CHAPTER 4.
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"Mrs. Waverly stays away a long while," said Alice, rising and going to the window for the third time since the approach of twilight. "I tried to persuade her not to go out today, but she was so eager to look once more upon her children, that nothing could restrain her."
"At this we cannot much wonder," returned Mrs. Grafton. "It is nearly a year since she was separated from them."
"Yes, it is nearly a year; and I do not wonder. But, I'm afraid of her discretion. I'm afraid the sight of them will cause her to forget herself."
"There is danger in that; and I warned her of it before she went out. But the heart too often forgets its warnings. To meet Ada and Herbert in the street, and not rush upon them and clasp them in her arms, will be next to impossible. I wish she had not subjected herself to such a trial."
"So do I. But argument and persuasion, both of which I tried, were alike useless."
As Alice said this, the street door opened, and someone went gliding upstairs.
"There she is now!" exclaimed the girl, and, leaving Mrs. Grafton, she followed quickly.
On entering the chamber, she found that Mrs. Waverly had, without removing either bonnet or shawl, thrown herself across the bed, into which her face lay deeply buried. She spoke to her; but she neither stirred nor made any reply. She called her name a second time; but there was not the smallest sign that the unhappy woman heard her. Alice now grasped her hand to see if she had not fainted; but its warmth, and the quick pulse, showed the circle of life to be still perfect. She then removed her bonnet and shawl; and, with the tenderness and care of one whose heart was with the sufferer, lifted her head from its depressed condition, and placed beneath it a pillow. As she performed this last act, a low, tremulous sigh fluttered up from the mother's heart.
"Did you see them?" whispered Alice. There was a slight pressure of the hand which the girl had taken — a motion that was understood.
"You did not betray yourself?"
No responding pressure came; but, a faint sigh instead.
The heart of Alice began to beat heavily. A silence of several minutes followed; then Mrs. Waverly arose from her reclining position and leaned her head upon the shoulder of the girl. A little while and then she said in a whisper:
"I saw them!"
"Where?" inquired Alice, speaking also in a whisper.
"I saw them on Chestnut Street, with their nurse, who was dragging my poor little Ada along in a way that set my blood on fire. How I was able to forbear as I did, surprises me. My first impulse was to strike her to the pavement!"
"But you did not speak to her?"
"How could I help it."
"Mrs. Waverly!"
"Ada was crying. She complained that something was in her shoe, and hurt her. But the vile creature scolded her, and dragged her along, saying it was only crossness in her. Could I help grasping her arm, and commanding her to take off the child's shoe? No! That would have been impossible!"
"And you did so?"
"Yes!"
"What then?"
"The creature looked frightened, and instantly obeyed me."
"Do you think she knew you?"
"I'm sure I cannot tell. But, Ada remembered the tones of my voice, full of excitement as they were."
"Ada!"
"Yes I'm certain she did. Oh, what a change came instantly, over her dear young face, as she turned her eyes towards me, and lifted, with what seemed a half-instinctive motion, her little hands! How I restrained from clasping her in my arms, I cannot tell. Long enough to see the girl remove something from her shoe, I stood, and then passed quickly on, gliding from her sight around one of the corners."
"And you saw them no more?"
"O, yes. I saw them again. Could I leave them thus? No, no. That would have been impossible. Even until the door of their house shut out the sight, did my eyes rest upon them; and then I passed the house again and again, hoping to see their faces at the windows. But, in this I was sorely disappointed."
Mrs. Waverly now lifted her head from the shoulder of her attendant, and sank back again across the bed, uttering, as she did so, a low, quivering moan.
Alice sat for a little while, and then went down and related to Mrs. Grafton all that she had heard.
The day that followed was one of those bright, warm, pleasant days that come, after the first cold season of Autumn, reminding us of departed summer; and reviving, though tinged with a browner hue, some of our summer fancies. We feel, as dwellers of the city, an irrepressible longing to get away where the fields are open and free, and the trees stand motionless in the quiet air.
"Alice," said Mrs. Waverly, as she sat by the window early in the afternoon, and felt the soft pressure of the warm atmosphere — I think I will go out to Laurel Hill. My heart has been drawing me towards that spot ever since morning. You know that dear little Edith was buried there. It will be something to look at her grave."
"Shall I get you a carriage?" replied Alice, somewhat relieved to hear Mrs. Waverly say this; for she had been fearing that she would make another effort to see her children.
"If you please. Tell the driver to be here in half an hour."
It was between three and four o'clock, when Mrs. Waverly accompanied by the faithful girl, who sympathized with her so truly, started for the beautiful Cemetery which lies so romantically on the banks of the Schuylkill River. The loveliness of the day had wooed many from the city, and the road along which they moved, was filled with vehicles; and in more than one family carriage that passed them, did Mrs. Waverly recognize the faces of old friends — now alas! estranged, and deeming her unworthy of a thought.
At the cemetery gate, a large number of horses and carriages showed that many had availed themselves of the warm afternoon to look, for the last time, perhaps, until spring opened, upon the sacred spot where reposed the ashes of those, who, in life were tenderly beloved.
"I will go in alone," said Mrs. Waverly to Alice, as their carriage drew up. "Do stay here until I come back."
Gathering the folds of her veil still more closely about her face, Mrs. Waverly left the carriage, and, passing through the gate, sought out the lovely spot, where the grass was still green, and a few late blooming roses made sweet the earth above the decaying body of one of her children — the last born, but first taken.
Since she was there, a small marble head and foot-stone had been placed at the boundaries of the grave. Eagerly did she bend forward to read the inscription:
EDITH WAVERLY
Daughter of Edward Waverly
Age, One Year.
The mother's name had been deemed unworthy to appear above the grave of her child!
She understood this to be the meaning, and as tears filled her eyes, she glanced upwards, and murmured,
"May I be worthy to join her in Heaven!"
Covering her face with her handkerchief, she bent upon the iron railing that enclosed her babe's resting place, and wept until her feelings lost, to some extent, the almost suffocating pressure that was on them. Then, two or three half-opened rose buds were plucked and thrust into her dress, and then she sat down, to weep again, beside the grave of her child.
How utterly desolate and heart-broken she felt! She had stolen in to sit near the spot where they had buried her infant, feeling that the sad pleasure was a stolen one — feeling that she had no right there.
Vividly came up before her mind the hour, and the feelings of the hour, when this babe was first laid, in joy, upon her bosom, and her glad spirit looked up in unutterable thankfulness. She felt, in imagination, the first touch of its fragrant breath upon her cheek; heard in imagination, the first music of its faint cry; saw the heavenly beauty of its sweet blue eyes, when they first unclosed their lids, and she looked at her own image reflected therein.
For a time, she lost, in these memories, all thought of the present. Her mind was too intently fixed by the living images of her last born, and, as such, best loved. And thus absorbed, for a time we will leave her.
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