CHAPTER 20.
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There had been a week or two of cold weather in November — and then came the pleasant, dreamy, warm-breathed Indian Summer; faintly perceived in the crowded city, but bringing to the dweller amid woods and fields, a calmness of feeling and a sense of pure enjoyment, not perceived at any other season of the varying year. Off from the public road, and surrounded by a dense old forest, was a small, but well-cultivated farm; the same that Mr. Waverly had visited on the night when his purpose, so ardently cherished for two years, suddenly became changed. Here had dwelt his wronged and repudiated wife, secure from intrusion and suspicion, since the period when she obtained possession of her child.
It was a pleasant day, in that pleasant time, when the summer looks back and smiles her parting blessing upon the earth. The mother and her child went forth to the fields, an hour after the sun had passed its zenith, and remained in the open air, until the day waned far towards evening. Then, on seeing Mrs. Blair, the kind friend who had so long hidden them in her peaceful home, returning from her visit to Mount Holly, where she had been since morning, they went back to the house to meet her. But, her usual smile had faded from the good woman's countenance, and she met Mrs. Waverly with a serious, even troubled expression.
"Are you not well?" asked the latter, evincing an instant concern.
"I feel very well," returned Mrs. Blair, with an evasion of manner which only increased the anxious feelings of Mrs. Waverly.
"I hope nothing is wrong, Mrs. Blair?"
A slight pallor overspread the speaker's face.
"I hope not, and yet I feel some concern."
"About what?"
There was a startled and frightened look about Mrs. Waverly.
"I'll tell you in a little while — as soon as I lay off my things, and get my thoughts collected. Come up into my room with me. You can leave Ada downstairs."
No further word was spoken until Mrs. Waverly and Mrs. Blair entered the chamber of the latter.
"Have they found out where I am?" the former now asked, with panting eagerness.
"I'm afraid so," was the unhesitating answer.
Mrs. Waverly clasped her hands together, and turned deadly pale. For some moments she seemed stupefied; then all the activities of her mind because aroused, and she said, as she looked towards the door, and made a motion as if about to pass from the room:
"I will leave here instantly. They shall not tear my child from me while I have strength and skill to evade them."
"Calm yourself, my dear friend," said Mrs. Blair, quickly. "There is, I apprehend, no imminent danger. First hear what I have to relate. There is time enough for us to determine what to do."
"Speak! then, best of friends! Speak, and speak quickly."
"I was at Griffith Owen's hotel today," began Mrs. Blair, "and he said, to me, with a manner that instantly arrested my attention,
"'Is that woman at your house a relation of yours?'
"'What woman?' I asked.
"'The woman who came up from Philadelphia a couple of years ago, in Clemen's wagon.'
"'What of her?' I inquired, without answering his question.
"'Nothing, in particular,' said he, 'only there were two men here, from the city, last week, inquiring about her. Didn't they call at your house?'
"'Call? No.'
"'Well,' said he, 'they got the directions from me and started for your house. Let me see, what day was it — Tuesday? Yes, it was Tuesday evening. They left here a little before sundown, and didn't get back until nearly eleven o'clock. I asked them if they had found your house, and they said they had; but avoided all conversation on the subject. On the next morning, they went back to Philadelphia, and I've heard nothing of them since.'"
"Did they register their names?" asked Mrs. Waverly, in anxious tones.
"Owen said no. He asked them to do so, but they declined."
"Did he describe their appearance?"
"One, he said, was a tall man, with a thin, pale face; and dark eyes and hair."
Mrs. Waverly's lips were tightly compressed, and her breathing labored.
"Was that Mr. Waverly?" asked Mrs. Blair. "I presume so," was replied. "And he came here on last Tuesday night?"
"So Owen said."
"Tuesday night? Tuesday night?" repeated Mrs. Waverly, turning her thoughts back to the time which had been mentioned. For more than a minute she was silent, lost in reverie. At length, with a deeply-drawn sigh, she said —
"He was here. Yes, it is true, and I felt his presence."
"It may be," suggested Mrs. Blair, "that time has softened his feelings towards you. Or, better still, evidence establishing your innocence may have reached him."
What a sudden flush came into the face of Mrs. Waverly! How quickly were her hands clasped together, and her eyes, filled with tears, thrown upwards!
"God grant it!" came, in a tremulous murmur, from her lips.
"To that, it must come in the end," said Mrs. Blair, firmly.
"The evil of the wicked, shall not always prevail. In His own good time, God will clear the innocent."
"It has been long delayed. Still, I feel that justice will yet be done. But, Mrs. Blair, I shall take no risks." Mrs. Waverly spoke with recovered calmness, and in a tone of decision.
"I must leave here immediately."
"Immediately, Mrs. Waverly?"
