Family Pride CHAPTER 8.
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Mrs. Watson was sitting in her room one morning, about a week after she had heard of her mother's death, her mind much calmer than it had been since the painful news had reached her, when the matron entered with a bundle of clothing and a bandbox.
"An order has been received for your removal from this uncomfortable home, Mrs. Watson," she said. "Here is a change of clothing and a bonnet, which someone has sent. A carriage is waiting for you at the gate."
"O Mrs. Landry, do not trifle with me!" she said. "I cannot bear it!"
"I would not trifle with you thus, Mrs. Watson. What I say is true!"
"Who sent for me?"
"Indeed I do not know."
"Is anybody waiting for me?"
"No one but the driver. He came alone."
For a few moments, Mrs. Watson paused to take counsel of her own thoughts, and then said firmly, "I will go."
In a brief space of time, she was dressed in the garments which had been sent, and they fitted her as well as if they had been her own. Taking an affectionate and even tearful farewell of the matron, who had been a mother to her, she got into the carriage and was driven off.
A ride of ten or fifteen minutes brought her in front of a neat house, before which the carriage stopped. The driver helped her out and rang the bell. The servant who opened the door, ushered her into one of the handsomely furnished parlors, where she started to perceive, standing in the middle of the floor, in tears, the same little girl she had seen when last repulsed from her father's house.
"Mother!" said the child, advancing hurriedly toward her.
"My child? My little Emily? O, yes! yes! You are my long-lost darling!" she said, catching her to her bosom, after looking into her dark eyes for a moment with a searching yet fond expression.
"My name is Agnes," said the child, with something of doubt in her tone.
"They have only changed your name, that is all. You are my own child! My heart tells me so! But what are you doing here? Whose house is this?"
In answer to this, the child pointed to a small package upon a pier table, which she immediately handed to her new-found relation. It was addressed "Emily Thompson."
On breaking it open, she found it to contain certificates of stock to the amount of fifty thousand dollars, and this short note:
"Your child is restored to you. This house is your own, and also the enclosed property. Forget the past, and be happy."
"Who is here besides you?" she asked, turning to her child.
"No one but the servants. It's your house now," replied the child, looking up earnestly and fondly into her mother's face.
Mrs. Watson again clasped her to her heart, and imprinted kisses all over her blooming young cheeks.
"I fear this is all a fond dream," she murmured to herself, looking earnestly around her. "But where is your grandfather?"
"I don't know," said the child, sadly. "He brought me here an hour ago, gave me a letter which told me all about how I was stolen from you when I was but a little child, and then he kissed my cheek, while a tear fell upon my face, and said, 'I shall never see you again, Agnes. Be a good child. Love your poor mother, who will soon be here, and don't forget your old grandfather, who will never forget you.' Then he held me to his bosom, for a long time. After that he kissed me again, and went away."
The child wept bitterly on making this recital, and the mother's tears flowed as freely.
From that hour, a new morning dawned upon the heart of Mrs. Watson. Her lost one, long mourned for — was restored, and under circumstances more favorable than any she could have hoped for. Still, she could not disguise from herself, after the passage of a few days, that the child pined for her grandfather, towards whom she entertained the most tender affection.
"He said he would never see me anymore," was her only reply, to the oft-repeated hope expressed by her mother, that he would come to them again; and this was generally uttered with a trembling voice, and tearful eyes.
"You loved your grandfather very much?" Mrs. Watson remarked, one day, about a week after she had been restored to her child.
"O yes! For he loved me, and was always good to me. And so was grandma. But I don't know what ailed her for a good while before she died. Almost every day, if I happened to go into her room after she had been alone there for a good while, I would find her crying. If I went up to her, and asked her what ailed her, she would sometimes try to smile, and say that nothing ailed her; but very often she would draw her arm around me, and look for a long time into my face, so strangely that I used to feel afraid. Once, I remember, she said, after looking at me for a good while, as if to herself,
"'How like her mother!'
"Then she startled, as if something had frightened her, and said,
"'You can go downstairs, dear — I wish to be alone.' "
"Then she never told you anything about me?"
"No. But I heard about you often from old Nelly. Once, I remember coming downstairs, and seeing a woman in the passage who looked at me very strangely, so that I felt a little afraid. I went up to grandma, and told her about it. She seemed very much troubled about something, and said I mustn't go down while that woman was in the passage — that she would carry me off if she could."
As the child said this, Mrs. Watson burst into tears, and wept violently for some time. But regaining, at length, her composure, she asked of the bewildered child,
"Did you hear anything more of that woman?"
"O yes. She stayed down in the passage until grandpa came home. He was terribly angry about it, and made the waiter put her out into the street. Old Nelly cried a whole day about it. I heard her say to the waiter that it was a cruel shame, and that no good ever came to people who acted in that way — that Miss Emily, as she called the lady, was the best of the whole of them, and that she would work her finger-ends off for her, if she knew where to find her. After the woman had been put out, I went downstairs, and heard Nelly talking in this way. I listened to all she said, and once or twice asked her who the woman was; but she wouldn't tell me then. But one day, about a week afterwards, she said it was my mother. Oh! how quickly I ran up to grandma, and told her what Nelly had said, asking at the same time, with eagerness, if she was really my mother.
