CHAPTER XXVI. “NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.”
MEANWHILE, Peg was passing her time wearily enough in prison. It was certainly provoking to be deprived of her freedom just when she was likely to make it most profitable. After some reflection, she determined to send for Mrs. Clifton, and reveal to her all she knew, trusting to her generosity for a recompense.
To one of the officers of the prison she communicated the intelligence that she had an important revelation to make to Mrs. Clifton, and absolutely refused to make it unless the lady would visit her in prison.
Scarcely had Mrs. Clifton returned home, after recovering her child, than the bell rang, and a stranger was introduced.
“Is this Mrs. Clifton?” he inquired.
“It is.”
“Then I have a message for you.”
The lady inclined her head.
“You must know, madam, that I am one of the officers connected with the City Prison. A woman was placed in confinement this morning, who says she has a most important communication to make to you, but declines to make it except to you in person.”
“Can you bring her here, sir?”
“That is impossible. We will give you every facility, however, for visiting her in prison.”
“It must be Peg,” whispered Ida; “the woman that carried me off.”
Such a request Mrs. Clifton could not refuse. She at once made ready to accompany the officer. She resolved to carry Ida with her, fearful that, unless she kept her in her immediate presence, she might disappear again as before.
As Jack had not yet returned, a hack was summoned, and they proceeded at once to the prison. Ida shuddered as she passed beneath the gloomy portal which shut out hope and the world from so many.
“This way, madam!”
They followed the officer through a gloomy corridor, until they came to the cell in which Peg was confined.
The tenant of the cell looked surprised to find Mrs. Clifton accompanied by Ida.
“How do you do, Ida?” she said, smiling grimly; “you see I’ve moved. Just tell your mother she can sit down on the bed. I’m sorry I haven’t any rocking-chair or sofa to offer you.”
“O Peg,” said Ida, her tender heart melted by the woman’s misfortunes; “how sorry I am to find you here!”
“Are you sorry?” asked Peg, looking at her in surprise.
“You haven’t much cause to be. I’ve been your worst enemy, or one of the worst.”
“I can’t help it,” said the child, her face beaming with a divine compassion; “it must be so sad to be shut up here, and not be able to go out into the bright sunshine. I do pity you.”
Peg’s heart was not wholly hardened. Few are. But it was long since it had been touched as it was now by this great pity on the part of one she had injured.
“You’re a good girl, Ida,” she said; “and I’m sorry I’ve injured you. I didn’t think I should ever ask forgiveness of anybody; but I do ask your forgiveness.”
The child rose, and advancing towards Peg, took her large hand in (sic) her’s and said, “I forgive you, Peg.”
“From your heart?”
“With all my heart.”
“Thank you, child. I feel better now. There have been times when I thought I should like to lead a better life.”
“It is not too late now, Peg.”
Peg shook her head.
“Who will trust me after I have come from here?”
“I will,” said Mrs. Clifton, speaking for the first time.
“You will?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you have much to forgive. But it was not my plan to steal your daughter from you. I was poor, and money tempted me.”
“Who could have had an interest in doing me this cruel wrong?”
“One whom you know well,—Mr. John Somerville.”
“Surely, you are wrong!” exclaimed Mrs. Clifton, in unbounded astonishment. “It cannot be. What object could he have had?”
“Can you think of none?” queried Peg, looking at her shrewdly.
Mrs. Clifton changed color. “Perhaps so,” she said. “Go on.”
Peg told the whole story, so circumstantially, that there was no room left for doubt.
“I did not believe him capable of such wickedness,” she ejaculated. “It was a base, unmanly revenge. How could you lend yourself to it?”
“How could I?” repeated Peg. “Madam, you are rich. You have always had whatever wealth could procure. How can you understand the temptations of the poor? When want and hunger stare us in the face, we have not the strength to resist that you have in your luxurious homes.”
