CHAPTER 17.
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Fruitless were all Mr. Waverly's efforts to prevent the escape of the mother and child. Days, weeks, and months passed, during which time, all available means were used to discover their hiding place. A year went by, and yet the separation remained as perfect as if death had interposed his gloomy barrier. Sadder and more silent, had grown the unhappy man. For nearly the whole of this time, the search for Ada had been kept up with the most untiring assiduity, to the almost total abstraction of his mind from business. But, at length, wearied and hopeless, he gave up all active efforts, and paused to see what time would bring forth.
Another year went by, the second since Mr. Waverly had lost his child, and still no tidings of the absent one had reached his anxious ears. One day, about this time, as he was leaving his store, a man in the dress of a farmer met him, and said,
"Do I speak with Mr. Waverly?"
"That is my name," replied the merchant.
"Then I would like to say a few words to you."
The manner of the countryman showed that he had something of importance to communicate. The thought of Mr. Waverly instantly went to his absent child, and as instantly his state of mind was disturbed.
"Walk in, sir," he said, in a voice that marked this disturbance.
Without further utterance on either side, Mr. Waverly and the countryman walked back the full length of the store, until they came to a little private office. On entering this, the door was closed by the merchant.
"Take a chair, sir."
Mr. Waverly's voice was unsteady.
The countryman obeyed, and the merchant took another chair, and sat down immediately in front of him, "Well, sir, what is your business?"
There was an effort on Mr. Waverly's part to seem calm and self-possessed.
The countryman now became embarrassed. Some hesitation ensued, then he said,
"Perhaps I am wrong in this."
"Wrong in what?"
Mr. Waverly spoke in a quick, imperative tone.
"Wrong in the communication I am about to make. I may have been misinformed."
"My dear sir, come at once to the point! Speak out plainly, right or wrong."
"Have you lost a child?"
Mr. Waverly startled, and a flush came into his face.
"O yes! yes!" was his eager reply, bending forward, and grasping the arm of his visitor. "I have lost a child! Do you know where I can find her?"
"No," replied the man, "but, if the child I saw two years ago, in possession of a woman, is yours, I may be able to give some information that will lead to her recovery."
"Two years ago! Just the time when my dear child was stolen from me! O, tell me when you saw her! Tell me all you know!"
"I saw her on the other side of the river," said the countryman. "A little thing, four or five years old."
"Yes, sir. And the woman who had her was a thin, pale, sad looking woman, dressed in mourning."
"The same! The same! Tell me all you know of her."
"I am a farmer, and live near Mount Holly, in New Jersey," said the countryman. "It was in November. I had been to the city with produce, and having some business in Camden, stayed there all night. In the morning I started some two hours before daylight, in my wagon, so as to reach home early. A storm had blown up in the night, and the drifting rain came sharply on the wind from the northeast. At first, when I saw how badly it was raining, I thought it better to wait until the morning broke. But, on reflection, I concluded to make the best of the time that was before me. So I pushed on.
"I had gone about a mile, when I was suddenly startled by the crying of a child a little ahead on the roadside, and the voice of a woman trying to quiet it. You may be sure I felt strangely. It seemed so unnatural for a woman and child to be at this out-of-the way place, in a heavy storm, an hour or so before daylight — that I felt a superstitious fear stealing over me. Involuntarily I pulled up my horse.
"'O, mamma! mamma! It's so dark and cold that I'm afraid. O, mamma! let's go home!' I now heard distinctly uttered, in the most piteous accents."
Mr. Waverly struck his hands together, and gave an exclamation; then murmured,
"Go on! Go on!"
The farmer continued.
"My superstitious fear was gone in a moment. Speaking to my horse, and touching him with the whip, he started ahead again, and in a moment or two I saw a dark form crouching for shelter under a tree. The crying of the child had ceased.
"'Who are you? What are you doing here?' I now called out, as I reined up my horse once more.
"But there was no answer. We were at the edge of a piece of wood, and the darkness was therefore deeper. I could discern a form, but was not able to trace the outline.
"'What are you doing here?' I asked, for the second time.
"'O, sir,' came a faint, imploring voice, 'will you let me ride, with my wet and shivering child, for a short distance?'
"I sprang from my wagon instantly, saying as I did so,
"'Yes, yes; you shall ride in welcome. But why are you here at such an hour, and in such a storm?'
