THE ORPHAN CHILD
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart—
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth?
That can with studied, shy, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting truth?
Curse on his perjur’d arts! —Burns.
Naught so ill
As the betrayer’s sin! salvationless
Almost. —Bailey.
The intelligence of Aylesford’s death deeply affected both Kate and
her aunt. The latter, who had lavished so much of her affection on him,
was almost inconsolable. In charity to the dead, and from respect to
Mrs. Warren’s feelings, Aylesford’s connection with Kate’s capture
was concealed from her.
“Why tear open the wounds of the past?” said Major Gordon, when
Uncle Lawrence, from what he thought justice to Kate, would have told
the whole story. “He has gone to his account, bitterly repenting,
before he died, this act at least. His aunt is childless, and had
lavished the chief stock of her love upon him; and to destroy her idol
now, will go near to breaking her heart. At least, wait until Miss
Aylesford recovers, and can be consulted.”
These arguments prevailed. When Kate’s opinion was asked, she
pronounced at once against informing her aunt. “It can do no good to
the living, and can but harm the good name of the dead. I freely forgive
him. Aunt would go pining all the rest of her days, if forced to believe
the truth of my poor cousin.”
But this abnegation on the part of our heroine, cost her many a
complaint from Mrs. Warren, who, ignorant of the true cause of Kate’s
capture, continued to insist that her niece’s temerity, in riding out
unattended, had led to all the perils which had followed. It is probable
that the good dame, if she had known that Aylesford was in chase of the
refugee boat, when shot, would have secretly laid his death at the door
of her niece.
It was long before Mrs. Warren became reconciled to her nephew’s loss.
She openly bewailed his death, as the extinction of the family name,
“for,” said she, “when you marry, Kate, you know you’ll be an
Aylesford no longer.” The cup out of which her “child,” as she now
called him, had drunk at his last breakfast; the knife and fork which he
had used; and a pair of gloves he had accidentally left on the hall
table, were carefully preserved by the old lady, and were annually drawn
from their receptacle, on the anniversary of his death, and regarded
with tears. Let us not ridicule the fond illusion of the poor creature.
She worshipped, in this sacred way, a visionary memory it is true; but
the image was a reality in her eyes and therefore dear to her.
They were so careful of her feelings that they spared her even the
knowledge of the parentage of the little girl, whom Kate had brought
home and now publicly adopted as a sister. That the child had been
instrumental in preserving our heroine’s life was the avowed reason of
this adoption; and it satisfied Mrs. Warren, though she could not help
saying, that “Kate was an odd girl, and often over, paid her debts.”
But those, who knew the true history of the orphan, were aware that
other considerations also had led to this solemn act.
The Testament, which Uncle Lawrence picked up, and which was
subsequently handed to Kate by Mrs. Herman, contained the inscription,
“Margaret Rowan, her book, A. D., 1769,” written in Aylesford’s
handwriting. The volume was evidently, therefore, the gift of Kate’s
cousin to the child’s mother, about the time when his acquaintance
with the latter commenced, and before he had, by deserting her and her
babe, brought on that broken heart of which she died. The book, as was
frequently the fashion then, was carefully covered with cloth, between
which and the original sheepskin binding Kate found a paper, the purport
of which was that “Charles Aylesford and Margaret Rowan” were
lawfully married “on the 10th of December, A. D., 1769.” On the back
of this certificate was written, however, in a tremulous, unformed
female hand, “I have proof that the within named clergyman was an
impostor,” the words being signed, “Margaret Rowan, 1773.” The
whole book, inside and out, was much thumbed and blotted with tears. It
revealed to Kate, already possessed of other facts in relation to this
early aberration of her cousin, a tale of youthful passion, deliberate
perjury, and subsequent abandonment, which made her heart yearn to the
innocent orphan more than ever.
From chance references made to her mother by the child, from what Kate
had heard formerly, and from the results of inquiries she set on foot
now, our heroine succeeded in finally filling up the outlines of this
humble tragedy, which, if it could have had a Shakespeare to narrate it,
might have moved nations and generations, instead of making but a faint
echo in its little circle, and then dying away forever. Aylesford, when
still a youth comparatively, had met and loved the reduced and orphan
daughter of a British officer, who, dying in America, towards the close
of the old French war, had left his child and wife penniless strangers
in a foreign land. The mother had soon followed the father, and the
daughter being left destitute, had sunk into a subordinate position.
When Aylesford first met her she was only sixteen, innocent in every
thought, and a mere child in her knowledge of life. Occupying the place
of a seamstress, in the house of a wealthy female connexion of the
Aylesfords, she was thrown in the way of the young man, and readily
bestowed her affections on one so much superior in outward bearing to
other persons of his age and sex whom she had met. Aylesford had but
little difficulty in persuading her to give him a right to elevate her
from her dependent position; but he brought forward the prejudices of
his family as a reason for having the marriage secretly performed. He
chose this method of betraying his victim, because he knew that a false
priest could easily be procured, and because he was aware that in no
other way could he carry out his base designs on this friendless girl.