“Pardon me,” said Mrs. Clifton, touched by these words, half bitter, half pathetic; “let me, at any rate, thank you for the service you have done me now. When you are released from your confinement, come to me. If you wish to change your mode of life and live honestly henceforth, I will give you the chance.”
“You will!” said Peg, eagerly.
“I will.”
“After all the injury I have done you, you will trust me still?”
“Who am I that I should condemn you? Yes, I will trust you, and forgive you.”
“I never expected to hear such words,” said Peg, her heart softened, and her arid eyes moistened by unwonted emotion, “least of all from you. I should like to ask one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Will you let her come and see me sometimes?” she pointed to Ida as she spoke; “it will remind me that this is not all a dream—these words which you have spoken.”
“She shall come,” said Mrs. Clifton, “and I will come too, sometimes.”
“Thank you,” said Peg.
They left the prison behind them, and returned home.
“Mr. Somerville is in the drawing-room,” said the servant. “He wishes to see you.”
Mrs. Clifton’s face flushed.
“I will go down,” she said. “Ida, you will remain here.”
She descended to the drawing-room, and met the man who had injured her. He had come with the resolve to stake his all upon a single cast. His fortunes were desperate. Through the mother’s love for the daughter whom she had mourned so long, whom, as he believed he had it in his power to restore to her, he hoped to obtain her consent to a marriage, which would retrieve his fortunes, and gratify his ambition.
Mrs. Clifton seated herself quietly. She did not, as usual, offer him her hand. Full of his own plans, he did not notice this omission.
“How long is it since Ida was lost?” inquired Somerville.
Mrs. Clifton started in some surprise. She had not expected him to introduce this subject.
“Eight years,” she said.
“And you believe she yet lives?”
“Yes, I am certain of it.”
John Somerville did not understand her aright. He felt only that a mother never gives up hope.
“Yet it is a long time,” he said.
“It is—a long time to suffer,” she said. “How could any one have the heart to work me this great injury? For eight years I have led a sad and solitary life,—years that might have been made glad by Ida’s presence.”
There was something in her tone which puzzled John Somerville, but he was far enough from suspecting the truth.
“Rose,” he said, after a pause. “Do you love your child well enough to make a sacrifice for the sake of recovering her?”
“What sacrifice?” she asked, fixing her eyes upon him.
“A sacrifice of your feelings.”
“Explain. You talk in enigmas.”
“Listen, then. I, too, believe Ida to be living. Withdraw the opposition you have twice made to my suit, promise me that you will reward my affection by your land if I succeed, and I will devote myself to the search for Ida, resting day nor night till I am able to place her in your arms. Then, if I succeed, may I claim my reward?”
“What reason have you for thinking you should find her?” asked Mrs. Clifton, with the same inexplicable manner.
“I think I have got a clew.”
“And are you not generous enough to exert yourself without demanding of me this sacrifice?”
“No, Rose,” he said, “I am not unselfish enough.”
“But, consider a moment. Will not even that be poor atonement enough for the wrong you have done me,”—she spoke rapidly now,—“for the grief and loneliness and sorrow which your wickedness and cruelty have wrought?”
“I do not understand you,” he said, turning pale.
“It is enough to say that I have seen the woman who is now in prison,—your paid agent,—and that I need no assistance to recover Ida. She is in my house.”
What more could be said?
John Somerville rose, and left the room. His grand scheme had failed.
CHAPTER XXVII. CONCLUSION
“I AM beginning to feel anxious about Jack,” said Mrs. Crump. “It’s almost a week since we heard from him. I’m afraid he’s got into some trouble.”
“Probably he’s too busy to write,” said the cooper.
“I told you so,” said Rachel, in one of her usual fits of depression. “I told you Jack wasn’t fit to be sent on such an errand. If you’d only taken my advice, you wouldn’t have had so much worry and trouble about him now. Most likely he’s got into the House of Reformation, or somewhere. I knew a young man once who went away from home, and never came back again. Nobody ever knew what became of him till his body was found in the river, half-eaten by fishes.”
