Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life

“Eight years since. She is now nine.”

“It must be,” said the lady, in a low voice. “If it is indeed so, how will my life be blessed!”

“Did you speak, madam?”

“Tell me under what circumstances your family adopted Ida.”

Jack related, briefly, the circumstances, which are already familiar to the reader.

“And do you recollect the month in which this happened?”

“It was at the close of December, the night before New Years.”

“It is—it must be she!” ejaculated the lady, clasping her hands while tears of happy joy welled from her eyes.

“I—I do not understand,” said Jack.

“My young friend, our meeting this morning seems providential. I have every reason to believe that this child—your adopted sister—is my daughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at the time of which you speak. From that day to this I have never been able to obtain the slightest clew that might lead to her discovery. I have long taught myself to look upon her as dead.”

“It was Jack’s turn to be surprised. He looked at the lady beside him. She was barely thirty. The beauty of her girlhood had ripened into the maturer beauty of womanhood. There was the same dazzling complexion—the same soft flush upon the cheeks. The eyes, too, were wonderfully like Ida’s. Jack looked, and what he saw convinced him.

“You must be right,” he said. “Ida is very much like you.”

“You think so?” said Mrs. Clifton, eagerly.

“Yes, madam.”

“I had a picture—a daguerreotype—taken of Ida just before I lost her. I have treasured it carefully. I must show it to you.”

The carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet street. The driver dismounted, and opened the door. Jack assisted Mrs. Clifton to alight.

Bashfully, he followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding, seated himself in an elegant apartment, furnished with a splendor which excited his wonder. He had little time to look about him, for Mrs. Clifton, without pausing to take off her street-attire, hastened down stairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand.

“Can you remember Ida when she was brought to your house?” she asked. “Did she look like this?”

“It is her image,” said Jack, decidedly. “I should know it anywhere.”

“Then there can be no further doubt,” said Mrs. Clifton. “It is my child whom you have cared for so long. Oh, why could I not have known it? How many sleepless nights and lonely days would it have spared me! But God be thanked for this late blessing! Pardon me, I have not yet asked your name.”

“My name is Crump—Jack Crump.”

“Jack?” said the lady, smiling.

“Yes, madam; that is what they call me. It would not seem natural to be called by another.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack’s heart at once, and made him think her, if anything, more beautiful than Ida; “as Ida is your adopted sister, that makes us connected in some way, doesn’t it? I won’t call you Mr. Crump, for that would seem too formal. I will call you Jack.”

To be called Jack by such a beautiful lady, who every day of her life was accustomed to live in a state which he thought could not be exceeded, even by royal state, almost upset our hero. Had Mrs. Clifton been Queen Victoria herself, he could not have felt a profounder respect and veneration for her than he did already.

“Now Jack,” said Mrs. Clifton, “we must take measures immediately to discover Ida. I want you to tell me about her disappearance from your house, and what steps you have taken thus far towards finding her out.”

Jack began at the beginning, and described the appearance of Mrs. Hardwick; how she had been permitted to carry Ida away under false representations, and the manner in which he had tracked her to Philadelphia. He spoke finally of her arrest, and her obstinate refusal to impart any information as to Ida’s whereabouts.

Mrs. Clifton listened attentively and anxiously. There were more difficulties in the way than she had supposed.

“Do you think of any plan, Jack?” she asked, at length.

“Yes, madam,” said our hero. “The man who painted the picture of Ida may know where she is to be found.”

“You are right,” said the lady. “I should have thought of it before. I will order the carriage again instantly, and we will at once go back to the print-store.”

An hour later, Henry Bowen was surprised by the visit of an elegant lady to his studio, accompanied by a young man of eighteen.

“I think you are the artist who designed ‘The Flower-Girl,’” said Mrs. Clifton.

“I am, madam.”

“It was taken from life?”

“You are right.”

“I am anxious to find out the little girl whose face you copied. Can you give me any directions that will enable me to find her out?”