"I never saw grandma so angry as this made her. Her face grew very pale, and she couldn't speak for some time, while I kept asking her if what Nelly had told me, was so. At last she took me upon her lap, and said
"'I am your only mother, Agnes. You have no other. You must not think about the idle stories of the servants. I shall see that Nelly is well-punished for this.'
"O no, grandma, don't punish her,' I said in alarm. 'She didn't mean anything wrong. She only said the woman was my mother.'
"But grandma seemed very angry when she thought about what Nelly had told me, and said something in a low voice that I could not understand, while her face was very angry. Poor Nelly! I never saw her after the next day. Grandpa took her off — no one knew where. I cried for a great many days after she had gone away, for she had always been good to me, and seemed to love me more than all the other servants did."
"Poor Nelly!" murmured Mrs. Watson, half aloud, as Agnes closed the last sentence, while she could with difficulty restrain a gush of passionate tears. "And was your love for me, thus cruelly repaid?" Then, rallying herself, she asked,
"Have you ever heard where Nelly was sent?"
"No. I have often asked the other servants, but none of them knew. But tell me, mother, was it you, indeed, whom grandpa put out of the house?"
"It was, my dear child, your own mother, who was so cruelly treated. But let us try and forget that. The recollection of it is too painful to me. At some future time, when you have learned to know me better, and to love me and to confide in me as indeed your mother — I will explain all to you. For the present, I will merely say, that my offence against my parents, which it seems is not to be forgiven me, was no act for which my child need blush. My father and mother's pride of family was very great. In marrying, I offended this, and was disowned by them. You, by some means, they managed to steal away, and leave me to bear the unspeakable anguish of your loss. But you are again restored to me, and by my father. Thus far he has endeavored to repair the wrong I have suffered, and for all that is past, I forgive him. And as for all that I have done of evil, I hope to be forgiven of my Father in Heaven."
As Mrs. Watson said this, she once more drew her little girl to her bosom in a long and close embrace, kissing her dear young face and watering it freely with her tears.
Time passed on, and Mrs. Watson continued to live in deep seclusion with her daughter. She rarely went out, and then only for the purpose of attending to necessary business. One or two friends of the family ventured to call upon her, and with these a pleasant, though, at first, quite a reserved fellowship was entered into. A year passed, and no word from her father reached her. It was said that he had gone abroad, but even of this, she had no certain news. It might — or it might not be so. Between her and her child, had come to exist the most confiding tender, and unreserved relationship. After having explained the past events of her life fully enough to make Agnes (as she continued to call her) feel satisfied that her mother had been guilty of no moral defection — she ceased to allude to them altogether, but spoke of her father with great kindness, and sighed as earnestly for his return as did her child.
While at the Alms-House, under the kind promptings of the excellent matron, her mind had gradually been elevated to those higher and purer considerations which regard our duty to Him who is the Heavenly Father. It was this which had sustained her while there, and enabled her, when removed from that painful condition to one so pleasant as that which awaited her, to look up still, and bless the divine hand that gave her benefits. The confidence in Divine Providence, upon which her heart continued to repose, she endeavored, as far as Agnes was capable of understanding it, to impart to her. Gradually, she led her young and tender mind to look up to Him who governs all events by infinite wisdom from infinite love, and who, both by prosperous and adverse circumstances, is ever leading us to Himself, that He may bless us with unspeakable blessings. The result of all this, was beneficial in a high degree. Agnes felt the beauty and sacredness of a religious principle in life. Its purity accorded with her innocence. God she felt to be over all and in all, governing events for good.
"Even the absence of your grandfather," her mother said to her one evening, about two years after General Thompson had gone away, while leading her tender mind upward, where alone she had found true peace, "will, I cherish continually the hope — prove ultimately a blessing both to him and us. He will, I feel sure, yet return. He must return. Advanced in years, and alone among strangers, his heart cannot but turn towards you at least, and you will draw him home. I pray for his welfare daily. I pray that he may be restored to us. And I feel every day a strong and a stronger assurance that he will be restored to us, if alive."
At the last word, the voice of Mrs. Watson trembled, while Agnes burst into tears. The thought of death melted down both of their feelings in an instant.
The hour had worn away until nearly the time for retiring for the night. As had been the mother's custom for nearly a year, she opened the Bible, after having recovered her usual calmness of mind, and read a portion of Sacred truth. Then, bending with her child, she offered up to Him, whose ear is ever open to the petitions of His creatures, her humble acknowledgments for past mercies, with prayers for future good, such as His wisdom might see best for her. Nor did she forget the loved absent one, for whose return her heart pined daily and nightly. Thus bending before Him who sees the secrets of all hearts, we will leave, for the present, the mother and her child.
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