Part 41 (1/2)

”Who is 'Pearl,' Mother? And who am I?” The dreamy eyes had put away their beams of ecstacy, and the old wondering light had come back as she asked these questions, ”Who am I? And who is Pearl?”

[Ill.u.s.tration: MEETING OF LILY PEARL AND HER MOTHER.]

”You shall know all, _everything_, my child; but my heart is too full of its present joy to relish the thought of bringing up the hateful past for one moment. But you must know. 'Pearl' is my husband and your father, and a truer or n.o.bler man never lived. We were married before I was as old as you, my darling, while a school girl in Philadelphia, but my mother, who was proud and aspiring, looked with disfavor upon our union, for he was the son of a poor widow. And coming on from her southern home she compelled me by her resistless power to go with her, leaving the idol of my young heart behind--forever as she intended, but it has proved otherwise. In 'Cliff House,' by the sea, you were born; and as I clasped you to my heart, overflowing with maternal love, I said, 'She shall be called Lily-Pearl (_our_ names combined), and then they took you from me, and days after, when reason and consciousness returned, I was told that my beautiful Lily had been 'transplanted to a purer clime,' and my soul was desolate. We traveled in Europe, and every pleasure that could be gleaned from social life and the pleasures of sight-seeing were thrown into my years, yet my heart was unsatisfied. I loved Pearl Hamilton; the little life that had sprung from our union had grievously torn my own in the severing, and nothing could heal the wound. Added to this was the continuous suspicion that a bitter wrong had been done me. The more I thought it over and reviewed the attending circ.u.mstances, the more did this suspicion fasten itself upon my soul. I accused my mother of treachery, attempted to draw from her some explanations regarding certain things, but her superior power always succeeded in silencing my wailing cry, and time rolled on. It was by accident that I heard of a Mrs. g.a.y.l.o.r.d's adopted daughter. George St.

Clair, whom my mother had insisted upon my accepting as her son-in-law, joined the army about the time that I left my home under a mother's curse. With an aunt in New Orleans I found refuge. Here I conceived the idea of drowning my long-endured sorrows in the engrossing cares of the hospitals. Almost a year ago, while nursing my husband, who had been badly wounded, George St. Clair was brought in, who also had been laid aside from duty by a fearful wound. From his sister, who had come to nurse him, I heard the sad story of your disappearance and probable loss.”

Lily had slipped from her mother's knee, and, sitting at her feet, was gazing intently into the dear face, as the dear voice ceased. ”Tell me, O, tell me!” she exclaimed, pus.h.i.+ng back her dark hair with the old childhood's gesture: ”Is Mrs. Belmont your mother, and my--”

”Yes, darling; but notwithstanding all, you shall see and will forgive her! Think, my dear, how strangely we have been led together! Had it not been for that terrible experience I might never have heard of Mrs.

g.a.y.l.o.r.d's adopted daughter, or the resemblance between us. Then how strange was it that, in my first burst of bliss, with feeble hands, not knowing what I did, I should have fastened to your fluttering, struggling life the cord that was to draw us together after so many years of separation! I had called you 'Lily-Pearl,' and the strange appellation could not be lost! Sixteen years afterward, the end of this unbroken cord was again put into my hands, and with a continuous yearning it has brought us together. Old Vina was right! 'De Lord will take care ob His childerns, neber fear!' I know you have many questions to ask and there is much to be told you, but, darling, Mrs. g.a.y.l.o.r.d and your friend will desire to come back to their room and we must not exclude them. First tell me, how is it that he is called your brother?

How did you come here when you were left somewhere on the Maryland sh.o.r.e?”

”Because of my love for the sea and my desire to get out upon the waves 'where the pearls had thrown me, and my beautiful mother had picked me up.' When lying in my trundle bed one night I heard my foster parents talking about 'the five hundred dollars' that had been paid them, and laughed as one said, 'I guess her mother would not think her much of a 'Lily-Pearl' could she see her now.' Lily-Pearl! I asked Maria about it, and she told me that my beautiful mother had cast me off and hers had taken me in, and I ought to love her. But the pretty story grew in my little heart until it became a part of it, and I lived and loved the sea for its sake. I was a pearl, and had grown down where the pearls grew and the waves talked to me about it, and one day as I was wandering on the beach I sprang into a boat and floated out on the billows where I had so longed to go. I was happy, and sang and played with the bright sunbeams on the waters until the night came and a storm arose; and O how the billows roared and the winds howled! My beautiful dream of happiness was gone, and I sank down into the wet, dirty boat, for the rain to pelt and the salt waves to dash over me. I do not know when it was, but Willie's father found me. On board his s.h.i.+p we came to Boston. Upon its arrival he took me to his home, only a little way from here, where I was to be a companion to his crippled boy, who has been the dearest brother to me ever since. He is four years older than I. His mother before she died gave him to me and told me never to leave him, but his sister f.a.n.n.y did not like my being there for her to support, and so I went away. Mr.