"Yes, my good friend. To remain under your roof another night, would be risking too much. Your son James, who has ever shown me the utmost kindness, will, I am sure, take Ada and I in his wagon over to Burlington; from whence I will go in the morning to New York."
"No — no. You must not throw yourself upon the world in this way," said Mrs. Blair. "We can still hide you in our neighborhood. James shall drive you over to sister Phoebe's, where you will be safe enough for the present."
As Mrs. Blair ceased speaking, the voice of a stranger was heard below. It was that of a woman. Mrs. Waverly startled, and then listened eagerly.
"Who is that?" said she, in a husky whisper.
Mrs. Blair listened also. The voice was heard again, and, this time, was distinctly perceived the words —
"Ada, dear, don't you know me?"
"It is Alice!" exclaimed Mrs. Waverly, as she sprang from the room and went flying downstairs.
In the room below were Alice, Ada, and a beautiful, bright-faced boy, some eight or nine years of age. Ada was in the arms of the former, who had caught her up and was caressing her fondly.
"O ma'am!" exclaimed Alice, as soon as Mrs. Waverly entered, replacing the child upon the floor as she spoke, and starting forward to grasp her hand, "O ma'am! how glad I am to find you! Here is Herbert. I have brought him to see his mother!"
For an instant Mrs. Waverly stood like one just awakened from a bewildering dream. Then, without making any answer, she started past Alice, and almost threw herself upon Herbert, gathering her arms around him, and drawing his head, as she stooped to the floor, tightly against her bosom.
"My boy! my precious boy!" Low and solemn, yet distinctly audible, and thrilling in love, were the tones of the mother, as she spoke those few words.
And then there followed a brief period of hushed silence.
"My boy! my precious boy!" was murmured again, but in more broken accents.
"Mother! dear mother!" came, low and sweet, from the lips of Herbert.
With what a glad emotion did the long-suffering heart respond to this voice, and to these blessed words!
"Alice, what does all this mean?" said Mrs. Waverly, after time enough had elapsed to permit her strongly-agitated feelings to subside into a measure of quiescence.
"Your innocence has been established!" whispered Alice, as she bent to the mother's ear.
There is no power in human language to portray the blending expressions of gladness, thankfulness and joy, which lit up the face of that wronged, discarded, long-suffering woman, as the girl uttered this brief sentence.
"Innocent! Innocent!" she murmured, after a brief pause., "Did I hear aright, Alice?"
"Yes — innocent ma'am. Biddy Sharp has murdered Jim McCarty. Jim, before he died, sent for Mr. Waverly, and confessed that his story was all a lie for the purpose ofruining you. And Biddy, who is in prison, has confessed to the same."
"My Father, I thank You!" sobbed the glad, trembling woman, as she clasped her hands, and looked upward with streaming eyes.
"As soon as Mr. Waverly learned this," continued Alice, "he sent for me — I had gone back to the Mansion House — and told me that I must go with him to Mount Holly, and then bring Herbert over here to see you. Until then, I knew not where you were."
"But how did he know that I was here?" inquired Mrs. Waverly.
That question, Alice could not answer.
"So he is at Mount Holly now?"
"Yes."
"Who brought you here?"
"Mr. Waverly sent us over in the carriage by which we came from Philadelphia."
A long silence followed, which was broken at length by Mrs. Waverly, who asked —
"Why have you come here?"
"To bring Herbert," was replied.
"What then?"
"I know nothing beyond this," returned the girl.
"Nothing!" Mrs. Waverly looked earnestly and with a slight movement of suspicion in her face.
"Nothing beyond this — I do assure you," said Alice.
"Is Mr. Waverly coming here?" There was a perceptible agitation in Mrs. Waverly's voice.
"He said nothing about coming, ma'am, I was merely directed to bring Herbert, and to remain with you until I should hear from him. The carriage has gone back to Mount Holly."
The waning day soon departed, and the calm peaceful evening came softly down, veiling the landscape in deeper and deeper shadows. That night the mother slept with both her children beside her. But, for hours before slumber locked her senses, she lay with her mind full of thoughts stirred into life by what had just occurred. The long years of her suffering, her wrong, her degradation, were over! Her innocence was brought forth to the light!
Wounded, persecuted, and wronged as she had been by her husband, and estranged as were her feelings, Mrs. Waverly could not but be touched by the manner in which he had announced his belief in her innocence. His first act was to send to her the child so long withheld from her arms, and to do it in full confidence. For that she could not but feel a grateful emotion. There was enough to make her turn her thoughts from him, with a feeling of angry indignation; but she pushed these cruel memories aside, and tried to think of him as one who had suffered as well as she — the victim of a blasting falsehood, told with singular coherence and an amazing regard to evidence. In this state of mind, she fell asleep.