“I will accompany you to the place, if you desire it, madam,” said the young man. “It is a strange neighborhood to look for so much beauty.”

“I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far,” said the lady. “My carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your orders.”

Once more they were on the move. A few minutes later, and the carriage paused. The driver opened the door. He was evidently quite scandalized at the idea of bringing his lady to such a place.

“This can’t be the place, madam,” he said.

“Yes,” said the artist. “Do not get out, madam. I will go in, and find out all that is needful.”

Two minutes later he returned, looking disappointed.

“We are too late,” he said. “An hour since a gentleman called, and took away the child.”

Mrs. Clifton sank back, in keen disappointment.

“My child, my child!” she murmured. “Shall I ever see thee again?”

Jack, too, felt more disappointed than he was willing to acknowledge. He could not conjecture who this gentleman could be who had carried away Ida. The affair seemed darker and more complicated than ever.

CHAPTER XXV. IDA IS FOUND

IDA was sitting alone in the dreary apartment which she was now obliged to call home. Peg had gone out, and not feeling quite certain of her prey, had bolted the door on the outside. She had left some work for the child,—some handkerchiefs to hem for Dick,—with strict orders to keep steadily at work.

While seated at work, she was aroused from thoughts of home by a knock at the door.

“Who’s there?” asked Ida.

“A friend,” was the reply.

“Mrs. Hardwick—Peg isn’t at home,” returned Ida. “I don’t know when she will be back.”

“Then I will come in and wait till she comes back,” said the voice outside.

“I can’t open the door,” said Ida. “It’s fastened on the outside.”

“Yes, I see. Then I will take the liberty to draw the bolt.”

Mr. John Somerville entered the room, and for the first time in eight years his glance fell upon the child whom, for so long a time, he had defrauded of a mother’s care and tenderness.

Ida returned to the window.

“How beautiful she is!” thought Somerville, with surprise. “She inherits all her mother’s rare beauty.”

On the table beside Ida was a drawing.

“Whose is this?” he inquired.

“Mine,” answered Ida.

“So you have learned to draw?”

“A little,” answered the child, modestly.

“Who taught you? Not the woman you live with?”

“No;” said Ida.

“You have not always lived with her, I am sure.”

Ida admitted that she had not.

“You lived in New York with a family named Crump, did you not?”

“Do you know father and mother?” asked Ida, with sudden hope. “Did they send you for me?”

“I will tell you that by and by, my child; but I want to ask you a few questions first. Why does this woman Peg lock you in whenever she goes away?”

“I suppose,” said Ida, “she is afraid I will run away.”

“Then she knows you don’t want to live with her?”

“Oh, yes, she knows that,” said the child, frankly. “I have asked her to send me home, but she says she won’t for a year.”

“And how long have you been with her?”

“About a fortnight.”

“What does she make you do?”

“I can’t tell what she made me do first.”

“Why not?”

“Because she would be very angry.”

“Suppose I should tell you that I would deliver you from her. Would you be willing to go with me?”

“And you would carry me back to my mother and father?”

“Certainly, I would restore you to your mother,” said he, evasively.

“Then I will go with you.”

Ida ran quickly to get her bonnet and shawl.

“We had better go at once,” said Somerville. “Peg might return, and give us trouble.”

“O yes, let us go quickly,” said Ida, turning pale at the remembered threats of Peg.

Neither knew yet that Peg could not return if she would; that, at this very moment, she was in legal custody on a charge of a serious nature. Still less did Ida know that, in going, she was losing the chance of seeing Jack and her mother, of whose existence, even, she was not yet aware; and that he, to whose care she consigned herself so gladly, had been her worst enemy.

“I will carry you to my room, in the first place,” said her companion. “You must remain in concealment for a day or two, as Peg will, undoubtedly, be on the lookout for you, and we want to avoid all trouble.”

Ida was delighted with her escape, and, with the hope of soon seeing her friends in New York, She put implicit faith in her guide, and was willing to submit to any conditions which he might impose.

On emerging into the street, her companion summoned a cab. He had reasons for not wishing to encounter any one whom he knew.

