VAGUE SURMISINGS.
The feeling of familiarity with the previous abode of her employer, and
its surroundings, of which Miss Owen had been conscious at first, had
become modified as the weeks went by. The removal to the new house had, no
doubt, in part contributed to this result; and, very soon, if she did not
forget the impression of revived remembrance of which she had been aware
at first, she ceased to be conscious that any trace of it remained. She
did not, indeed, forget that it had been; she remembered vividly the fact
that, when she first entered the old house, she had almost felt as if she
had come home. That feeling had now almost passed away. But she was
beginning to ponder certain things which seemed to be connected with it in
some vague way.
Though she had often been told of the circumstances under which she had
been rescued from a life of poverty and possible shame, her own
recollection of the matter was very dim. She seemed to remember a time of
great trouble, and then a sudden change, since which all had been happy
and bright; and certainly, if she had not been definitely informed of the
fact, she would never have suspected that the kind friends to whom she
owed so much were not her actual parents. That vague reminiscence of early
distress would have lingered with her as the memory of a troubled dream,
and nothing more.
Hitherto she had not been anxious for further information concerning her
parentage and early life. There were times when she felt some small
measure of dissatisfaction at the thought that she did not know who she
really was. But this feeling was held in check by the consideration that,
if her parents had been good and kind, she would probably not have been in
a position to need the loving service which had been rendered to her by
Mr. and Mrs. Burton; and she felt that she would a thousand times rather
have them for her father and mother, than be compelled to give those dear
names to such persons as it was more than likely her actual parents had
been. For the most part, therefore, she had feared, rather than hoped,
that her real father and mother might appear.
Now, however, vague surmisings were being awakened in the mind of the
young secretary. Her kind employer had mysteriously lost a little girl.
This suggested to her a new set of possibilities as to her own past. It
came to her mind that perhaps she also had been lost, and that the misery
she vaguely remembered, had been inflicted by other hands than those of
her parents. If, like little Marian, she had actually wandered away, it
was probably no fault of theirs, and perhaps they had been mourning for
her all these years. Then, almost for the first time, she was conscious of
an ardent desire to know who her parents had been. Over this question she
pondered often and long. She could do nothing more--except pray. And pray
she did. She asked that, if it were right and best, the cloud of obscurity
might be lifted from her earlier years. And yet, as day by day she
persisted in this prayer, she had a feeling that the prayer itself, and
the desire from which it proceeded, might, perhaps, constitute a species
of disloyalty to the only parents she seemed ever to have known. To this
feeling her great love and strong conscientiousness gave birth. Yet she
could neither repress her desire nor refrain from her prayer.
But there was another thing which "Cobbler" Horn had said. When his
secretary asked him what little Marian would probably be like, if she were
still alive, he, in all simplicity, and without perceiving the possible
direction that might be given to her thoughts, had replied that his lost
child, if living, would be not unlike what his secretary actually was. He
probably intended no more than that there might be a general resemblance
between the two girls; and he might be mistaken even in that. Miss Owen
herself took such a view of the matter at the time, and passed it lightly
by. But, afterwards, in the course of her ponderings, it came back again.
The unpremeditated words, in which her employer had admitted the
probability of a resemblance between herself and what his own lost child
might most likely have become, seemed to find their place amongst the
other strange things which were perplexing her mind.
Very deeply Miss Owen pondered these many puzzling things, from day to
day. A momentous possibility seemed to be dawning on her view; but she was
like one who, being but half-awake, cannot decide whether the brightness
of coming day may not, after all, be merely a dim dream-light which will
presently fade away. It appeared to her sometimes as though she were on
the verge of the momentous discovery which she had often wondered whether
she would ever make. Could it be that the mystery of her parentage was
about to be solved, and that with a result which would be altogether to
her mind? But, as often as she reached this point, she pulled herself
sharply up. Her name was Mary Ann Owen: that settled the question at once.
But was it so? There came a time when she began to have doubts even as to
her name. Perhaps the wish was father to the thought. At any rate, she had
never liked the name by which she was known; and now she was conscious of
a very definite reason for wishing that it might, in some way, turn out
not to be her name after all. Was it certain that her name was Mary Ann
Owen? She had a strange, weird feeling at the thought of what the
question implied. And there was distinct ground for doubt. When she had
been found by her adopted parents, her baby tongue, in answer to their
questioning, had pronounced her name as best it could. But, as her speech
was less distinct than is usually that of a child of her apparent years,
they had never felt quite sure about her name. The name by which she
forthwith became known to them was the best interpretation they could put
upon her broken words, and it had been accepted by the child herself
without objection; but in the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Burton there had
always been a lingering doubt. Miss Owen had been aware of this, but had
given it little heed. Now, however, the fact that there was uncertainty as
to her name came vividly to her mind. And yet, if her name was not Mary
Ann Owen, it might be something else quite as far from her desires. But
stay, might it not be supposed that her real name, whatever it might be,
was similar in sound to the name her baby tongue had been thought to
pronounce? She had tried to tell her kind friends her name; and they had
understood her to say that it was Mary Ann Owen. If they were mistaken,
what other name was there of similar sound? Ah, there was one! Then she
thrilled with almost a delirium of delight, which quickly gave place to a
guilty feeling--as though she had put forth her hand towards that which
was too sacred for her touch.
"What silly day-dreams have come into my head!" she cried.
"The Golden Shoemaker" too had his ponderings, in these days. Of late he
had been thinking more about his little Marian than for many years past;
and, if he had searched for the reason of this, he would have discovered
it in the fact that his young girl secretary daily reminded him,
in various ways, of his long lost child. Miss Owen was--or so he
fancied--very much like what his darling would have become. There was,
to be sure, not much in that, after all; and the same might have been the
case with many another young girl. But the points of resemblance between
the history of his young secretary and the early fate of his little Marian
constituted another circumstance of strange import. Like his own child,
Miss Owen had been an outcast. Kind friends had given her a home. Might it
not be that similar happiness had fallen to the lot of his little Marian?
If he could think so, he would almost be reconciled to the prospect of
never seeing her again. And every day he felt that his young secretary was
making for herself a larger place in his heart.