Stories of Many Lands Part 15

Patrick started, and his dull eyes flashed, but with his old cunning he replied, "Show me first the brandy."

Mr. Raeburn took a flask from his pocket and poured out a gla.s.s nearly full. With a trembling, outstretched hand, the poor sot cried, "Yes, yes, yer honor, give it to me, and on my word, on my sowl, I'll tell."

The gla.s.s was given him, and he drained it with a sort of frantic relish; then almost immediately, and very hurriedly, began his story.

"Molly's father is Squire Phillips, a mighty clever lawyer and a rich man. He lives at Newburgh, on the Hudson, forninst Fishkill; you mind the town?"

"Yes, and I have heard of Mr. Phillips; go on."

"I should have said he has an office in Newburgh, but he lives on a fine place up the river, out of town, a couple of miles or so. You see, when ill-luck sent me over from Ireland, where I lived in ease and plenty, never taking up a spade but for devarsion, after a hard day following the hounds or riding steeple-chases, I lived with Mr.

Phillips as gardener. But he and I niver could agree, and so parted; and soon after my Biddy, who was the cook, was discharged for taking a drop too much just. You see she fell down stairs with the tea-tray.

So she had a spite against the master on my account, and against the mistress on her own account, and vowed by all the saints she 'd be aven with them. After we settled in New York, many's the trip she took up the river to prowl about the place (women is quare cratures, yer honor) for a chance to balance accounts. But she never got a shy at them till one afternoon, just before dark, she found little Miss Mary, Mistress Phillips's one child, playing alone on the river-bank, out of sight of the house; it's likely she 'd run away from a lazy nurse. My Biddy wasn't one of the kind that dilly-dallies or shilly-shallies: she pounces on the child like a hawk on a chicken, stops its mouth so it could n't as much as peep, and carries it into a wood near by and hides till dark. Then she takes it over to Fishkill, where she has friends, who lend her proper clothes for the child, and give it a drink that hushes its crying like magic just. Then she takes the night-boat for New York, and in the big, crowded city the child was as completely lost as the small chicken I likened her to would be if the hawk should drop it in a wide sea-marsh. There was a great hue and cry about 'the mysterious disappearance of the only child of John Phillips, Esq.,'

(just as if no poor, hard-working man ever lost an only child!) but most of the newspapers drowned her, I believe. Biddy kept her mighty close for a time, and sheared off her curls, but niver a hound of a detective smelt at our door.

"I always told Biddy that trouble would come of this same matter sooner or later, and sure had n't we a power of trouble with Molly herself,--what with her pining and crying, (though Biddy soon learned her to cry _silent_,) and her sickly turn, and her ungrateful disposition? And didn't she forsake us at last,--me a lone widower, and the poor motherless boys?"

"Ah, Magee, what an awful hypocrite you are!" exclaimed Mr. Raeburn; "but go on."

"What more do you want to know, thin?"

"How old was the child when your wife stole it?"

"I should say that the child was a trifle over three years old when Mrs. Magee adopted her," replied Patrick, with imposing dignity.

"Are Mr. and Mrs. Phillips both living?"

"It 's not ten days since I was towld they were, yer honor."

"I start for Newburgh to-morrow morning, with Molly--Miss Phillips,"

resumed Mr. Raeburn; "but you must remain where you are, in close confinement, at least until we have ascertained if your statement be true. If it be found so, I will do my best to effect your release.

Meanwhile, I hope you will improve the time in repenting of your past life, and resolving to begin a better, for you are a great sinner, Patrick."

"Arrah, yer honor, don't be too hard on a poor man! And sure you won't lave me without an' other comforting drop of brandy?"

"You can have more if the doctor prescribes it again. He will know what is best for you. But I hope you will think on what I have said.

If you wish to be a better man, you shall not want for help."

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Raeburn, but I doubt it's too late. 'It's mighty hard to tache ould dogs new tricks,' but if you 'll spake a good word for me to the doctor about the brandy, I'll try."

At bedtime Molly kissed her father and mother Morton good night with tender and tearful emotion, but without a word,--her heart was too full. On reaching her pleasant chamber, where her trunk stood ready packed for the journey, she sank on her knees beside her dear little bed, and prayed for the parents she was about to leave, and for those she was about to seek; for her generous friends, the Raeburns, and for poor, sinful Patrick Magee, who needed somebody's prayers so much.

When she laid her head on her pillow, she could not sleep, but lay in a tremulous, excited state, half joy, half sorrow. Then Mrs. Morton came in to kiss her once more, and to tuck her in, as she used to do when Molly first came to her a sad and feeble child. As she bent to kiss her she fell on her neck and wept, saying, "My child, my child, how can I give you up?"

"O mother, dear!" replied Molly, embracing her, "you must never give me up. I must still be your child as well as _hers_."

"Do you want _very much_ to go to her, darling?"

"Yes, though you have been so good, so _good_, and I love you very dearly, I have always had a sort of blind yearning in my heart for her.

It seems to me that the cry of my infancy, 'Mamma!' 'Papa!' which the cruel blows of Mrs. Magee hushed, has always been whispering in my soul, and _must_ be answered. But if I love them, and they love me ever so much, I shall love you and dear father Morton all my life and into G.o.d's forever."

"It is well, dear child, and the Lord's will be done. Good night!"