“How can you talk so, Rachel?” said Mrs. Crump, indignantly; “and of your own nephew, too!”
“This is a world of trial and disappointment,” said Rachel; “and we might as well expect the worst, because it’s sure to come.”
“At that rate there wouldn’t be much joy in life,” said the cooper. “No, Rachel, you are wrong. God didn’t send us into the world to be melancholy. He wants us to enjoy ourselves. Now I have no idea that Jack has jumped into the river. Then again, if he has, he can swim.”
“I suppose,” said Rachel, “you expect him to come home in a coach and four, bringing Ida with him.”
“Well,” said the cooper, good-humoredly, “I don’t know but that is as probable as your anticipations.”
Rachel shook her head dismally.
“Bless me!” said Mrs. Crump, in a tone of excitement; “there’s a carriage just stopped at our door, and—yes, it is Jack, and Ida too!”
The strange (sic) fulfilment of the cooper’s suggestion struck even Aunt Rachel. She, too, hastened to the window, and saw a handsome carriage drawn, not by four horses, but by two elegant bays, standing before the door. Jack had already jumped out, and was now assisting Ida to alight. No sooner was Ida on firm ground than she ran into the house, and was at once clasped in the arms of her adopted mother.
“O mother!” she exclaimed; “how glad I am to see you once more.”
“Haven’t you a kiss for me too, Ida?” said the cooper, his face radiant with joy. “You don’t know how much we’ve missed you.”
“And I’m so glad to sec you all, and Aunt Rachel, too.”
To her astonishment, Aunt Rachel, for the first time in the child’s remembrance, kissed her. There was nothing wanting to her welcome home.
Scarcely had the spinster done so than her observant eyes detected what had escaped the cooper and his wife, in their joy.
“Where did you get this dress, Ida?” she asked.
Then, for the first time, all observed that Ida was more elegantly dressed than when she went away. She looked like a young princess.
“That Mrs. Hardwick didn’t give you this gown, I’ll be bound,” said she.
“Oh, I’ve so much to tell you,” said Ida, breathlessly. “I’ve found my mother,—my other mother!”
A pang struck to the honest hearts of Timothy Crump and his wife. Ida must leave them. After all the happy years during which they had watched over and cared for her, she must leave them at length.
Just then, an elegantly-dressed lady appeared at the threshold. Smiling, radiant with happiness, Mrs. Clifton seemed, to the cooper’s family, almost a being from another sphere.
“Mother,” said Ida, taking her hand, and leading her to Mrs. Crump, “this is my other mother, who has always taken such good care of me and loved me so well.”
“Mrs. Crump,” said Mrs. Clifton, “how can I ever thank you for your care of my child?”
My child!
It was hard for Mrs. Crump to hear another speak of Ida in this way.
“I have tried to do my duty by her,” she said, simply; “I love her so much.”
“Yes,” said the cooper, clearing his throat, and speaking a little huskily, “we all love her as if she was our own. She has been so long with us that we have come to think of her as our own, and—and it won’t be easy at first to give her up.”
“My friend,” said Mrs. Clifton, “think not that I shall ever ask you to make that sacrifice. I shall always think of Ida as only a little less yours than mine.”
“But you live in Philadelphia. We shall lose sight of her.”
“Not unless you refuse to come to Philadelphia, too.”
“I am not sure whether I could find work there.”
“That shall be my care. I have another inducement. God has bestowed upon me a large share of this world’s goods. I am thankful for it, since it will enable me in some slight way to express my sense of your great services to Ida. I own a neat brick house in a quiet street, which you will find more comfortable than this. Just before I left Philadelphia my lawyer drew up a deed of gift, conveying the house to you. It is Ida’s gift, not mine. Ida, give this to Mr. Crump.”
The child took the parchment, and handed it to the cooper, who was bewildered by his sudden good fortune.
“This for me?” he said.