Ernest, the pastor of the church yonder, told Mrs. g.a.y.l.o.r.d about me, and I came here to read to her; here you have found me. But, Mother, I can never forget or forsake him. It was he who taught me to seek knowledge and read good books and love G.o.d; all I am he put it into my heart to be.”

”My dear child, your mother would have you cherish tenderly these early tokens of love. But call your friends, darling, and let us talk together of what must be. It is hard after all I have experienced to compel my hand to sever a single earthly tie; but what can be done to lighten the blow shall not be withheld.”

It took days to clear away the mysteries and shadows and dig thorns out of the path where so many feet were to walk unitedly, although not together at all times under the suns.h.i.+ne and the clouds; but at last the work was done and Mrs. Hamilton was to return to Philadelphia alone, as she had come. Here she was to meet her husband and break to him the joyful tidings that the dead was alive and the lost found. Here also she was to make ready for her daughter's reception as soon as the cold winds of autumn should sweep down from the north, and Mrs. g.a.y.l.o.r.d desired to return to her southern home.

”I shall have no wish to remain here alone,” was her plaintive conclusion when the results were being finally talked over. ”No more music lessons or German from poor Mrs. Rouche, Lily, and another heart will grieve at your going.”

”Better so than to have any one sorrow at my coming,” and Lily's happy face beamed with joy. ”You will remain a few days longer?” she pleaded, breaking a short silence, and the wistful eyes seconded the pet.i.tion.

”Until after the sabbath,” was Mrs. Hamilton's quiet response. ”Somehow I have a fancy to go to that little church yonder; it reminds me so much of one I attended in the suburbs of a Scottish village. And then too, darling, I have been thinking I must have your full length photograph to show your father on my return, for it will be hard to make him believe my story without this pretty face to corroborate it.” And she patted the full-rounded cheek fondly. ”If Mrs. g.a.y.l.o.r.d will favor me with hers I will be very glad to be its possessor.”

”Do you not want Willie's?” The mother smiled.

”Are you so jealous for your friend? Certainly I do want his just as I saw it yesterday when coming up to the door of the hotel--carriage, Rover and all. It was a beautiful picture, and I have no desire that it should fade from my memory. But we are to ride to his home after dinner, I believe. Will the sister give me welcome? I must thank her for the part she has taken in the preservation of my child!”

Mrs. Hopkins met them at the gate, for she had become pleased with the frequent visits of her stylish acquaintance at the hotel, notwithstanding her indignation at the interference in regard to her wishes as to ”Phebe's” remaining ”where she could make herself useful”; but that was pa.s.sed, and to-day she was smiling and genial. When the carriage stopped Lily called out: ”Where is Willie?”

”Down by the pond, I suppose; he went out immediately after dinner.”

”Go with me, Mother, will you? It is lovely, and I want you to see the spot where I have spent so many hours listening to the waves as they came around the sand-bar.”

Mrs. Hamilton consented, and the ladies alighted while Lily was saying, ”f.a.n.n.y, my mother has come to thank you for all your kindness and care of her child for so many years. Mrs. Colonel Hamilton--my mother!”

This introduction was given hurriedly and with a tremulous voice. The lady extended her hand to the astonished f.a.n.n.y, who took it in her own without a word. Her eyes turned to the face of Mrs. g.a.y.l.o.r.d, who answered the inquiring look.

”Did Willie not tell you? It is true the drifting waif has found a home and loving friends who have long mourned for her, and her days of orphanage are over.”

There were tears in f.a.n.n.y's eyes, and Lily, wis.h.i.+ng to turn the current of thought, said playfully, ”It was by this gate that my little bare feet entered alone to reconnoitre in advance of my guide, to hand over the information that I did not like to scour knives or wash potatoes, and I 'wouldn't do it either!'”

”You were very good to take in my poor child and give her shelter so long, while my heart was breaking to find her. I have a great debt of grat.i.tude to pay, and if I can cancel the obligations due for any expense she may have been to you or yours, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to do so.”

Mrs. Hopkins found her voice now, and with great distinctness informed the lady that there was no debt to pay, either of grat.i.tude or money.

”Willie told me that 'Phebe' had found a friend, and I was glad, but did not know that a mother had come to take her away from us forever.” Here she broke down, and, turning, hid her face in her hands.

”Not forever, my dear Mrs. Hopkins, for while we both shall live the friends of these dark days shall not be forgotten or forsaken.”