Part 8 (1/2)

Home the poor broken-hearted girl went, and the baby was left in my keeping till the morrow, when, according to agreement, I was to hand it over to the good sisters. It was destined to be otherwise, however. That evening a gentleman called at my house; he was a bachelor, well to do in the world, and hearing the story, which it was necessary to tell him, in order to explain the child's presence, he asked me with pardonable curiosity to let him see the baby. When he took her in his arms she smiled so sweetly upon him, and crowed so joyously, that his heart was touched, and he could not bear to think that the poor helpless babe should be made to suffer for the sins of its parents; he asked me to let _him_ have the child, promising that he would adopt her, and do for her as if she were his own.

I suggested to him the scandal such a measure would give rise to, and urged him not to place himself in such an unenviable position, but he insisted that he was willing to let society have its fling, and that if I would consent to the child's adoption, he would take the responsibility attached to it.

What was I to do? The man was well off, and had conceived a fancy for the child. As for the world's sneers, if he could afford to laugh at them why should I refuse him the gratification of performing a n.o.ble action? I handed the child over to his care, having first procured from him written papers of adoption, and little Beatrice was installed in her new home. A nurse was procured for her, and everything that money could procure was provided for her comfort. The gossips sneered and wagged their heads as they spoke of the ”adopted” child, insinuating that there were stronger ties than those of mere philanthropy to bind Mr. Richards and the child together, but he, quite unconcerned, paid no attention to their hints and innuendoes, and tried so far as lay in his power to make the child comfortable and happy. When she attained the age of five years he procured a governess for her, and had her instructed thoroughly in all that go to make up a modern education as she grew older.

But a cloud soon appeared on the horizon of the child's career. Mr.

Richards became ill, and was ordered by his medical adviser to a Southerly climate. He was obliged to sell his estate and place little Beatrice in Mrs. Thompson's boarding school, where she continued for a few years till the return of her adopted father. He came, it is true, but the seeds of a fatal disease had been implanted in his system, and had taken a deadly hold; in a few months he was no more, and as nearly all his money had been eaten up in paying travelling and medical expenses, poor Beatrice was left once more not only without a friend but without a penny in the world. Mr. Richards had paid her school fees annually in advance, and as at the time of his demise several months of the term paid for were unexpired, Beatrice had a comfortable home secured for her at least during that period; for the future she would either have to perform menial services at the school, or go out in the cold world without a friend or protector. The former was considered by the poor girl preferable to going she knew not where, and so she accepted the offer of a situation as housemaid, kindly proffered to her by Mrs. Thompson _out of pure charity_ at two dollars per month less than the previous occupant of the situation.

Poor Beatrice had a hard time of it as housemaid. Her former companions took a fiendish delight in ordering her about till her life became perfectly unbearable. She had but one friend to whom she could unreservedly pour forth her troubles, her Sunday-School teacher, Miss Flint. To this lady she gave an account of her history, so far as she was able, and asked her for advice and a.s.sistance. Miss Flint, being both sensible and charitably disposed, advised her to leave her present position, having first procured a suitable one elsewhere, and she promised to exert herself to this end.

Among the numerous acquaintances of Miss Flint was Mrs. De Beaumont, a Southern lady of means, whose husband held a high official position in New Orleans. Mrs. De Beaumont had, in order to avoid the yellow fever epidemic, taken up her residence temporarily in Montreal, and was now with her two daughters about to return to her Southern home. The education of the latter young ladies had been somewhat neglected, and Mrs. De Beaumont was anxious to procure as governess and travelling companion a young lady of moderate means and unlimited ability.

Here, then, was an opening for Beatrice. On the recommendation of Miss Flint, coupled with certificates from the various professors at Mrs.

Thompson's school, the poor girl was duly installed in an easy and, to her, lucrative position. She was not long settled in her new home when Mr. Hartley, brother of Mrs. De Beaumont, fell violently in love with her, and, contrary to the wishes of his relations, insisted on paying her open attention. The poor girl had been so long accustomed to being buffeted and slighted in every way that her heart fairly gave way before his pa.s.sionate wooing, and, although Mrs. De Beaumont frowned on her angrily, and the rest of the family snubbed her grievously, yet Beatrice felt so happy in having some one in whom she could confide that she bore all their petty annoyances with the utmost forbearance, and refused steadily to take the slightest notice of them.

Mr. Hartley was a planter of considerable wealth. He had long lived a bachelor's life; so long, indeed, that his friends never thought he would marry, and each one often unconsciously counted how much of the property would eventually become his. Mrs. De Beaumont was particularly displeased when she heard his open avowal of his attachment for her governess, for, though Hartley was not an old man, he being at that time only about forty-six years old, yet she had hoped that her daughter would have inherited a portion of his vast wealth, which was now about to be transferred to a stranger, without friends, fortune or name. In spite of this secret antipathy to the match, Mrs. De Beaumont openly pretended the greatest friends.h.i.+p for Beatrice, for, being a woman of the world, she saw clearly how matters would stand in a few years, and she could not afford to break either with her brother or his intended wife.