Day was abroad, and the sun just lifting his bright face above the horizon, when the mother started up from some troubled dream that had come to mock her happiness. Sweetly sleeping by her side, lay the dear ones her heart had loved, in all her misery, with an unabating intensity. What an impulse of joy swelled in her heart! How lovingly did she bend over them; nor rest until she had awakened them with her kisses.
Some two hours of the morning went by on wings of gladness — bathed sometimes, in the shadow of a passing cloud — when, glancing from the window of Mrs. Blair's little parlor, which looked out upon the road, Mrs. Waverly saw the form of a man approaching — a form she knew too well! All physical strength fled in a moment; her face assumed a deathly pallor; motionless and lifeless she sat, until she heard his knock upon the door. Then, with an effort, she arose and went with unsteady steps from the room, and sought, alone, her chamber. For nearly ten minutes she remained there, panting and struggling with herself, and trying to get her disturbed thoughts into some calmer current. Before she had succeeded in this, the door opened, and Mrs. Blair came in.
"Your husband is here," said she, in a low, earnest voice.
"The father of my children; not my husband," replied Mrs. Waverly, struggling to compose herself — at least exteriorly.
"He was once your husband, then," said Mrs. Blair.
"What does he want?"
"He asks to see you."
"See me?"
"Yes."
"Tell him that it is better for us not to meet again. Has he not believed a cruel lie against the wife of his bosom, and cast her from him, as one too vile to consort even with her own children!"
There came a warm flush into the pale cheeks of Mrs. Waverly; and in her voice, there was an expression of anger.
"He believes you innocent; and would like to repair, as far as in his power lies, the terrible wrong he has done to you."
"Repair it? Impossible! What mockery!"
"Be calm, my friend," said Mrs. Blair, in a gentle, persuasive voice. "You have passed through the fire — you have suffered a dreadful wrong — but the fire is extinguished; and the wrong is imputed no longer."
"But the charred and quivering flesh remains all unhealed," returned Mrs. Waverly, with much bitterness.
"Do not lacerate, needlessly, these wounds; but permit them to heal. Remember, that Mr. Waverly has suffered as well as you. How deeply, it is for you to imagine better than me — for you know him best. He now comes, and asks to see you, after this long night of separation. He has wronged you, deeply, dreadfully; but he asks now, the poor privilege of repairing, as far as in his power lies, the wrong of which he has been guilty. Will you not meet him?"
"O, my friend! How can I?" exclaimed Mrs. Waverly, in a broken voice.
"What shall I say to him?"
Mrs. Waverly did not answer. She had bowed her head, and was sitting in deep self-communion. Mrs. Blair said no more, but waited for many minutes, until her deeply tried friend should work out, in her own thoughts, the problem, upon the solution of which, hung so many future consequences. At length Mrs. Waverly looked up. Her face was calm, but very pale.
"I will see him," said she, firmly.
"Where?"
"In this room, and alone."
"When?"
"Now."
Mrs. Blair turned, without further words, and went downstairs. Mr. Waverly was in her little parlor, with Ada in his arms, walking the floor with uneasy steps.
"She will see you!" Mrs. Blair said, in a voice that fell to a whisper.
"When?"
"Now. Go upstairs, and you will find her in the room over this one."
Mr. Waverly stood, for a few moments, to collect his thoughts, then replacing Ada upon the floor, he left the room and went to the one occupied by his repudiated wife.
A full hour elapsed before he came down. He looked pale, and his eyes were moist from weeping. Hastily kissing Herbert and Ada, he bowed to Mrs. Blair, and then left the house. In a few moments afterward, were heard the rumbling of the carriage wheels that bore him away.
Three months have elapsed. During all this period, the mother and her children remained with Mrs. Blair. A few times Mr. Waverly had visited them, and, with each returning visit, there came returning light to the sad faces of both the separated partners.
Three months have elapsed; and there is another change. In the little parlor of Mrs. Blair, is assembled a party of five people — Mr. and Mrs. Waverly, Mrs. Blair, a clergyman, and Alice. A solemn marriage is celebrated, and, again the words fall, with a strange, thrilling sound upon the ears of the two former —
"I pronounce you husband and wife!"
Will the reader be surprised to hear, that, as the service ended, they fell info each other's arms and wept? It would have been stranger still, had not their feelings over-mastered them.
More public would this reunion have been; but Mrs. Waverly desired it otherwise.
Back into her old home, with her household treasures around her, went the now happy wife and mother — after her long night of suffering. Gradually her old friends drew around her, and sought, in many ways, to win her from that seclusion into which she naturally felt disposed to shrink. They were but partially successful. As for Mr. Waverly, his tenderness and regard for her seemed to absorb every thought. She was to him, most precious and dearly loved; and all that a human heart could suggest or a human will accomplish for her happiness, was done.
And there, the curtain drops!
THE END.
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