"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 calledMolly, and she had not forgotten her true parents, though she called them herdreamfather 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 thatthisis 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; "Iknowyou 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 nobodycancry for him. You see, Georgie dear, I have been wicked myself, and know how to pity the erring."
"Youwicked, 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 knowexactlyhow old I am, but I think about fifteen."
"About fifteen!" repeated Mrs. Phillips, in a dreamy way, "and your nameMary. 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, likeyou, 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!
Mary and her motherMary and her mother
Mary and her motherMary and her mother
"Yes, dear, thisisour 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 andtableauxin 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.
I love myfirston a summer eve,Or a breezy autumn morning;My soul bounds with it, and my heartLaughs 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.
Mysecondbrings up visions sadOf life's most fearful duty,—Of green mounds hiding from our sightDear forms of youth and beauty.
Mythird, if speaking slowly, cloudsThe brightest day with sadness;If quickly, thrills the air, and wakesThe gloomiest morn to gladness.
It calls, and through the churchyard gateA funeral is creeping;It calls, and down the old church aisleA bridal train is sweeping!
Mywholegrew in a garden old,Round which my heart still lingers;Its azure petals formed a cupFit for a fairy's fingers.
Canterbury-bell
THE END.