At length they reached his lodgings.

They were furnished more richly than any room Ida had yet seen; and formed, indeed, a luxurious contrast to the dark and scantily-furnished apartment which she had occupied for the last fortnight.

“Well, are you glad to get away from Peg?” asked John Somerville, giving Ida a seat at the fire.

“Oh, so glad!” said Ida.

“And you wouldn’t care about going back?”

The child shuddered.

“I suppose,” said she, “that Peg will be very angry. She would beat me, if she should get me back again.”

“But she sha’n’t. I will take good care of that.”

Ida looked her gratitude. Her heart went out to those who appeared to deal kindly with her, and she felt very grateful to her companion for his instrumentality in effecting her deliverance from Peg.

“Now,” said Somerville, “perhaps you will be willing to tell me what it was you were required to do.”

“Yes,” said Ida; “but she must never know that I told. It was to pass bad money.”

“Ha!” exclaimed her companion. “Do you mean bad bills, or spurious coin?”

“It was silver dollars.”

“Does she do much in that way?”

“A good deal. She goes out every day to buy things with the money.”

“I am glad to learn this,” said John Somerville, thoughtfully.

“Ida,” said he, after a pause, “I am going out for a time. You will find books on the table, and can amuse yourself by reading; I won’t make you sew, as Peg did,” he said, smiling.

Ida laughed.

“Oh, yes,” said she, “I like reading. I shall amuse myself very well.”

Mr. Somerville went out, and Ida, as he recommended, read awhile. Then, growing tired, she went to the window and looked out. A carriage was passing slowly, on account of a press of carriages. Ida saw a face that she knew. Forgetting her bonnet in her sudden joy, she ran down the stairs, into the street, and up to the carriage window.

“O Jack!” she exclaimed; “have you come for me?”

It was Mrs. Clifton’s carriage, returning from Peg’s lodgings.

“Why, it’s Ida!” exclaimed Jack, almost springing through the window of the carriage. “Where did you come from, and where have you been all the time?”

He opened the door of the carriage, and drew Ida in.

Till then she had not seen the lady who sat at Jack’s side.

“My child, my child! Thank God, you are restored to me,” exclaimed Mrs. Clifton.

She drew the astonished child to her bosom. Ida looked up into her face. Was it Nature that prompted her to return the lady’s embrace?

“My God, I thank thee!” murmured Mrs. Clifton; “for this, my child, was lost and is found.”

“Ida,” said Jack, “this lady is your mother.”

“My mother!” said the child, bewildered. “Have I two mothers?”

“Yes, but this is your real mother. You were brought to our house when you were an infant, and we have always taken care of you; but this lady is your real mother.”

Ida hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry.

“And you are not my brother?”

“You shall still consider him your brother, Ida,” said Mrs. Clifton. “Heaven forbid that I should wean your heart from the friends who have cared so kindly for you! You shall keep all your old friends, and love them as dearly as ever. You will only have one friend the more.”

“Where are we going?” asked Ida, suddenly.

“We are going home.”

“What will the gentleman say?”

“What gentleman?”

“The one that took me away from Peg’s. Why, there he is now!”

Mrs. Clifton followed the direction of Ida’s finger, as she pointed to a gentleman passing.

“Is he the one?”

“Yes, mamma,” said Ida, shyly.

Mrs. Clifton pressed Ida to her breast. It was the first time she had ever been called mamma. It made her realize, more fully, her present happiness.

Arrived at the house, Jack’s bashfulness returned. He hung back, and hesitated about going in.

Mrs. Clifton observed this.

“Jack,” said she, “this house is to be your home while you remain in Philadelphia. Come in, and Thomas shall go for your baggage.”

“Perhaps I had better go with him,” said Jack. “Uncle Abel will be glad to know that Ida is found.”

“Very well; only return soon.”

“Well!” thought Jack, as he re-entered the carriage, and gave the direction to the coachman; “won’t Uncle Abel be a little surprised when he sees me coming home in such style!”

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.