, and down the old church aisle
A bridal train is sweeping!
My _whole_ grew in a garden old,
Round which my heart still lingers;
Its azure petals formed a cup
Fit for a fairy's fingers.
_Canterbury-bell_
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Stories of Many Lands, by Grace Greenwood