Jack's Ward; Or, The Boy Guardian

To one of the officers of the prison she communicated the intelligence that she had an important revelation to make to Mrs. Clifton, absolutely refusing 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 looked at him inquiringly.

"Let me introduce myself, madam, as 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 within 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.

Peg looked up in surprise when she saw Ida enter with Mrs. Clifton.

"What brought you two together?" she asked, abruptly.

"A blessed Providence," answered Mrs. Clifton.

"I saw Jack with her," said Ida, "and I ran out into the street. I didn't expect to find my mother."

"There is not much for me to tell, then," said Peg. "I had made up my mind to restore you to your mother. You see, Ida, I've moved," she continued, smiling grimly.

"Oh, 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 curious surprise. "You haven't much cause to be. I've been your worst enemy; at any rate, 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 now, by this warm-hearted pity on the part of one whom 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 toward her old enemy, took her large hand in hers 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 have thought I should like to lead a better life."

"It is not too late now, Peg."

Peg shook her head.

"Who will trust me when I come out of here?" she said.

"I will," said Mrs. Clifton.

"You will?" repeated Peg, amazed.

"Yes."

"After all I have done to harm you! But I am not quite so bad as you may think. It was not my plan to take Ida from you. I was poor, and money tempted me."

"Who could have had an interest in doing me this cruel wrong?" asked the mother.

"One whom you know well—Mr. John Somerville."

"Surely you are wrong!" exclaimed Mrs. Clifton, in unbounded astonishment. "That cannot be. What object could he have?"

"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 for doubt.

"I did not believe him capable of such great wickedness," ejaculated Mrs. Clifton, with a pained and indignant look. "It was a base, unmanly revenge to take. 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 such as you understand the temptations of the poor? When want and hunger stare us in the face we have not the strength 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."

"After all the injury I have done you, you are yet willing to trust me?"

"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?" pointing 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."

They left the prison behind them, and returned home.

There was a visitor awaiting them.

"Mr. Somerville is in the drawing room," said the servant. "He said he would wait till you came in."

Mrs. Clifton's face flushed.

"I will go down and see him," 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 one desperate cast. His fortunes were desperate. But he had one hope left. 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 entered the room, and seated herself quietly. She bowed slightly, but did not, as usual, offer her hand. But, full of his own plans, Mr. Somerville took no note of this change in her manner.

"How long is it since Ida was lost?" inquired Somerville, abruptly.

Mrs. Clifton heard this question in surprise. Why was it that he had alluded to this subject?

"Seven years," she answered.

"And you believe she yet lives?"

"Yes, I am certain of it."

John Somerville did not understand her. He thought it was only because a mother is reluctant to give up hope.

"It is a long time," he said.

"It is—a long time to suffer," said Mrs. Clifton, with deep meaning. "How could anyone have the heart to work me this great injury? For seven years I have led a sad and solitary life—seven years that might have been gladdened and cheered by my darling's presence!"

There was something in her tone that puzzled John Somerville, but he was far enough from suspecting that she knew the truth, and at last knew him too.

"Rosa," he said, after a pause, "I, too, believe that Ida still lives. Do you love her well enough to make a sacrifice for the sake of recovering her?"

"What sacrifice?" she asked, fixing her eye upon him.

"A sacrifice of your feelings."

"Explain. You speak in enigmas."

"Listen, then. I have already told you that I, too, believe Ida to be living. Indeed, I have lately come upon a clew which I think will lead me to her. Withdraw the opposition you have twice made to my suit, promise me that you will reward my affection by your hand if I succeed, and I will devote myself to the search for Ida, resting not day or night till I have placed her in your arms. This I am ready to do. If I succeed, may I claim my reward?"

"What reason have you for thinking you would be able to find her?" asked Mrs. Clifton, with the same inexplicable manner.

"The clew that I spoke of."

"And are you not generous enough to exert yourself without demanding of me this sacrifice?"

"No, Rosa," he answered, firmly, "I am not unselfish enough. I have long loved you. You may not love me; but I am sure I can make you happy. I am forced to show myself selfish, since it is the only way in which I can win you."

"But consider a moment. Put it on a different ground. If you restore me my child now, will not even that be a poor atonement for the wrong you did me seven years since"—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, faltering.

"It is sufficient explanation, Mr. Somerville, to say 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."

"Confusion!"

He uttered only this word, and, rising, left the presence of the woman whom he had so long deceived and injured.

His grand scheme had failed.

CHAPTER XXXV

JACK'S RETURN

It is quite time to return to New York, from which Ida was carried but three short weeks before.