“It is the first installment of my debt of gratitude; it shall not be the last,” said Mrs. Clifton.
“How shall I thank you, madam?” said the cooper. “To a poor man this is, indeed, an acceptable gift.”
“By accepting it,” said Mrs. Clifton. “Let me add, for I know it will enhance the value of the gift in your eyes, that it is only five minutes’ walk from my own house, and Ida will come and see you every day.”
“Yes, mamma,” said Ida; “I couldn’t be happy away from father and mother and Jack, and Aunt Rachel.”
“You must introduce me to your Aunt Rachel,” said Mrs. Clifton, with a grace all her own.
Ida did so.
“I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Rachel,” said Mrs. Clifton. “I need not say that I shall be glad to see you, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Crump, at my house very frequently.”
“I’m much obleeged to you,” said Aunt Rachel; “but I don’t think I shall live long to go anywhere. The feelin’s I have, sometimes warn me that I’m not long for this world.”
“You see, Mrs. Clifton,” said Jack, his eyes dancing with mischief, “we come of a short-lived family. Grandmother died at eighty-two, and that wouldn’t give Aunt Rachel long to live.”
“You impudent boy!” exclaimed Miss Rachel, in great indignation. Then relapsing into melancholy, “I’m a poor afflicted creetur, and the sooner I leave this scene of trial the better.”
“Let us hope,” said Mrs. Clifton, politely, “that you will find the air of Philadelphia beneficial to your health. Change of air sometimes works wonders.”
In the course of a few weeks the whole family removed to Philadelphia. The house which Mrs. Clifton had given them, exceeded their anticipations. It was so much better and larger than their present dwelling, that their furniture would have shown to great disadvantage in it. But Mrs. Clifton had foreseen this, and they found the house already furnished for their reception. Through Mrs. Clifton’s influence the cooper was enabled to establish himself in business on a larger scale, and employ others, instead of working himself, for hire. Ida was such a frequent visitor, that it was hard to tell which she considered her home—her mother’s elegant dwelling, or Mrs. Cooper’s comfortable home.
For Jack, a situation was found in a merchant’s counting-room, and he became a thriving young merchant, being eventually taken into partnership. Ida grew lovelier as she grew older, and her rare beauty caused her to be sought after. If she does not marry well and happily, it will not be for want of an opportunity.
Dear reader, you who deem that all stories should end with a marriage, shall not be disappointed.
One day Aunt Rachel was missing from her room. It was remembered that she had appeared singularly for some days previous, and the knowledge of her constitutional low spirits, led to the apprehension that she had made way with herself. The cooper was about to notify the police, when the front door opened and Rachel walked in. She was accompanied by a short man, stout and freckled.
“Why, Aunt Rachel,” exclaimed Mrs. Crump, “where have you been? We have been so anxious about you.”
A faint flush came to Aunt Rachel’s sallow cheek.
“Sister Mary,” said she, “you will be surprised, perhaps, but—but this is my consort. Mr. Smith, let me introduce you to my sister.”
“Then you are married, Rachel,” said Mrs. Crump, quite confounded.
“Yes,” said Rachel; “I—I don’t expect to live long, and it won’t make much difference.”
“I congratulate you, Mrs. Smith,” said Mary Crump, heartily; “and I wish you a long and happy life, I am sure.”
It is observed that, since her marriage, Aunt Rachel’s fits of depression are less numerous than before. She has even been seen to smile repeatedly, and has come to bear, with philosophical equanimity, her nephew Jack’s sly allusions to her elopement.
One word more. At the close of her term of confinement, Peg came to Mrs. Clifton, and reminded her of her promise. Dick was dead, and she was left alone in the world. Imprisonment had not hardened her as it so often does. She had been redeemed by the kindness of those she had injured. Mrs. Clifton secured her a position in which her energy and administrative ability found fitting exercise, and she leads a laborious and useful life, in a community where her antecedents are not known.