CHAPTER XXXII
A PROVIDENTIAL MEETING
"By gracious, if that isn't Ida!" exclaimed Jack, in profound surprise.
He had been sauntering along Chestnut Street, listlessly troubled by the thought that though he had given Mrs. Hardwick into custody, he was apparently no nearer the discovery of his young ward than before. What steps should he take to find her? He could not decide. In his perplexity his eyes rested suddenly upon the print of the "Flower Girl."
"Yes," he said, "that is Ida, fast enough. Perhaps they will know in the store where she is to be found."
He at once entered the store.
"Can you tell me anything about the girl in that picture?" he asked, abruptly, of the nearest clerk.
"It is a fancy picture," he said. "I think you would need a long time to find the original."
"It has taken a long time," said Jack. "But you are mistaken. That is a picture of my sister."
"Of your sister!" repeated the salesman, with surprise, half incredulous.
"Yes," persisted Jack. "She is my sister."
"If it is your sister," said the clerk, "you ought to know where she is."
Jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. Her eyes also were fixed upon the "Flower Girl."
"Who is this?" she asked, in visible excitement. "Is it taken from life?"
"This young man says it is his sister," said the clerk.
"Your sister?" repeated the lady, her eyes fixed inquiringly upon Jack.
In her tone there was a mingling both of surprise and disappointment.
"Yes, madam," answered Jack, respectfully.
"Pardon me," she said, "there is very little personal resemblance. I should not have suspected that you were her brother."
"She is not my own sister," explained Jack, "but I love her just the same."
"Do you live in Philadelphia? Could I see her?" asked the lady, eagerly.
"I live in New York, madam," said Jack; "but Ida was stolen from us about three weeks since, and I have come here in pursuit of her. I have not been able to find her yet."
"Did you call her Ida?" demanded the lady, in strange agitation.
"Yes, madam."
"My young friend," said the woman, rapidly, "I have been much interested in the story of your sister. I should like to hear more, but not here. Would you have any objection to coming home with me, and telling me the rest? Then we will together concert measures for recovering her."
"You are very kind, madam," said Jack, bashfully; for the lady was elegantly dressed, and it had never been his fortune to converse with a lady of her social position. "I shall be glad to go home with you, and shall be very much obliged for your advice and assistance."
"Then we will drive home at once."
With natural gallantry, Jack assisted the lady into the carriage, and, at her bidding, got in himself.
"Home, Thomas!" she directed the driver; "and drive as fast as possible."
"Yes, madam."
"How old was your sister when your parents adopted her?" asked Mrs. Clifton.
Jack afterward ascertained that this was her name.
"About a year old, madam."
"And how long since was that?" asked the lady, waiting for the answer with breathless interest.
"Seven years since. She is now eight."
"It must be," murmured the lady, in low tones. "If it is indeed, as I hope, my life will indeed be blessed."
"Did you speak, madam?"
"Tell me under what circumstances your family adopted her."
Jack related briefly how Ida had been left at their door in her infancy.
"And do you recollect the month in which this happened?"
"It was at the close of December, the night before New Year's."
"It is, it must be she!" ejaculated Mrs. Clifton, clasping her hands, while tears of joy welled from her eyes.
"I—I don't understand," said Jack, naturally astonished.
"My young friend," said the lady, "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 I 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 think of 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 as he looked he became convinced.
"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 when we get to my house."
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 our hero followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding, seated himself in an elegant parlor furnished with a splendor which excited his admiration and wonder. He had little time to look about him, for Mrs. Clifton, without pausing to remove her street attire, hastened downstairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand.
"Can you remember Ida when she was first brought to your house?" she asked. "Did she look anything like this picture?"
"It is her image," answered Jack, decidedly. "I should know it anywhere."
"Then there can be no further doubt," said Mrs. Clifton. "It is my child you have cared for so long. Oh! why could I not have known it before? How many lonely days and sleepless nights it would have spared me! But God be thanked for this late blessing! I shall see my child again."
"I hope so, madam. We must find her."
"What is your name, my young friend?"
"My name is Harding—Jack Harding."
"Jack?" repeated the lady, smiling.
"Yes, madam; that is what they call me. It would not seem natural to be called John."
"Very well," said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack's heart at once, and made him think her, if any more beautiful than Ida; "as Ida is your adopted sister—"
"I call her my ward. I am her guardian, you know."
"You are a young guardian. But, as I was about to say, that makes us connected in some way, doesn't it? I won't call you Mr. Harding, for that would sound too formal. I will call you Jack."
"I wish you would," said our hero, his face brightening with pride.
It almost upset him to be called Jack by a beautiful lady, who every day of her life was accustomed to live in a splendor which it seemed to Jack could not be exceeded even by royal state. 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, in a friendly manner which delighted our hero, "we must take measures to discover Ida immediately. I want you to tell me about her disappearance from your house, and what steps you have taken thus far toward finding her."
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 where Ida was concealed.
Mrs. Clifton listened attentively and anxiously. There were more difficulties in the way than she had supposed.