Molly was wakened early in the morning by the carol of an oriole, but she could make nothing of his song but "Good by, good by, good by!" and the clambering roses by her window seemed sending in sweet farewell sighs. Soon after breakfast, Mr. Raeburn drove up in his carriage, and so Molly set out to seek her fortune and her parents.

CHAPTER IV.

It was the afternoon of a cool, showery summer day, when Mr. Raeburn and Mary drove through a handsome stone gateway, and up an avenue of maples, to the fine old-fashioned mansion of Mr. Phillips. As they stood on the steps, Mr. Raeburn noticed that Mary had been much agitated by recognizing scenes once familiar to her baby eyes, and he begged her to try to be calm. "Remember," he said, "we have no positive, reliable evidence that you are the lost child of Mr. and Mrs.

Phillips. You must not suddenly proclaim yourself. They have probably despaired so long that they will be unable to credit your story, if too abruptly told, and any repulse would be very painful to you. Leave it to me to let the joyful light gradually in upon their minds, and second me when I refer to you."

"I will do so; trust me," replied Mary, in a low voice.

When the servant came to the door, Mr. Raeburn inquired for Mr.

Phillips only, thinking it best that the first communication should be made to him alone. They were shown into a pleasant library, opening on to a piazza by French windows, looking towards the river. Mary seated herself on a sofa, in the most shadowed part of the room, and kept her face hidden by a thick veil. She sat in silence, except that to her ear the beatings of her loving, impatient heart were audible. It seemed to her a long hour that they were kept waiting, though it was probably not more than fifteen minutes. Then the door gently opened, and Mr. Phillips entered. Mary half rose, then sank back, faint with happiness, for she had recognized his face,--_it was that of her dream-father_!

Mr. Phillips was of middle age; the dark-brown curls of his hair were slightly tinged with silver. His face was very thoughtful, if not sad in expression. His form was stately, and his manner courteous and refined,--a gentleman, every inch of him.

He pleasantly greeted by name Mr. Raeburn, who then introduced his companion as "Miss Morton." Mary rose, courtesied, and again sank into her seat. The galloping heart was getting almost too much for her,--she was gasping under her veil.

Mr. Phillips apologized for keeping his visitor so long waiting, and added, "When word was brought me of your arrival, I was a.s.sisting in carrying Mrs. Phillips from her sitting-room to her bedchamber. She is ill."

Mary started, and a new terror seized her.

"Not seriously ill, I hope?" said Mr. Raeburn.

"No, we trust not, now; but she has been very ill from a fever, and is still extremely delicate. She has been a good deal of an invalid for the past fifteen years," said Mr. Phillips with a sigh.

After a plan formed that morning, Mr. Raeburn then requested the opinion of Mr. Phillips, as a lawyer, on an important land claim in which he was interested.

As they talked on and on, Mary still sat silent and motionless. She was hardly impatient any longer, for had she not her father's face to watch, and his voice to listen to?

At length there was a pause; then the two gentlemen began to talk about the lovely scenery around them, the river, the estate, the Phillips mansion and family, and finally Mr. Raeburn said, "I think I have heard, Mr. Phillips, a sad story of your having once lost a little child in some mysterious way. Perhaps at this remote day you will not be unwilling to give me the facts of this loss."

"Certainly not, my dear sir," replied Mr. Phillips, "if you care to hear so melancholy a tale. All I myself know can be soon told. Our first child was a daughter,--a lovely, engaging little creature, the very light of our eyes. She was rather delicate, and most carefully tended and watched till she was past three years of age. Then, one summer day, I invited my wife to accompany me to New York, where I had business, and she had--as what woman has not?--shopping to attend to.

She hesitated, as little Mary's nurse was young and rather thoughtless, but I over-persuaded her and she went, giving at the last moment many charges to the young girl concerning the child.

"I remember how lovingly little Mary kissed us good by that morning, and how, still unsatisfied, she ran after the carriage, commanding the coachman, in a pretty, imperious way she had, to stop till she could get another kiss. I was a little vexed, fearing we should miss the train, yet she was obeyed, lifted up, kissed, and put down into her nurse's arms, and that was the last we ever saw of her. How thankful I have always been that we stopped for her good-by kiss. Many a time since, in my sleep, I have felt that last kiss on my lips.

"We had intended to stay till the afternoon of the next day, in New York, but at evening Mrs. Phillips grew so strangely anxious about her baby girl, whom she had never before left for a night, that we took a late train for home. Just as we reached our station, I noticed a New York boat put off from the landing. I have since thought it was possible our child was on that boat."

Here Mary could scarcely restrain herself from crying out, "She was!

she was!" but she shut her lips and clasped her hands tight, and was still.

"When we reached home," continued Mr. Phillips, "we found all in confusion and consternation, Our darling little one was missing! She had not been seen since five o'clock, at which time she had been left by her nurse fast asleep, and to all human apprehension in perfect safety. On that day she had been allowed to have the range of the house, and taking a freak to have her belated afternoon nap on the drawing-room sofa, was there put to sleep.

"The nurse took the opportunity to have a little gossip with the cook and coachman, in the kitchen, and it was a good deal more than an hour, I believe, though she declared it was not half that time, before she went to look after her charge. The room was empty; the low window was open, and our bird had flown forever!