The wedding came off with all the aristocratic splendor of an F. F.

V. ceremonial. The dusky coachmen and footmen were resplendent with gorgeous liveries and wedding favors, their white teeth glistening in the sun as they grinned from ear to ear, perfectly happy and contented.

After the ceremony the newly-married pair went for a brief tour through the Eastern States and Canada, returning to Mr. Hartley's plantation, where Mrs. Hartley was called upon by all the leading families in the vicinity, and took her place with as much grace as though she had been ”to the manner born.” Mrs. De Beaumont greeted her sister-in-law affectionately (at least to all outward appearances), and invited her to visit her old home frequently; in fact all those who were aware (and who was not) that Mr. Hartley had settled every penny of his fortune on his wife and her prospective offspring were lavish of their attentions to their beautiful, and now immensely wealthy, neighbor.

When her first baby, a little girl, was born, Mrs. Hartley wept bitterly and refused (like Rachel) to be comforted. Her husband could not understand it at all, and was greatly grieved that she should be so down-hearted when they had both every reason, to be happy. Beatrice besought him to forgive her weakness, and explained that it was only now that she was a mother that she fully realized the anguish her own mother must have suffered at parting with her, and she implored him as he loved her to exert himself to find her mother and make her happy. Had his wife told him to lie down whilst she drove a carriage-wheel across his neck, Mr. Hartley would have unhesitatingly obeyed her; how readily, then, he set about finding what most men are so glad to be without, viz., a mother-in-law, can easily be imagined. He promised his wife that so soon as business permitted him he would take steps to discover her mother's whereabouts, but that night he was awakened out of a deep sleep by cries of terror from his wife; she had had a dream, she said, that her mother hung over a precipice, looking up to her for help, which, while she hastened to give, she saw her mother sink into the yawning abyss, uttering shrieks of agony. Hartley was beside himself with fright; he thought his wife would lose her reason, and so he quieted her by a.s.suring her that he would write the next day to get information, acting on which he would set out immediately on his search. In the morning he despatched a letter to Mr. F---- in Montreal, instructing him to obtain what information he could respecting a girl called Ellen MacNee who had lived in former years with Mrs. Rogers; in reply he was informed that the girl left the city, no trace being procurable. He then inserted advertis.e.m.e.nts in several Canadian newspapers, informing the public that if Ellen MacNee would correspond with X. Y. Z. she would hear of something to her advantage. But in vain did the fond husband seek the mother of his blue-eyed darling, now grown pale with deferred hope and anxious care, and when the latter proposed that they should personally go to Montreal in search of their missing relative he readily acquiesced, feeling a.s.sured that, even if they were unsuccessful, the excitement of travel and occupation would restore the bloom to his wife's cheeks and preserve that health which, was now apparently on the wane.

In a few days they had made preparations for an extended tour, and ere a week had pa.s.sed they were snugly quartered in the St. Lawrence Hall, Montreal. The day after their arrival they called on me to know if I could a.s.sist them in their search, bidding me spare no expense in order to effect the desired object. I promised them every a.s.sistance in my power, and at once placed myself in communication with all those whom I had known to have any dealings with Beatrice's unfortunate mother. It was truly painful to see the anxious face of the young woman as she came daily to me to enquire if I had heard any news, and when I showed her a letter from Mr. MacNee, her mother's eldest brother, stating that his sister had gone to New York as nurse, she immediately persuaded her husband to give chase. Their efforts were in vain, however. The girl, it was true, had taken service in New York, but had subsequently left there for her home in Glengarry, and had never been seen since either there or in New York. Detectives having again been employed to a.s.sist in tracing her movements, it was discovered that she had returned by rail to Montreal _en route_ to Glengarry, but here all traces vanished, and the supposition was either that she had committed suicide, or met with some accidental death. Beatrice would have it, however, that she was still alive, and would leave no stone unturned to find her. It was suggested that New York should again be visited, as the probability was that she returned there after her trip to Montreal; various other plans were thought of, and some of them, doubtless, would have been acted upon, had not a new light shone in upon the scene.

At the outset of the proceedings I had communicated with the princ.i.p.als of the various Houses of Refuge in this city, and, although the authorities had done their utmost to facilitate our search, so far we had failed to advance in any way. At this time, however, I received a communication from the Bishop, informing me that he thought he could help us, and when I called on him, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, he told us that he had been visited by a hardened creature, whose name did not concern us, and who, in antic.i.p.ation of a reward which she had heard was offered for the recovery of the recluse, disclosed the fact that she had, under an a.s.sumed name, become a sister of charity, and was at present an inmate in a convent in ---- street, where we would, doubtless, be able to recognize her.

Beatrice became quite excited at the news, and insisted on rus.h.i.+ng off at once, but her strength failed her, and she fell fainting on a sofa.

