CHAPTER 2.
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In a small, but comfortable house, situated in the district of Spring Garden, sat an old lady, whose calm, mild features, reflected a heart, the surface of which was marred by no strong waves of passion. She had been reading; but her book was laid beside her on a table, and she had taken some plain needle work in her hands and was sewing.
"Why Alice!" she exclaimed, on looking up as the door of her room opened. "How do you do? I am pleased to see you."
"Very well, Mrs. Grafton," answered the visitor.
"It's a long time since I saw you, Alice. Take a chair. A good many months."
The old lady's voice fell lower, and was tinged with a hue of sadness.
"Where have you been?"
"I've lived at the mansion house, in Fourth Street, since I — I — left Mrs. Waverly."
"Poor Mrs. Waverly!" exclaimed the old lady, and a ready tear came into her eye, dimming its vision. "Poor creature!" she added, as she took off her glasses to wipe away the dews of feeling. "How my heart has ached for her!"
"And so has mine, a hundred and a thousand times," warmly responded Alice. "Oh! they treated her cruelly!"
"I never will believe all that was said against her," remarked Mrs. Grafton.
"Nor I. Jim McCarty's no true man; and as for Biddy Sharp, if the truth were known — she would be found a worse woman than she's tried to make others believe Mrs. Waverly to be."
"That has always been my own opinion, Alice, and fire won't take it out of me," said Mrs. Grafton, warmly. "A nice state of things it is, truly, when such creatures can be brought forward to blast the character of one whose life, to all outward appearance, has been stainless."
"To think that Mr. Waverly should have listened to them for a moment!" remarked Alice, indignantly. "I never can get over that!"
"The wife who had lain in his bosom, the mother of his children — to be cruelly thrust aside on such testimony! It seems incredible. Poor, unhappy creature! How often I think of her! She went to Baltimore I think?"
"Yes. An old friend who had been to her as a sister — they were children together — came on to Philadelphia the moment the painful news of Mrs. Waverly's troubles reached her ears, and stood by her in that fearful trial through which she passed. When it was over, she took her home with her, where she has ever since been."
"The hardest thing of all," said Mrs Grafton, after musing for a short time, "was the separation of her children. If they had given her one of them — little Ada, for instance — it would have been something. But, to tear them asunder as they did, was heart-breaking!"
"It was, Mrs. Grafton — it was," returned Alice dashing away a tear. "And it almost killed her. I saw more of her than anyone; for I was with her during the wretched time of the trial. If those who so loudly condemned her, and said of her such harsh and evil things, could have seen her as I did, they would have felt and spoken differently."
"No doubt of it, Alice!"
"As you just said, Mrs. Grafton," resumed the girl, "the hardest and crulest thing of all, was the separation from her children. I thought she would have died when the final decision came. And they would not even let her see them to take a last parting, though she begged it on her knees! I have often wondered that her heart did not break outright."
"And she loved them so, and was so proud of them!"
"O, yes! So very proud! It was the delight of her heart to talk about them. Her feelings warmed to everyone who had a word to say in their favour."
"And they were such sweet children!" said Mrs. Grafton.
"Lovely! I'm sure Ada is the prettiest child I ever saw."
"Where are they now?"
"With Mr. Waverly's sister."
"Out in Chestnut Street?"
"Yes."
"I never liked her."
"Nor did anyone else," said Alice, her brow falling. "She has no love for children. In fact I believe she hates them."
"Is Mr. Waverly living with her?"
"O yes. They keep house together. But he is away from morning until night, attending to business; and even if he were home, I don't believe he would add to their happiness. He hasn't much patience with children. I don't think he understands them."
"Perhaps not. And poor Mrs. Waverly knows all this."
"No one knows it better, ma'am."
"Another drop in her cup of bitterness. I wish they were with her. I'm sure it would be better for them. Even if she has been a little imprudent, her dreadful punishment has burned the stain from her mind."
"I do not believe one word of the vile slanders that have been circulated," said Alice, with emphasis. "And I can, most heartily, join in the wish that her children were with her. If I were she, no human power would keep them from me! God gave them to her — and no man has a right to take them away."