"She made no answer to this, but came forward with the child clasped in her arms. As I placed my hands upon her to lift her into the wagon, I could perceive that her drenched garments were of the finest material. She had no shawl around her. In that she had protected, as far as was possible, the child.
"Some poor maniac! I thought to myself. Some poor unhappy maniac, who has escaped from her friends. 'Sit here,' I said to her kindly, as I fixed for her a place. 'Sit up close against this mattress, and I will lay my great coat over you.'
"Saying which, I drew off my thick overcoat, and placed it around her, as she shrank up close to the mattress, still holding her child close to her bosom. Then speaking to my horse, he started on again.
"'Where are you going, madam?' I asked, after a short time. But I received no answer.
"A little while longer, and then I said, 'Are you very wet and cold, ma'am?'
"'I am wet, but am beginning to feel warmer now, thanks to your kindness.'
"Her words were low and sweet toned, and they went through and through me.
"'Is your child very wet?' I added.
"'Not very,' she replied, in the same remarkably sweet voice. Indeed, sir, I never heard a sweeter voice."
A passing shadow, deeper than that already on his countenance, glanced across the face of Mr. Waverly, and his body swayed to and fro for a moment or two with a nervous motion.
"'Not very,' she replied — the farmer resumed his narrative — 'I had her closely wrapped in my shawl.'
"'Where are you going?' I asked, repeating my first question.
"But she remained silent, as before. Not feeling inclined to press her on this subject, I made no further remark. Silently we rode for nearly an hour, when the dim light of the coming day began to dawn. During all this time, not a murmur was heard from the child. Whether she were sleeping or waking, I could not tell. Many strange thoughts and suppositions passed through my mind, but, of course, all was mere conjecture. I had no clue by which to unravel the mystery of this singular adventure.
"'Are you not cold?' I asked at length. I wished to gain some intelligence from her, and, to this end, sought to break the silence.
"But she did not move, nor reply.
"The light was yet too feeble to enable me to distinguish her person.
"At length' it was broad daylight, and as I turned partly around, I could see the form of the woman I had picked up, but not her face. That was bent down so low upon her bosom, that I could not make out a single feature. She sat perfectly still, and seemed to be sleeping. All her garments were completely saturated with the drenching rain to which she had been exposed. Her dress was that of a mourner.
"'Madam,' said I, at length.
"She startled, but did not look up.
"'How far do you wish to go on this road?' I now inquired.
"It was then that I got the first sight of her countenance, as she raised her head to answer my question. It was, or had been, a beautiful face. But, sir, I shall never forget the first impression it made upon me. It was very thin and white, and its look was one of the deepest sadness. The eyes, too, so full of grief and trouble; yet, so pure and so innocent! I see them even yet."
Mr. Waverly sighed heavily, but uttered no remark. The man went on.
"'Are you going far on this road?' This question I repeated.
"'Yes, some miles, and if you will let me ride with you a little farther, you will do me the greatest favor in the world!'
"Her voice was hoarser than when I heard it some time before; yet musical and sweet."
Again Mr. Waverly sighed. How well did he remember that voice! Could he ever forget it?
"It was plain to me that she had taken cold. The calm, yet sad expression of her face; the steadiness of her eyes, and the even tones of her voice — satisfied me that my first suspicion was wrong. These gave not the slightest indication of insanity.
"'I go as far as Mount Holly,' said I.
"'Just the place I wish to reach," she returned, with a sudden change in her manner. 'O, sir! if you will take me all the way.'
"'That, ma'am, I will do with pleasure,' was my almost involuntary reply.
"What a light flashed into her pale face as I said this. I felt strangely. What could it all mean?"
"Don't linger in these details," said Mr. Waverly, interrupting the man. "Go on! Go on! What became of the woman and child? Where are they now?"
"I took them all the way to Mount Holly," replied the countryman, "and left them in Owen's Hotel. The woman was sick by this time. She would not get out of the wagon at any of the stopping places, to dry her clothes, though I urged her often to do so; and so she remained for many hours in her wet garments. I went home and did not return to Mount Holly for two weeks. Then I called at Owen's to ask about her. They told me that she had been very ill for several days; so ill that the doctor had to be called in. But that she was well again, and had gone away with her child. They said she appeared to have plenty of money, and bought patterns of dresses and other clothing for herself and child, some of which she had made up in the village, and some of which she took away with her."
"Where did she go, when she left Mount Holly?" inquired Mr. Waverly.