Accordingly Arrison, who had been the Mephistopheles of this tragedy all
along, procured a tool to play the part of a clergyman; and the
unsuspecting Margaret became a victim, where she fondly believed she was
to be a wife.
More than a year, however, elapsed before she discovered the perfidy to
which she had been sacrificed. But when, after the birth of her child,
Aylesford’s passion began to cool, Arrison surprised her by insulting
proposals, which, on her indignantly rejecting them, and adding that she
would expose him to her husband, led to an avowal from the ruffian of
the true position in which she stood. She lost no time in charging
Aylesford with the deed; a violent altercation ensued, and the sated
young man, not sorry for an excuse to quarrel, parted from her forever.
We draw a veil over years that followed. The deserted, heart-broken
creature, whom common rumor said had consented to marry Arrison, would
not even see that person, but hiding herself from all eyes, sought to
earn a humble livelihood by her needle. But the blow, which had ruined
all her bright hopes, had undermined her health forever. She was not
fitted, either physically or otherwise, to struggle with adversity. From
the hour that she learned she was not a wife, she faded slowly but
surely. After a few years of severe toil, rendered necessary to obtain
food for herself and child, she found herself on the bed of death.
At this crisis, the pride, which had made her reject pecuniary
assistance from Aylesford, gave way in view of the approaching
destitution of her child. She penned a letter to her betrayer, which
would have moved a heart of stone, and which induced him, though he had
long since forgotten her, and though he had sworn, when she first
declined his money, never to give her or her babe a farthing, to propose
supporting the orphan. He would not consent, however, even to do this,
unless the child should pass for Arrison’s niece. An annual stipend,
promised to his uncle’s former servant, secured the co-operation of
the latter. To these cruel terms the dying mother was compelled to
accede. Deserted by all the world, she was fain to charge her child to
remain with Arrison.
But trembling for the influences the orphan would be brought under, she
besought the little one to remember what she had taught of God, and to
read, at least once a day, the Testament, her only legacy, which she
placed in the daughter’s hands. Perhaps the dying mother would have
declined the proffered aid altogether, if it had not been for a secret
hope that when Aylesford knew the child he would become interested in
it. But this expectation was never realized. Aylesford studiously
avoided seeing the friendless orphan, and only remembered her existence
when called on to pay her annual stipend.
With these facts before her, no wonder that Kate loved that orphan so
much. The mother’s wrongs, not less than the child’s sufferings,
appealed to our heroine’s heart. “Little Maggy,” as she called her
protege, repaid these feelings with a fervor that was beautiful to see.
Never having had any one to love since she lost her mother, the child
fairly worshipped our heroine.
Kate took pleasure in instructing the orphan, and in watching the rapid
unfolding of this youthful intellect, which promised to be one of rare
and precocious power. Yet often a sigh rose to our heroine’s lips, as
she thought of the future destiny of her protege, for in that day, even
more than in this, such children suffered for the parent’s sin; and
Kate foresaw that the cruel sneer, the whispered remark, the cold
avoidance, would be almost death to the sensitive nature of little
Maggy.
Meanwhile the family at Sweetwater went into mourning for Aylesford, and
the marriage of Kate, which otherwise would have taken place
immediately, was postponed until the spring. There was a town house in
Philadelphia, belonging to the family, and thither it was resolved that
they should remove for the winter, partly because Kate wished her
protege to have the benefit of teachers, who could not be obtained at
Sweetwater, and partly for reasons connected with her large property.
In one particular, the arrangement was fortunate for the lovers, for,
about this time, Major Gordon received an appointment in the metropolis.
While these events had been transacting, the British expedition, which
burned the Neck, having found itself thwarted in the further measures it
proposed, had returned to New York. Count Pulaski, though arriving too
late to prevent the destruction of the prizes, succeeded in intimidating
the enemy, who abandoned the field, being able to pluck no more laurels
except the surprising of a picket, about thirty in number, whom they
slaughtered in cold blood. In retiring, the man-of-war which accompanied
the expedition grounded in the inlet, when the British, finding they
could not get her off, set fire to her, lest she should fall into the
hands of the Americans. It was amid the derisive cheers of the patriots,
and the echoes of her guns, which went off as they became heated, that
the royal troops finally stood out to sea, and took their way,
crest-fallen, towards Sandy Hook. They had, indeed, burned a few
store-houses, given some thirty dismantled prizes to the torch, and
ravaged one or two inconsiderable patriot settlements; but they had
failed of the great object of their undertaking, the seizure of the
privateers, and had lost the most valuable ship of their flotilla.
Taught by the result of this enterprise, they never again vexed the
neighborhood, though it continued to be a thorn in their side to the
very last month of the war.
This is the proper place to mention that one of the refugees who had
escaped into the swamp, was captured the day subsequent to his flight,
on his coming forth to seek some food; and that, it being proved that he
had committed many atrocities, which brought him within the pale of the
law, he was condemned to be hung. The sentence was executed at the
Forks, and to this day, as a superstitious tradition goes, his ghost
haunts the spot where he expiated his crimes.