CHAPTER 1.
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Twenty years ago, in one of the rooms of the "Mansion House," which formerly stood in Fourth Street, Philadelphia, late in the afternoon of an autumn day — a pale faced, distressed looking woman, apparently about thirty years of age, was moving about with a restlessness that showed her mind to be in a state of much agitation.
She had been beautiful, and beauty still threw its waning light over features which were in outline, almost classically perfect. But, life's painful experiences had deeply marred a countenance that must have once possessed fascinations of no ordinary character. Strong emotion had left many traces there; and the tide of passion — it might be evil passion — had swept away its soft and gentle undulations. All was sharp and angular; while the sunken, restless eye, shone with a stranger light.
Once or twice, as she moved about the chamber, she clasped her hands suddenly together, as if the subject of her thoughts had become more painful; glancing upwards, at the same time, with an evident appeal to Heaven for strength to bear an insupportable burden.
It was evident, from the manner of the woman, that she was in expectation of someone, for, every now and then, she would listen to the sound of footsteps along the passages, and pause, almost breathlessly, as they occasionally neared the door of her room. At length, there was a low rap, and a tidy, intelligent looking girl, whose appearance showed that she was a servant in the house, entered.
"Have you seen them?" was the quick, eager question of the lady, whose manner, as she awaited an answer, became still more agitated.
"I have," was the simple reply, made in a tone that blended interest with sadness and sympathy.
"Well?" There was an increased eagerness in the lady's voice and air.
"I met them in Chestnut Street, above Tenth, in company with a nurse. They were returning from a walk, and I followed them all the way home."
"Ada and Herbert?" murmured the lady, in a low voice that was full of tenderness.
"Yes," returned the girl.
"My sweet angel! Did you look into her precious face?"
"Oh yes."
"Into her deep, heavenly eyes? Oh, Alice! Tell me! Did she look happy?"
"She had always a happy face," said the girl, evasively.
"I know she is not happy! She cannot be happy without her mother!" exclaimed the lady, passionately. "Oh! what a cruel wrong to tear her from me! Cruel! cruel! cruel! Heaven forgive him!"
Overcome by a rush of strong feelings, the lady covered her face and sobbed for some moments, while her whole body was strongly agitated. Growing calmer, she looked up and asked, with returning interest —
"And Herbert, Alice? What of my lovely boy? Does he look as when I parted with him a few months ago? Tell me about him, Alice. — Oh, that your eyes had been mine when they looked upon my children!"
"He is little changed," replied the girl, — "very little."
"Is his face as bright as when — as — as when — "
"As bright and fair and noble as when you saw him last," said Alice.
"I wonder if they are kind to them — if they bear with their little faults! Ada is sometimes fretful, and her father never had much patience with her. He was always more disposed to rule by authority, than by love — to break, rather than seek patiently to bend."
"I don't believe they are ill treated, ma'am," replied the girl. "I'm sure they are not. They look bright and happy."
"And separated from their mother!"
The thought seemed to awaken a new pang in the bosom of the mother; and, as if measuring its intensity, while she nerved herself to bear it — she sat still and statue-like, for nearly the space of a minute. Then she said, in a calmer voice —
"Do you know the person who was with them?"
The girl shook her head.
"How did you like her looks?"
"Not much."
"You are still ready to serve me, Alice? You do not repent your promise?" said the lady, fixing her eyes intently upon the girl's face.
"I am ready to do all for you, Mrs. Waverly, that I promised," was the earnest reply. "All, and more than all. My heart was with you from the beginning, and is with you now. It was a cruel wrong to tear your children from you; and, if I can help you to their recovery, you shall have my best efforts in the good cause."
"Thank you, from my heart, Alice!" returned Mrs. Waverly, as she was called by the girl; and, with an involuntary action, she seized her hand and clasped it for a few moments tightly.
"How about your place here?" she asked, after a brief silence.
"It must be given up," was the prompt answer. You said that you would take rooms at old Mrs. Grafton's?"
"I thought of doing so. But, can she be trusted?"
"I think she can."
"There must be no doubt in the matter. If we are betrayed — then all future efforts may be rendered entirely unavailing."
"Let me see her first. I will talk with her about your separation from your children, and learn how she feels by this time. I know how she felt six months ago."
"Don't mention that I am in the city."
"I will not do so in the beginning. But, if I find all right, I will arrange for a couple of rooms in her house; one for you and one for myself. We can live there as secluded as we like."
"How impatient I am to see them and clasp them in my arms again!" exclaimed Mrs. Waverly, starting to her feet and walking hurriedly for a short time about the room. Her thoughts had run far in advance of the arrangements proposed to be made, even to the fruition of her eager desires.
Alice made no response to this outburst of feeling, but remained silent until she perceived that it had exhausted itself, when she said —
"What we have to do, should be done quickly. I will go at once to Mrs. Grafton, and learn how she feels."
"Be very discreet, Alice! Remember how much is at stake," returned Mrs. Waverly.
"I will not forget, ma'am. Do not fear me." And, as Alice said this, she withdrew from the room.
Left to herself, every muscle relaxed — Mrs. Waverly sank back, almost nerveless, upon the sofa where she was sitting. But, if her body was but half animate, her mind was active. For a while she remained as still as if sleeping. Then, there was a slight motion of her head and hands, and she said, in a half audible undertone —
"I have looked into the eyes that but a little while before, looked upon their precious forms, and in their sweet young faces! For even this I am thankful. And I am near them, too — in the same city, and their feet, perchance, have touched the very pavement on which I walked this day, it may be but an hour before!"
The lady now sat upright, still continuing to give utterance to her thoughts.
"I can bear this separation no longer. It would kill me. I look at myself in the mirror, but, am so changed that I do not recognize the image. They tore my children from me — bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh — as if I had not a single heart emotion left; as if I were a thousand times less human than they have made the world believe me! Crushed and humbled, I lay, where they had thrown me aside, powerless, for a time, with only the low throbbing of my suffering heart to give sign of the life within me. I was, in the eyes of my accusers and executioners, unworthy to consort with the innocent ones to whom I had given being, and they tore them from my natural arms — but could not take them from the clasping arms of my heart! Near, very near to my heart they have since lain — precious treasures! They could not take them from my affections, nor their dear images from my thoughts. And now I have come to secure full possession of what I have lost. Nature claims her own, and she must have it. There is but one thing for me to do in life, but one hope to be realized. I care for nothing beside. I must gather my dear ones on my bosom again, in defiance of all opposition. And I will do it — or die in the attempt!"
By this time the excitement of Mrs. Waverly's mind had become so great, that she could no longer sit still, but arose up and moved, as she had done before, with agitated steps about the room.
More than an hour elapsed before the girl came back.
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