"I am beginning to feel anxious about Jack," said Mrs. Harding. "It's more than 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, wishing to relieve his wife's anxiety, though he, too, was not without anxiety.

"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. Harding, "and about your own nephew, too?"

"This is a world of trial and disappointment," said Rachel, "and we might as well expect the worst, for it's sure to come."

"At that rate there wouldn't be much joy in life," said Timothy. "No, Rachel, you are wrong. God did not 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, or become food for the fishes. Even if he should happen to tumble in, he can swim."

"I suppose," said Rachel, with mild sarcasm, "you expect him to come home in a coach and four, bringing Ida with him."

"Well," said the cooper, good-humoredly, "that's a good deal better to anticipate than your suggestion, and I don't know but it's as probable."

Rachel shook her head dismally.

"Bless me!" interrupted Mrs. Harding, looking out of the window, in a tone of excitement, "there's a carriage just stopped at the door, and—yes, it is Jack and Ida, too!"

The strange fulfillment of her own ironical suggestion struck even Aunt Rachel. She, too, hastened to the window, and saw a handsome carriage drawn, not by four horses, but by two, 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.

"Oh, 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 am so glad to see you all, and Aunt Rachel too!"

To her astonishment, Aunt Rachel, for the first time in her remembrance, kissed her. There was nothing wanting to her welcome home.

But the observant eyes of the spinster detected what had escaped the cooper and his wife, in their joy at Ida's return.

"Where did you get this handsome dress, Ida?" she asked.

Then, for the first time, the cooper's family noticed 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 Aunt Rachel.

"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 Harding and his wife. Ida must leave them. After all the happy years which they had watched over and cared for her, she must leave them at length.

While they were silent in view of their threatened loss, an elegantly dressed lady appeared on the threshold. Smiling, radiant with happiness, Mrs. Clifton seemed, to the cooper's family, almost a being from another sphere.

"Mother," said Ida, taking the hand of the stranger, and leading her up to Mrs. Harding, "this is my other mother, who has always taken such good care of me, and loved me so well."

"Mrs. Harding," said Mrs, Clifton, her voice full of feeling, "how can I ever thank you for your kindness to my child?"

"My child!"

It was hard for Mrs. Harding to hear another speak of Ida this way.

"I have tried to do my duty by her," she said, simply. "I love her as if she were my own."

"Yes," said the cooper, clearing his throat, and speaking a little huskily, "we love her so much that we almost forgot that she wasn't ours. We have had her since she was a baby, and it won't be easy at first to give her up."

"My good friends," said Mrs. Clifton, earnestly, "I acknowledge your claim. I shall not think of asking you to make that sacrifice. I shall always think of Ida as only a little less yours than mine."

The cooper shook his head.

"But you live in Philadelphia," he said. "We shall lose sight of her."

"Not unless you refuse to come to Philadelphia, too."

"I am a poor man. Perhaps I might not find work there."

"That shall be my care, Mr. Harding. I have another inducement to offer. 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 kindness 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, by my directions, drew up a deed of gift, conveying the house to you. It is Ida's gift, not mine. Ida, give this to Mr. Harding."

The child took the parchment and handed it to the cooper, who took it mechanically, quite 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, like me, this is a most munificent gift."

"You will best thank me 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 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 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. Harding, at my house very frequently."

"I'm much obleeged to ye," said Aunt Rachel; "but I don't think I shall live long to go anywheres. 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 Aunt 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."

"I'm afraid, Mrs. Clifton," said Jack, "Aunt Rachel won't live to wear that silk dress you brought along. I'd take it myself, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be of any use to me."

"A silk dress!" exclaimed Rachel, looking up with sudden animation.

It had long been her desire to have a new silk dress, but in her brother's circumstances she had not ventured to hint at it.

"Yes," said Mrs. Clifton, "I ventured to purchase dresses for both of the ladies. Jack, if it won't be too much trouble, will you bring them in?"

Jack darted out, and returned with two ample patterns of heavy black silk, one for his mother, the other for his aunt. Aunt Rachel would not have been human if she had not eagerly examined the rich fabric with secret satisfaction. She inwardly resolved to live a little longer.

There was a marked improvement in her spirits, and she indulged in no prognostications of evil for an unusual period.

Mrs. Clifton and Ida stopped to supper, and before they returned to the hotel an early date was fixed upon for the Hardings to remove to Philadelphia.

In the evening Jack told the eventful story of his adventures to eager listeners, closing with the welcome news that he was to receive the reward of a thousand dollars offered for the detection of the counterfeiters.

