Lily Pearl and The Mistress of Rosedale

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE GOLDEN CLASP RELINKED

Lillian Hamilton followed her guide with unsteady step along the hall toward the little front parlor where her heart was to take up the broken link which had been for so many years severed in the chain of her eventful life; and her thoughts stood still with a mingled sensation of awe and fear, as her shrinking feet bore her forward to the relinking.

The door opened, and opposite on a sofa sat two young people, evidently in close conversation. Lillian stepped back.

"'Make omens, go make omens,' Crazy Dimis once said, you remember." It was Willie who was speaking, but Mrs. Gaylord interrupted him.

"Omens will make themselves sometimes without our help, my boy. Lily, dear Lily, the hour has come for you to gather them." Mrs. Hamilton stepped forward into the room. "Here is a lady, my child, who wants to see you," and she motioned Willie to come to her as she darted back into the hall. Without a moment's hesitation, the boy dropped from his seat and sped across the floor after his usual manner, for the old timidity had left him during his years in Boston; but the tearful eyes of the visitor were upon him.

When the door closed Lily said, "Did I understand that you wanted to see me?" She had risen from the sofa, and now stood before the new-comer, her large, dreamy eyes full of wonder and amazement.

"Lily Pearl!" fell from the quivering lips in a low minor strain, as the mother bird cries for its lost. "Lily Pearl! My Lily! My baby!" and the pleading arms were outstretched. With a shriek of excitement and joy the young girl sprang forward, and the head was once more pillowed on on the breast where so many years ago in infancy it had rested for a few short moments.

"My mother! It is, it must be, my mother!" Tears such as seldom moisten woman's eyes fell in a baptismal shower on the beautiful face that lay so lovingly over the wildly throbbing heart, where the sweet flowers of God's purest affections had blossomed, faded, died. The minutes flew past on airy wings, and still the mother and daughter remained clasped in each other's arms, and heart pulsated against heart, and life mingled itself with life, until parent and child were bound together, never to be rudely torn asunder until the icy hand of death should break the welded link. Raising the head tenderly, she looked into the lovely face long and lovingly. "Pearl's noble brow and expressive mouth," she said at last. "But they were right; you have your mother's eyes, my darling. May they never weep such hopeless tears as have mine."

"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?"

"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 nobler 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 circumstances, 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. Gaylord'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, pushing 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. Gaylord'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. Gaylord 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 shore?"

"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 ship 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 Fanny 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. Gaylord 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 God; 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 sunshine 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. Gaylord 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 petition.

"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. Gaylord 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 passed, 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, "Fanny, 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 Fanny, who took it in her own without a word. Her eyes turned to the face of Mrs. Gaylord, 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 Fanny's eyes, and Lily, wishing 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 gratitude 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 gratitude 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."

Lily had placed an arm about the weeping woman, as she whispered "Fanny, you do not know how much I love you. I have given you any amount of trouble, have been selfish and indolent, oftentimes grieving you with my bad temper and willful ways. Will you forgive me?"

She did not speak, but an arm gently stole around the neck of the suppliant, while the ladies looked on with moistened eyes.

Then Lily said, "Under the white marble yonder lies Fanny's mother and my friend. She loved us both, and if she were here now her soft, blue eyes would brighten with my great joy." She had turned toward her mother as she said this, and her own beautiful orbs glistened as she talked.

Fanny bent her head, and for the first time in all the years kissed the glowing face of the poor "little Phebe." "You are the one to forgive," she said, bluntly. "I have been cold and harsh, but it was not because I did not want you. The years have been lonely ones with you away, and I could not be reconciled to your leaving us after once more being thrown back into my home; and you are going to return no more."

"No, Fanny; we will ever be sisters, and you must come to me. Besides, we will have time to talk this over, for I am to remain through the summer with Mrs. Gaylord, and will visit you many times. My dear mother, let us go to the lake for Willie while Mrs. Gaylord rests herself in the cool parlor." And the two walked together down through the garden to the meadow brook, thence under the pines, where the carpet of fragrant leaves lay soft and smooth, until reaching the summit of the gentle slope, Lily espied the object of her search stretched out upon the green grass under the old oak tree, where he had often watched her fragile form in the little open boat as she gleefully pulled the long-stemmed lily from the clear waters, where the 'pearls were holding it fast,' until she was hidden from his view by the thick cloud of scalding tears that had welled up from his desolate heart. Lily remembered it all now, as she stood for a moment and looked at him.

"You do not know how sorry I am for him," she said, turning her eyes full upon her companion. "He will be very lonely without me."

"My child, tell me truly, do you love Willie Evans?"

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CHANGES AND REVOLUTIONS

Pearl Hamilton, at nineteen, had been a clerk in a flourishing mercantile house, nobly supporting a widowed mother on his limited salary; but at thirty-six, by dint of industry and "good luck" as his fellows called his success, he was the owner of an elegant home on Broad street, which his conservative parent refused positively to occupy. Besides this he had a good business and an income adequate to his every desire. When the call was made for seventy-five thousand men to maintain the dignity of a free people he hastened to enroll his name. "Why not?" he inquired of his weeping mother, who protested against the separation; "I leave only you to mourn me if I find a soldier's grave, and what can this short existence do for me but to crown it with duties well done? There are not many who would have fewer ties to break or a less number of hearts to make wretched." He went, and in the first great battle was taken from the ranks helpless as we have seen.

Mrs. Hamilton returned to her friends in Philadelphia buoyant and happy. Still it was sad for her to look upon the wreck of a once proud intellect, and when the mother's eyes turned upon her with their greetings she was glad that it had been in her heart to smooth over the parent's transgressions. But how would Pearl feel? How could she reconcile him to all that had been? Would he forgive when the whole truth was revealed? These thoughts troubled her, and when at last he arrived in the city on an unlimited leave, and she looked into his fine manly face, her heart rebuked her for the distrust she had experienced. Mrs. Cheevers had been told the whole story of the finding and waiting, and the uncle had many times vented his indignation at "the foolish idea of leaving her so near the water, where she might at any time be compelled through inclination or force of arms to take another ride not quite so successful in its ending," but Lillian had said: "I could not bring her here dear uncle just at this time, for fear the struggling intellect would again totter. Then Pearl – how could I present her to him? It is better as it is, for I want my husband's advice regarding the future."