CHAPTER 14.
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"Yes, sir. I've no intention of leaving your house tonight."
A few moments Mr. Waverly stood irresolute, and then sprang into the carriage, ordering the the driver to take him to the Mansion House.
"Did a woman come here tonight with a child?" he asked of Mr. Headley, whom he met on entering the hotel. His agitated manner caused the proprietor to look at him with some surprise; but he answered promptly,
"No, sir."
"Are you sure?"
"Entirely so, sir."
"You had a lady here a few days ago from Baltimore?"
"A Mrs. Williams?"
"No, not Mrs. Williams, Mrs. Wa — "
But Mr. Waverly checked himself.
"She was in deep mourning," said Mr. Headley.
"The same, I presume. Did she leave your house in company with a girl named Alice?"
"She did."
"And has she not returned tonight?"
"No, sir."
"O, sir, she has robbed me of one of my children!" exclaimed the wretched man.
"She is not here, sir, you may rely upon it."
"If she comes, will you detain her, and send me word immediately. Here's my card."
"I will, certainly," replied the landlord, as he scrutinized the card. The moment he saw Mr. Waverly's name, he was no longer in doubt as to the meaning of what had just passed. The painful history of Mr. Waverly's divorce, was too fresh in his mind.
"Where shall I drive you?" inquired the coachman, as Mr. Waverly resumed his seat in the carriage.
"Home," was replied, after a long silence. And back to his home he went.
At nine o'clock, Mr. Waverly was at the Baltimore depot in Market Street, where he remained until the cars were filled with passengers, and then moved away. But, those he sought so anxiously did not appear, and he turned away with a still more painful heart-sickness than he had yet felt.
The next thing to be done, was to provide for the arrest of the mother and child, if the former should attempt to leave in any one of the early trains or steamboats on the next morning. To this end, Mr. Waverly called upon the mayor, who, after fully hearing and comprehending the case, ordered a policeman to each of the points from which cars or boats started.
Nothing further could be done that night, and so Mr. Waverly returned to his dwelling, to pass the hours till morning, in a state of uncertainty and anguish most painful to endure.
Sometimes, as he walked the floor of his chamber, bitter maledictions against the once lovely and cherished partner of his bosom, were upon his lips; and, sometimes, as images of the happy past arose before his mind, his heart would soften towards her with human pity, and tears dim his eyes, and tremble upon his eyelids.
Towards morning, he threw himself, exhausted, upon his bed and slept; and, in his sleep there came a pleasant dream of the old and happy time when his wife leaned upon his bosom, and his arms were thrown lovingly around both of his children and their mother. From this sweet vision of love and innocence, he startled up suddenly. It was broad daylight. A heavy groan came up from his bosom. Then he sprang from the bed, and made hurried preparations to renew the search for his absent child.
The act of Mrs. Waverly was altogether premeditated. What Alice had said about the indifference of Herbert concerning his mother, and the eager interest felt by Ada in her absent parent — had materially changed the current of her thoughts. And when the girl informed her that she could not bring Herbert to see her on the next day, the purpose of escaping with only her daughter, first formed itself in her mind. The more she dwelt upon this, the clearer did it seem to her, as the right course to take. With both of the children in her possession, it would be harder to escape, than if she had but one, and that the younger. Besides, Herbert might not be happy with her. Moreover, it would be dividing the children — letting the father have the son, and the mother the daughter.
"This," said she, "is natural justice, if not legal. Yes; let Herbert remain, at least for the present. He does not think of me, nor care for me. But Ada's heart is sick with pining for her mother. She shall be with me again, and that right speedily!"
As just said, the act of Mrs. Waverly, in escaping with Ada, was premeditated. All her plans were fully matured, and when Alice came, she had her bonnet and shawl concealed in the little parlor of Mrs. Grafton, her money in her pocket, and such clothes upon her person as she wished to take with her. In her eagerness to get Alice out of the room, she had said to her,
"Leave us alone for a little while."
And then, frightened lest the girl should see her purpose in this request, she cast her eyes upon the floor to conceal the expression of her countenance.
To the mother's great joy, Alice, who felt no suspicion, quietly retired from the room. A moment or two, Mrs. Waverly sat bending in a listening attitude, as fixed as marble, with her ear towards the door through which Alice had passed. Then suddenly springing up, she threw on her bonnet and shawl, and lifting Ada in her arms, glided noiselessly from the house. As soon as she reached the street, she ran to the first corner. After turning there, she placed Ada upon the pavement, and they walked on as rapidly as the child could move, in the direction of the Delaware Street.
"Will you go with mamma, dear?" asked Mrs. Waverly, who was panting, so that her voice was scarcely audible.
The child lifted her eyes, full of affection, and answered,
"Yes mommy."
No further communication passed between them for some time.
On reaching Second Street, Mrs. Waverly entered a dry goods store and made a few purchases. She then kept on down to the Callowhill Street Ferry, and passed over to Camden, where she took lodgings for herself and child at a hotel.