By great persuasion she allowed us to drive her home on the promise that she would be allowed to accompany us on the morrow. The next day we entered a carriage and drove to the Convent; we agreed that Beatrice should go alone to meet her mother while we remained downstairs. Running into the room where her mother was, the poor girl fell on her neck and covered her with kisses. But no responsive greeting met the impetuous child, the woman stared at her with a wild hazy stare as if to inquire, Who are you? What do you mean by these extravagant caresses?

But if she failed to recognize her child she did not fail to recognize me, and by some strange a.s.sociation of ideas she seemed to wander in thought back to her past life, and the hot blood mounted to her temples.

When she became calmer I explained to her how we had come there, and the object of our visit. She was touched at the proofs of her daughter's affection, and the hot tears rolled rapidly down her furrowed cheek, but she steadily refused to leave the inst.i.tution. In vain the poor girl pleaded, and Mr. Hartley and myself joined in our entreaties that she would accompany her daughter and her husband. Finding all our arguments of no avail I advised Mr. Hartley to let the poor creature have her way till the reality of the situation had come home to her, recommending him to allow his wife to call frequently at the Convent to see her mother.

This advice the indulgent husband acted upon, and day after day Beatrice would go and sit for hours conversing with her parent, sometimes obtaining permission to take her for a walk or a drive, and secretly longing, though never expressing it in words, that her mother would accompany her back to her home in the South.

So far the excitement had kept Mrs. Hartley up, but after a time a reaction set in which culminated in a wasting fever, and prostrated the poor creature on a bed of sickness. This, though apparently disastrous, ended happily for all. Beatrice's mother, so long as _she_ was the object of pity, shrank from all communication with her rich relatives, but now that her child was in need of a.s.sistance, she flew to her with a mother's impetuosity, and anxiously watched by her couch day and night, while the poor thing tossed and raved in delirious paroxysms. Mr.

Hartley summoned Dr. Hickson to his wife's bedside, but that astute pract.i.tioner wisely foretold that the magnetic influence of her mother's presence would do more for his patient than any drugs or medicines, and, accordingly, he contented himself by prescribing a sleeping-draught, leaving other agencies to do their work.

In a couple of weeks Mrs. Hartley rallied, and ere long she became convalescent, and even cheerful. She used to chat with her mother for hours together, and the fourth week after the latter's arrival she was able to go out for a drive accompanied by her and the baby, who had accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Hartley in all their travels. The little girl and her grandmother soon became great friends, and when, Beatrice being strong enough, her mother would have returned to her convent life, the baby's smiling face did what all persuasion had failed to do, and bursting into tears, the aged penitent folded the darling to her breast and declared that she would never part from it again. Beatrice's joy knew no bounds; and as for Mr. Hartley, he was perfectly satisfied to know that his wife was happy. In a few days they made preparations for a journey to the South, and ere long Mrs. Hartley had the satisfaction of seeing her mother snugly ensconced at her own fireside, living as it were over again, and enjoying in the care of her daughter's child, the maternal pleasure which had hitherto been denied her. Ere leaving Montreal Mr. Hartley, at his wife's request, erected a handsome monument in Mount Royal Cemetery to the memory of the humane man, who, regardless of the jeers and scoffing of gossiping scandal mongers, had braved public opinion, and saved to the world a good wife, an affectionate daughter and a loving and tenderhearted mother.

During all this time, it may be asked, what had become of Jack Rogers, one of the princ.i.p.als in my narrative?

Jack was fairly wild at the thought of his sweetheart going into an inst.i.tution. He would have married her on the spot and braved all his father's anger. But the girl showed equal self-denial, and was much more sensible; she saw that, by consenting to marry a penniless gentleman, she would certainly injure him, without in any way benefiting herself.

She knew his father sufficiently well to feel sure that, were he aware of his son's relations with her, not one but _both of them_, would be ignominiously turned out of doors. So, consoling her paramour with this questionable bit of comfort, she tore herself away, saying coolly that he would soon forget and marry some one in his own station in life. But, though she nerved herself to speak in this strain before him, when alone she broke down entirely, and sobbed till her heart nearly broke, for the poor girl loved him dearly, and, poor though he was, would have married him and worked for him, if necessary. She saw, however, that his prospects would be utterly blasted were he to disclose his position to his father; and she unselfishly took on herself _the whole_ of the punishment for a sin of which she was scarcely guilty, or, at any rate, less highly culpable than he.

Jack would fain have put a pistol ball through his head, and doubtless would have done so had the pistol been handy; but his pistols, like everything else he possessed, were out of order, and were at the moment in Mr. Costen's hands, where they lay in a disintegrated condition till the young gentleman's blood had got some degrees cooler. Still, he could not help thinking how his folly and thoughtlessness had ruined the hopes of a poor innocent girl, and he longed for some opportunity for going abroad, or partic.i.p.ating in some excitement to enable him to muse less moodily on the past.