"Such are my own feelings," replied Mrs. Grafton. "If they were my children, I would go through fire and water to regain possession of them. Nature's own impulse should be my law, and I would act in obedience thereto, regardless of all external consequences."
For sometime after this remark on the part of Mrs. Grafton, there was a deep silence. Alice was thinking hurriedly, and, as she thought, the rapid rising and falling of her bosom indicated the agitation of her feelings. At length she said, abruptly —
"Mrs. Waverly is in the city."
"What!"
A sudden change flashed over the face of Mrs. Grafton, and she looked at the girl, inquiringly, and with lips half parted. "Mrs. Waverly is in the city," repeated Alice.
"She is?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have you seen her?"
"Yes."
"When did she arrive?"
"Today."
"Indeed! Where is she?"
"At the Mansion House."
"For what has she come?"
There was a pause of some moments, when Alice answered, "To see her children."
"To see them?" Mrs. Grafton asked the question meaningly.
"Yes, and more; to get them into her possession," said Alice.
More rapidly, now did the girl's bosom rise and fall, for she was in a tremor of suspense concerning the effect of this communication on the mind of Mrs. Grafton.
"To get possession of her children?" said the latter, as if in doubt whether she had heard aright.
"Even so, ma'am. She says that she can no longer endure the separation — and must see them or die.
"Poor creature! Poor, unhappy creature! I can well understand her feelings. And so, she is really here and on this errand?"
"She is."
"From my heart, then, I hope she will be successful. It may be wrong for me to say so; but I can't help it; I speak as I feel."
"I am glad to hear you say so!" exclaimed Alice, a light breaking suddenly over her face. "You are then her friend?"
"How can I help being her friend, Alice, when I think of her being so greatly wronged? I would not be true to woman's best impulses, were it different — would not be true to a mother's heart. But why have you come to see me about this matter?"
"Because I believed that your heart was in the right place," said Alice, "and that you would do whatever was in your power to aid Mrs. Waverly in recovering her children."
At this Mrs. Grafton's eyes fell to the floor, while a long drawn sigh came up from her bosom. Nearly a minute passed before she made any answer, all of which time Alice was watching her intently. At length, taking another long breath, she remarked,
"I hardly know what to think of this."
"You believe her to be a wronged and innocent woman," said Alice, quickly.
"As such I have always regarded her," replied Mrs. Grafton.
"And you feel for her deeply."
"Have I not said so already?"
"Will you not aid her, then?"
"What can I do?"
"You can let her, for a short time, hide away in your house."
"Does she know of your present visit?" inquired Mrs. Grafton, her manner visibly changing.
"She does," was answered.
"You come, then, at her request?"
"I do."
Mrs. Grafton was silent again for some moments.
"And she wishes to make my house her home for a short time?"
"If you are perfectly willing."
"Tell her to come, then, by all means. That much I can promise her. As to what I will do beyond this — after reflection will determine."
"I thank you in her name," said Alice, with a warmth that caused a feeling of momentary surprise to spring up in the mind of Mrs. Grafton.
"You were always attached to Mrs. Waverly," said she.
"And with reason," replied Alice. "She has ever been a kind friend to me."
"You mean to aid her in her present purpose?"
"I do, most certainly," answered the girl.
"In what way?"
"That is to be determined, ma'am."
"You intend remaining at the Mansion House?"
"No, ma'am. I wish to be with Mrs. Waverly."
"Here?"
"Yes; that is, if you do not object."
"I must consider about this," said Mrs. Grafton, thoughtfully. "But, tell Mrs. Waverly to come in welcome. All that I feel it right to do for her, shall be most cheerfully done; for, from my very heart, I pity her as one who has been cruelly wronged. How does she look?"
"You would hardly know her."
"So changed?"
"Oh, yes — dreadfully changed. Her face is as white as a sheet; and she looks like a shadow. I was at work in one of the chambers, when a waiter came in and said that a lady wished to see me. I went, not dreaming of Mrs. Waverly.
"'Alice!' said a familiar voice, as I entered the room to which I had been summoned. I looked for some moments into the lady's face, before I knew her; and, not until she called my name again, did I perceive who she was.
"'Alice, don't you know me?' said she.