Panting almost like a hunted deer, was the excited mother, when she closed and fastened her chamber door, on gaining this temporary refuge. Catching Ada in her arms, she hugged her wildly to her bosom, and kissed her passionately over and over again, murmuring as she did so,
"My sweet child! My angel! You are mine again, and no power on this earth shall take you out of my hands!"
"Aren't you going home, mamma?" asked the bewildered child.
"Home! Where?" Mrs. Waverly scarcely knew what she said in reply.
"Home, where papa is," answered Ada.
The mother fixed her eyes upon the face of her child, and looked steadily at her for some moments.
"No, dear," she at length said, in a calm, mild, tender voice. "No, dear, I shall never go back there again." A troubled expression came into the child's countenance; and she seemed more bewildered than at first.
This was a moment of intense interest for the mother. She had possession of Ada; but she did not have a right hold upon her affections. How would she bear the separation from home, which was now to be permanent?
"Do you love me, dear?" Mrs. Waverly bent her face close to that of Ada, as she asked this question. The child clasped her around the neck and kissed her.
"And you'll never leave me, will you?"
Ada did not answer in words, but shrank closer upon her mother's bosom.
Again the lips of Mrs. Waverly were pressed eagerly upon the child's lips, cheeks and forehead. Her heart could not find expression for half the love and joy she felt.
Silent and still sat the mother and child for a long, long time. For a moment like this, how often had the former prayed! How often had she felt, in hopeful imagination, the pressure of Ada's form against her yearning bosom! Now all was real; and her heart went up in gratitude to Heaven.
Even until the early twilight fell, did Mrs. Waverly sit clasping her recovered child in her arms — now gazing fondly down upon her beautiful countenance, and now half devouring her with kisses.
A tap at the door startled the mother from this fond abstraction, if it might so be called. Her face, over which a warm glow had diffused itself, became suddenly pale, and a look of anxiety came into her eyes. Rising and placing Ada upon a chair, she answered, with a faltering heart, the summons.
"Supper is ready!" said a servant.
"If you will be kind enough to send me a cup of tea, some bread and butter, and some milk for my child, I will thank you. I am not very well, and had rather not go down this evening."
The servant promised to do as she wished, and retired. Soon after, she reappeared with the food which Mrs. Waverly had ordered.
"Now, my love, we will have our supper all alone to ourselves," said the mother, with a smile," as she sat Ada in a chair at a small table, and took one opposite. The light was between them, and shone full upon the child's sweet young face.
Ada looked happy and interested, while her eyes were fixed almost continually upon her mother's countenance.
"Do you live here, mamma?" she asked, as she sat without touching the food which had been placed before her.
"No, my love, not here."
"Where do you live, mamma?"
"Would you like to go to my home?"
"Yes mamma."
"And live with me always?"
"Yes mamma."
"You shall, dear."
"Won't papa and Herbert come and live with us, too?"
A shadow fell over the countenance of Mrs. Waverly, and she merely shook her head.
"Why, mamma? Don't you love dear papa and Herbert? I love them."
Still deeper was the shadow that fell upon the mother's face, and she turned partly away from the light to conceal its expression from Ada.
"Come, dear, eat your supper," said she, after a little while. "I don't feel hungry," returned the child. "I don't want any supper."
"O, yes, my love. You must take something. Drink that good tea, and eat that nice bread and butter."
Thus urged, Ada took a few mouthfuls of bread and butter, and drank part of a cup of milk and water. Then she leaned back against her chair, and sat looking earnestly at her mother.
Quite as sparingly, did Mrs. Waverly eat.
It was clear that the child's mind was seeking, though in vain, for an explanation of what had passed during the last hour or two. Without any preparation, she had been introduced into a room in which was her mother; and, before the state of surprise and joy occasioned by the meeting was over — she had been caught up and borne away, and was now in a strange place, alone with this long absent and long grieved-for parent.
The scarcely tasted meal ended, Mrs. Waverly took Ada, who showed signs of weariness, in her arms. Not many minutes passed, before the child was sound asleep. Removing a portion of her clothing, the mother laid her upon the bed, and stood gazing upon her placid face for a long time. Then, as a deep sigh heaved her bosom, she turned away, and taking up the package of goods she had purchased at the store in Second Street, unrolled and began to look over it. There were several yards of dark merino, a piece of woolen plaid, some muslin, and a few other articles of less importance.
It was soon apparent from the movements of Mrs. Waverly, that her design was to disguise Ada by making her a suit of boy's clothing. And to this work, she set herself immediately that her child was asleep. A few hurried measurements of the garments Ada had taken off were made, and then she cut out of the merino she had bought, a pair of pants, and commenced sewing them up. A couple of hours passed, when the candle that had been brought to her, gave out. Suddenly it fell down in the socket and expired.