"So you see, father, I am a man of fortune!" he concluded.

"After all, Rachel, it was a good thing we sent Jack to Philadelphia," said the cooper.

Rachel did not notice this remark. She was busily discussing with her sister-in-law the best way of making up her new silk.

CHAPTER XXXVI

CONCLUSION

As soon as arrangements could be made, Mr. Harding and his 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 former dwelling that their furniture would have appeared to great disadvantage in it. But Mrs. Clifton had foreseen this, and they found the house already furnished for their reception. Even Aunt Rachel was temporarily exhilarated in spirits when she was ushered into the neatly furnished chamber which was assigned to her use.

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 residence, or the cooper's comfortable dwelling.

Jack put his thousand dollars into a savings bank, to accumulate till he should be ready to go into business for himself, and required it as capital. A situation was found for him in a merchant's counting-room, and in due time he was admitted into partnership and became a thriving young merchant.

Ida grew lovelier as she grew older, and her rare beauty and attractive manners caused her to be sought after. It may be that some of my readers are expecting that she will marry Jack; but they will probably be disappointed. They are too much like brother and sister for such a relation to be thought of. Jack reminds her occasionally of the time when she was his little ward, and he was her guardian and protector.

One day, as Rachel was walking up Chestnut Street, she was astonished by a hearty grasp of the hand from a bronzed and weather-beaten stranger.

"Release me, sir," she said, hysterically. "What do you mean by such conduct?"

"Surely you have not forgotten your old friend, Capt. Bowling," said the stranger.

Rachel brightened up.

"I didn't remember you at first," she said, "but now I do."

"Now tell me, how are all your family?"

"They are all well, all except me—I don't think I am long for this world."

"Oh, yes, you are. You are too young to think of leaving us yet," said Capt. Bowling, heartily.

Rachel was gratified by this unusual compliment.

"Are you married?" asked Capt. Bowling, abruptly.

"I shall never marry," she said. "I shouldn't dare to trust my happiness to a man."

"Not if I were that man?" said the captain, persuasively.

"Oh, Capt. Bowling!" murmured Rachel, agitated. "How can you say such things?"

"I'll tell you why, Miss Harding. I'm going to give up the sea, and settle down on land. I shall need a good, sensible wife, and if you'll take me, I'll make you Mrs. Bowling at once."

"This is so unexpected, Capt. Bowling," said Rachel; but she did not look displeased. "Do you think it would be proper to marry so suddenly?"

"It will be just the thing to do. Now, what do you say—yes or no."

"If you really think it will be right," faltered the agitated spinster.

"Then it's all settled?"

"What will Timothy say?"

"That you've done a sensible thing."

Two hours later, leaning on Capt. Bowling's arm, Mrs. Rachel Bowling re-entered her brother's house.

"Why, Rachel, where have you been?" asked Mrs. Harding, and she looked hard at Rachel's companion.

"This is my consort, Capt. Bowling," said Rachel, nervously.

"This is Mrs. Bowling, ma'am," said the captain.

"When were you married?" asked the cooper. It was dinner time, and both he and Jack were at home.

"Only an hour ago. We'd have invited you, but time was pressing."

"I thought you never meant to be married, Aunt Rachel," said Jack, mischievously.

"I—I don't expect to live long, and it won't make much difference," said Rachel.

"You'll have to consult me about that," said Capt. Bowling. "I don't want you to leave me a widower too soon."

"I propose that we drink Mrs. Bowling's health," said Jack. "Can anybody tell me why she's like a good ship?"

"Because she's got a good captain," said Mrs. Harding.

"That'll do, mother; but there's another reason—because she's well manned."

Capt. Bowling evidently appreciated the joke, judging from his hearty laughter. He added that it wouldn't be his fault if she wasn't well rigged, too.

The marriage has turned out favorably. The captain looks upon his wife as a superior woman, and Rachel herself has few fits of depression nowadays. They have taken a small house near Mr. Harding's, and Rachel takes no little pride in her snug and comfortable home.

One word more. At the close of her term of imprisonment, 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 often does. She had been redeemed by the kindness of those whom she had injured. Mrs. Clifton found 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 history is not known. As for John Somerville, with the last remnants of a once handsome fortune, he purchased a ticket to Australia, and set out on a voyage for that distant country. But he never reached his destination. The vessel was wrecked in a violent storm, and he was not among the four that were saved. Henceforth Ida and her mother are far from his evil machinations, and we may confidently hope for them a happy and peaceful life.