"I didn't hear anything more about her," said the man, "for a whole year. And then I learned that about six miles from the village, a strange woman and child were living in the family of a widow lady who owned a farm. I happened over there not long afterwards, and saw her."
"You did! The same woman you picked up on the roadside?"
"Yes, sir. It was the same woman. I am satisfied of that. But she was changed in many things. She wore a plain calico dress, and had something of the air of a person used to the country. Her face was not so pale and haggard as when I last saw her; but rather inclined to cheerfulness in expression. Not until I heard her voice, was I clear as to its being the person I had seen before."
"Is she there now?" asked Mr. Waverly, in an excited voice. "That I do not know, sir. I've had no occasion to visit the neighborhood since. She may or she may not be." Mr. Waverly drew a long breath.
"I heard, while in town today, said the countryman, "something about — about — ." Here he stammered, and seemed confused.
"Something about my unhappy separation from my wife?"
"Yes, sir," replied the man, much relieved by this question.
"And of the abduction of one of my children?"
"Yes, sir. I heard this today, and it struck me that you ought to know about this, which I have been relating to you."
"Thank you! Thank you, sir!" said Mr. Waverly, showing much excitement and agitation of manner. "Yes, I ought to know of this. Yes, yes; this is the child so long lost and so long searched for."
"And the woman?" remarked the stranger, looking earnestly at Mr. Waverly. "The woman? Who is she?"
A doubt had flashed over his mind, as to the real humanity of what he had been doing.
"She?" was the reply, made in much bitterness. "She, sir? Have you not already guessed?"
"She is the child's mother, I presume."
"Yes. She is the wretched woman who destroyed her home, and betrayed those who loved and confided in her. And, not content with this, stole upon me in an unsuspecting hour, and robbed me of my child!"
There was a change in the farmer's manner. Some new light seemed breaking in upon his mind. He had risen and now stood, with his eyes upon the floor, in evident embarrassment and irresolution.
"You last saw her a few miles distant from Mount Holly?" said Mr. Waverly.
"Yes, sir."
"About a year ago?"
"Yes."
"Do you think she is there now?"
"I do not know anything about her, beyond what I have said."
There was a reserve in the countryman's manner, in marked contrast with his previous frank communicativeness.
"What is the name of the woman with whom she was living?" asked Mr. Waverly.
"Her name was, let me see!" It was plain that the man was not trying to recollect the name, but debating with himself whether he should answer the question correctly.
"You remember it, of course," said Mr. Waverly, who had not failed to remark the change to which we have referred. His quick perception left him at no loss to comprehend its meaning.
"Yes, yes. Let my see. It is Blair."
"Blair? And her farm is six miles from Mount Holly?"
"Yes."
"In what direction?"
"To the northeast of the village."
"You can take me to the place?"
"Ye — ye — yes. But I am not going to return home until tomorrow."
"You are not!"
"No, sir."
"At what time will you get home tomorrow?"
"Not before night."
"Humph! That won't suit me. I must go at once. Can anyone in Mount Holy direct me to the house of Mrs. Blair."
"Yes, sir. Almost anyone."
"What is your name?"
"Clemens, sir. But I hope you will not mention me in this business. I would not like to be mixed up with it. I am not altogether certain that I have done right."
"Not done right? It is strange that your mind should take this impression! Certainly you have done right. My child was stolen from me two years ago, and now you have come to tell me where I may find her. Can you make anything wrong out of that? I would think not, my friend. You say your name is Clemens?"
"Yes, that is my name."
"And you live at a short distance from Mount Holly?"
"Yes; a few miles out of the village. But, as I said before, I don't want to be mixed up in this business. It might create a prejudice against me, if anything wrong came of it."
"There can be nothing wrong in a man's getting back his stolen child."
"Stolen is a hard word to use, sir," said the farmer, "especially if the woman who has it in possession, is the child's own mother."
"She has forfeited her title to the name and office," replied Mr. Waverly.
"I know nothing of that. Poor woman! I shall never forget her! I wish I'd known as much as I do now, before I called. I'm too quick to act from my first impulses."
"You don't return home today," said Mr. Waverly, not appearing to notice the man's last remarks.
"No, sir. I will not be home earlier than tomorrow night."
"Very well. I am greatly indebted to you for this information, and will act upon it immediately."
"The man stood in a doubtful state of mind, for some moments, then bowing, coldly he said —
"Good day, sir."
"Good day," returned the merchant.
The former moved away with deliberate steps, and, without being recalled by Mr. Waverly, left the store.
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