Startled by this little incident, the heart of Mrs. Waverly throbbed heavily for some moments, and, as she sat motionless in the darkness, a feeling of uneasiness at what seemed an ill omen, stole upon her. Slowly rising, at length, she groped her way to the door. Opening it, she stood for more than a minute, hesitating whether to leave the room in which slept her precious child. A vague fear, lest Ada should be snatched away from her, if she ventured to leave her alone for a moment, troubled her; and, in spite of her reason, could not be pushed from her mind.
A dim light burned in the entry some distance from her room door. One, two, three minutes she stood, hoping that someone would appear from whom she could get a lamp or candle. But, she waited in vain. Once or twice, she ventured a few paces along the passage, but quickly flew back again, trembling, to her post. She felt as if she dared not leave her child alone. A little while longer she remained at the door; then she re-entered the chamber, and groping her way to the bed, felt, with hands that trembled, for the body of Ada. All was safe! She breathed more freely.
For some minutes, she remained leaning over the bed, with her face so close to that of her child, that she felt her breath upon her cheek. Rising up at length, she stood listening towards the door, for the sound of someone moving along the entry. All, however, remained still. At length she ventured out again. There was no lock to her door, or she would have turned the key and left it fastened during her brief absence.
The passage upon which Mrs. Waverly's room opened, ran along to another entry that led to the stairway. This second entry she had gained, on her way to get another candle, and was near the landing, when, from a room through whose partly-opened door streamed a light, she heard a voice utter her own name. Suddenly, as if a lightening bolt had fallen at her feet, were her steps arrested. The voice was that of a man, and the tones were perfectly familiar to her ears. A woman's voice immediately answered,
"Yes, Mrs. Waverly."
"I don't believe it, Biddy," was returned.
"I tell you, Jim McCarty," sharply replied the woman, "that it is Mrs. Waverly herself, and no one else. Don't you think I know her?"
"You ought to know her. But, what is she doing here?"
"She's got one of the children."
"No!"
"Indeed she has. Little Ada, bless her sweet soul!"
"She's stolen it, then," said the man, who had been called McCarty.
"In course. But, as good luck will have it, she's not going to get off win the baby. You must see Mr. Waverly bright and early tomorrow morning."
"Indeed I will. That is, if you are right about the lady being Mrs. Waverly."
"I'm as sure as death about that, Jim McCarty. These two eyes can't be deceived!"
"Where do you think she's off to with little Ada?"
"Off with the child? Off to the dear knows where! I expected this. I always believed the mother would try to steal back her children."
"No sorrow for her," said McCarty, in a tone of bitter exultation, "she tried to ruin my character with Mrs. Mortimer. She lost me a good place; but I've had my revenge!"
"And I've not forgiven her yet; and, before Heaven, never will while there's breath in me body!" exclaimed Biddy, fiercely. "Didn't she accuse me of stealing? And didn't she turn me off from her door, when I was as innocent as a newborn babe? Didn't she, Jim McCarty, turn me off from her door, when I was as innocent as a newborn babe? Didn't she, Jim McCarty? I swore to be revenged on her! Revenge is sweet! But I'm not done with her yet!"
"Nor I, Biddy Sharp!"
Mrs. Waverly stopped to hear no more. Trembling, weak, and faint, she groped her way along the passages back to her room. She was sick at heart, and on the brink of despair. A lion in her way, would have produced scarcely less terror.
What was now to be done?
In vain the unhappy woman asked herself this question. She had bolted the door of her room, and was bending, in the darkness, over her sleeping child, shivering like one in an fever. There seemed no way of escape. The wretches who had compassed her ruin in the beginning, were still upon her path, insatiate as bloodhounds. They had sworn todestroy her — alas! how well had they done their work. And still they pursued her, eager to trample her, though fallen, under their feet.
The first wild excitement and terror having subsided, the thoughts of Mrs. Waverly began to run clearer. Then her mind became active, and one suggestion after another came as to the means of escaping from her present difficulty.
"No, no," said she, at length, in a braver spirit. Having gained this much, the advantage shall not be lost. These wicked wretches must plot against me in vain. Was it not enough for them to blast my character and happiness — to make me a by-word and a thing of scorn on the lips of people! Would not that suffice?"
A rush of wind and the pattering of rain on the window, now reached the ears of Mrs. Waverly.
"A storm!" she murmured, in a sad low voice. "The very elements are against me!"
By this time, her eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness of the room, and she could discern, though obscurely, the objects that were around her. Seating herself near the bed upon which Ada was sleeping, she gave herself up to an earnest and anxious search of the means of escape from the unlooked for danger into which she had fallen. From this reverie, she was every now and then aroused by the rush of the storm against the window. Twelve, one, two o'clock found her still awake — now moving about the room like a restless spirit — now hovering over her child — and now sitting as motionless as a statue.
And thus, for the present, we leave her.
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