"Can you think of any plan, Jack?" she asked, anxiously.
"Yes, madam," answered Jack. "The man who painted the picture of Ida may know where she is to be found."
"You are right," said the lady. "I will act upon your hint. 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 seventeen.
"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 the little girl whose face you copied. Can you give me any directions that will enable me to find her?"
"I will accompany you to the place where she lives, if you desire it, madam," said the young artist, politely. "It is a strange neighborhood in which to look for so much beauty."
"I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far," said Mrs. Clifton. "My carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your orders."
Once more they were on the move. In due time the carriage paused. The driver opened the door. He was evidently quite scandalized at the idea of bringing his mistress to such a place.
"This can't be the place, madam," he said.
"Yes," said the artist. "Do not get out, Mrs. Clifton. 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 her seat 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 what gentleman could have carried away Ida. The affair seemed darker and mere complicated than ever.
CHAPTER XXXIII
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.
"Then I will come in and wait till she comes back," answered the voice outside.
"I can't open the door," said the child. "It's fastened outside."
"Yes, so I see. Then I will take the liberty to draw the bolt."
Mr. John Somerville opened the door, and for the first time in seven 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?"
"No, sir."
"You lived in New York with a family named Harding, 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'll 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 take me home, but she says she won't for a year."
"And how long have you been with her?"
"About three weeks, but it seems a great deal longer."
"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 promise to deliver you from her, would you be willing to go with me?"
"And you would carry me back to my father and mother?" asked Ida, eagerly.
"Certainly, I would restore you to your mother," was the evasive reply.
"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, you know, and then there would be trouble."
"Oh, yes, let us go quickly," said Ida, turning pale at the remembered threats of Peg.
Neither knew as 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 real mother, of whose existence, even, she was not yet aware; and that this man, whom she looked upon as her friend, was in reality her worst enemy.
"I will conduct you to my own rooms, in the first place," said her companion. "You must remain in concealment for a day or two, as Peg will undoubtedly be on the look-out for you, and we want to avoid all trouble."
Ida was delighted with her escape, and with the thoughts 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 saw fit to impose.
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 since her arrival in Philadelphia.
"Well, you are glad to get away from Peg?" asked John Somerville, giving Ida a comfortable seat.
"Oh, so glad!" said Ida.
"And you wouldn't care about going back?"
The child shuddered.
"I suppose," she said, "Peg will be very angry. She would beat me, if she got me back again."
"But she shan'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 delivering her from Peg.
"Now," said Somerville, "perhaps you will be willing to tell me what it was Peg required you to do."
"Yes," said Ida; "but she must never know that I told."
"I promise not to tell her."
"It was to pass bad money."
"Ha!" exclaimed her companion, quickly. "What sort of bad money?"
"It was bad bills."
"Did 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.
"Why?" asked Ida, curiously; "are you glad she is wicked?"
"I am glad, because she won't dare to come for you, knowing I can have her put in prison."
"Then I am glad, too."
"Ida," said her companion, after a pause, "I am obliged to go out for a short time. You will find books on the table, and can amuse yourself by reading. I won't make you sew, as Peg did," he added, smiling.
"I like to read," she said. "I shall enjoy myself very well."
"If you get tired of reading, you can draw. You will find plenty of paper on my desk."
Mr. Somerville went out, and Ida, as he had recommended, read for a time. Then, growing tired, she went to the window and looked out. A carriage was passing up the street slowly, on account of a press of other 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.
"Oh! Jack!" she exclaimed; "have you come for me?"
It was Mrs. Clifton's carriage, just returning from Peg's lodgings.
"Why, it's Ida!" exclaimed Jack, almost springing through the window of the carriage in his excitement. "Where did you come from, and where have you been all this time?"
He opened the door of the carriage and drew Ida in.
"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 in bewilderment. 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!" repeated the astonished child. "Have I got two mothers?"
"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, Jack?"
"No, I am your guardian," said Jack, smiling.
"You shall still consider him your brother, Ida," said Mrs. Clifton. "Heaven forbid that I should seek to wean your heart from the friends who have cared so kindly for you! You may 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?" asked Mrs. Clifton, in surprise.
"Yes, mamma," answered Ida, shyly.
Mrs. Clifton pressed Ida to her bosom. It was the first time she had ever been called mamma, for when Ida had been taken from her she was too young to speak. The sudden thrill which this name excited made her realize the full measure of her present happiness.
Arrived at the house, Jack's bashfulness returned. Even Ida's presence did not remove it. He hung back, and hesitated about going in.
Mrs. Clifton observed this.
"Jack," she said, "this house is to be your home while you are in Philadelphia. Come in, and Thomas shall go for your luggage."
"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. As you are Ida's guardian," she added, smiling, "you will need to watch over her."
"Well!" thought Jack, as he re-entered the elegant carriage, and gave the proper direction to the coachman, "won't Uncle Abel be a little surprised when he sees me coming home in this style! Mrs. Clifton's a trump! Maybe that ain't exactly the word, but Ida's in luck anyhow."
CHAPTER XXXIV
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, 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.