"'Mrs. Waverly!' I exclaimed, and then burst into tears. I couldn't have helped crying to save myself. And she cried too, oh, so bitterly! How my heart did ache! Then she took my hand and made me sit down beside her; and, while she still held it tight, she said, in a low, eager, trembling voice, that was almost a whisper —
"'When did you see them, Alice?'
"'Ada and Herbert?' I answered.
"'Yes, yes? Oh, say, Alice; have you seen them lately?'
"'Not for two or three months,' I reluctantly replied. 'Then I met them with their nurse in the street.'
"'Did they look well and happy, Alice?' she inquired. The tears were streaming down her face.
"'Very well,' I said. 'I never saw them looking better.'
"Then she covered her face with her hands, and sat, moving her body backwards and forwards with a short, quick motion. At length, removing her hands, she bent her face to mine, as if she were going to make some important communication. The tears had left her cheeks, and her eyes were not even moist.
"'Alice,' said she, 'can I trust you?'
"'Trust me? How?' I answered, wondering in my own mind what she meant.
"'I think you were always attached to me, Alice,' she went on. 'I'm sure I tried to be kind to you when you were in my family!'
"'None could have been kinder, ma'am,' said I. 'I'm sure I always loved you, and never believed a word of the dreadful things said against you.'
"'My heart blesses you for that sentence!' she eagerly exclaimed; grasping hold of my hand once more, and actually raising it to her lips. I never felt as I did then, in all my life. 'You did right,' she continued, 'not to believe that dreadful accusation. Heaven knows I am innocent!' And she lifted her eyes upwards. To me, they were full of truth and innocence. No, I do not believe her a guilty woman. I never will believe her such.
"'Alice,' said she, after a little while, leaning close to me again, and fixing her eyes in my face, 'let me repeat my first question — can I trust you?"
"'Yes, ma'am,' I replied without hesitation. 'You can trust me in anything.'
"'They tore my precious children from me, Alice,' she then said; 'tore them from me cruelly, declaring that I was not to see them, nor speak to them again so long as I lived. Did they think I could bear this? Or, did they believe that my heart would break in the struggle. Perhaps the latter. Strange, that it did not break! But, it still beats on, full of love for those dear ones. All day long I think of them, and night after night I lie awake, with their image before me, even until the day dawns. And, now, Alice, I must see them. It is this that brings me back.'
"She paused, and for some moments, looked at me earnestly, to see what effect her declaration had made. All that was in her mind, I did not then comprehend. But, I was not long in doubt.
"'Alice,' said she, withdrawing her eyes from mine and looking down upon the floor. 'It was wrong to take my children from me!'
"'I always said so,' was my quick answer.
"'I am their mother, and love them more tenderly than it is possible for anyone else to love them.'
"'Who can doubt that?'
"'I want them with me, Alice.' Again she looked earnestly into my face.
"'They should be with you,' said I, warmly. I now began to understand her.
"'So I think — so I think, Alice! I must have them. 'This separation will kill me. Look!' and she turned her face so that the light could fall upon it. 'I am but a shadow now. Life beats feebly here,' and she placed her thin white hand over her heart — 'and will soon die out, unless I can be with my children. In my despair, Alice, I wrote a long and tearful letter to Mr. Waverly, begging him to let me see my children. He has never answered it. And now, what am I to do?'
"'Claim your children,' said I.
"'Claim them? How? There is no law for me, Alice — for the cast-off wife.'
"'I do not mean that. Claim them by a higher law — the law of nature.'
"'Get possession of them, do you mean?' she asked, in a quick voice.
"'I do!
"'My heart blesses you for the word!' came gushing from her lips. 'It is for this, Alice, that I am here. Will you aid me?'
"'Yes; to the utmost of my power.'
"Oh, if you had seen the change in her, when I said this! She threw her arms about me; and even kissed me! It was then agreed between us, that we should take a couple of rooms, in which we could be as secluded as possible, to avoid observation; and that I should endeavor to get possession of the children for her. This is our plan, Mrs. Grafton, and you can aid us greatly, if you will."
'"Poor, unhappy creature!" sighed Mrs. Grafton, as Alice concluded. "Tell her to come here, and fully trust in me. As to what aid I will give, I can say nothing now. But, she need not fear that I will betray her."
With this assurance, the girl retired.
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