CHAPTER XLVII.

THE ORPHAN CHILD

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth? That can with studied, shy, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting truth? Curse on his perjur’d arts! —Burns.

Naught so ill As the betrayer’s sin! salvationless Almost. —Bailey.

The intelligence of Aylesford’s death deeply affected both Kate and her aunt. The latter, who had lavished so much of her affection on him, was almost inconsolable. In charity to the dead, and from respect to Mrs. Warren’s feelings, Aylesford’s connection with Kate’s capture was concealed from her.

“Why tear open the wounds of the past?” said Major Gordon, when Uncle Lawrence, from what he thought justice to Kate, would have told the whole story. “He has gone to his account, bitterly repenting, before he died, this act at least. His aunt is childless, and had lavished the chief stock of her love upon him; and to destroy her idol now, will go near to breaking her heart. At least, wait until Miss Aylesford recovers, and can be consulted.”

These arguments prevailed. When Kate’s opinion was asked, she pronounced at once against informing her aunt. “It can do no good to the living, and can but harm the good name of the dead. I freely forgive him. Aunt would go pining all the rest of her days, if forced to believe the truth of my poor cousin.”

But this abnegation on the part of our heroine, cost her many a complaint from Mrs. Warren, who, ignorant of the true cause of Kate’s capture, continued to insist that her niece’s temerity, in riding out unattended, had led to all the perils which had followed. It is probable that the good dame, if she had known that Aylesford was in chase of the refugee boat, when shot, would have secretly laid his death at the door of her niece.

It was long before Mrs. Warren became reconciled to her nephew’s loss. She openly bewailed his death, as the extinction of the family name, “for,” said she, “when you marry, Kate, you know you’ll be an Aylesford no longer.” The cup out of which her “child,” as she now called him, had drunk at his last breakfast; the knife and fork which he had used; and a pair of gloves he had accidentally left on the hall table, were carefully preserved by the old lady, and were annually drawn from their receptacle, on the anniversary of his death, and regarded with tears. Let us not ridicule the fond illusion of the poor creature. She worshipped, in this sacred way, a visionary memory it is true; but the image was a reality in her eyes and therefore dear to her.

They were so careful of her feelings that they spared her even the knowledge of the parentage of the little girl, whom Kate had brought home and now publicly adopted as a sister. That the child had been instrumental in preserving our heroine’s life was the avowed reason of this adoption; and it satisfied Mrs. Warren, though she could not help saying, that “Kate was an odd girl, and often over, paid her debts.” But those, who knew the true history of the orphan, were aware that other considerations also had led to this solemn act.

The Testament, which Uncle Lawrence picked up, and which was subsequently handed to Kate by Mrs. Herman, contained the inscription, “Margaret Rowan, her book, A. D., 1769,” written in Aylesford’s handwriting. The volume was evidently, therefore, the gift of Kate’s cousin to the child’s mother, about the time when his acquaintance with the latter commenced, and before he had, by deserting her and her babe, brought on that broken heart of which she died. The book, as was frequently the fashion then, was carefully covered with cloth, between which and the original sheepskin binding Kate found a paper, the purport of which was that “Charles Aylesford and Margaret Rowan” were lawfully married “on the 10th of December, A. D., 1769.” On the back of this certificate was written, however, in a tremulous, unformed female hand, “I have proof that the within named clergyman was an impostor,” the words being signed, “Margaret Rowan, 1773.” The whole book, inside and out, was much thumbed and blotted with tears. It revealed to Kate, already possessed of other facts in relation to this early aberration of her cousin, a tale of youthful passion, deliberate perjury, and subsequent abandonment, which made her heart yearn to the innocent orphan more than ever.

From chance references made to her mother by the child, from what Kate had heard formerly, and from the results of inquiries she set on foot now, our heroine succeeded in finally filling up the outlines of this humble tragedy, which, if it could have had a Shakespeare to narrate it, might have moved nations and generations, instead of making but a faint echo in its little circle, and then dying away forever. Aylesford, when still a youth comparatively, had met and loved the reduced and orphan daughter of a British officer, who, dying in America, towards the close of the old French war, had left his child and wife penniless strangers in a foreign land. The mother had soon followed the father, and the daughter being left destitute, had sunk into a subordinate position. When Aylesford first met her she was only sixteen, innocent in every thought, and a mere child in her knowledge of life. Occupying the place of a seamstress, in the house of a wealthy female connexion of the Aylesfords, she was thrown in the way of the young man, and readily bestowed her affections on one so much superior in outward bearing to other persons of his age and sex whom she had met. Aylesford had but little difficulty in persuading her to give him a right to elevate her from her dependent position; but he brought forward the prejudices of his family as a reason for having the marriage secretly performed. He chose this method of betraying his victim, because he knew that a false priest could easily be procured, and because he was aware that in no other way could he carry out his base designs on this friendless girl. Accordingly Arrison, who had been the Mephistopheles of this tragedy all along, procured a tool to play the part of a clergyman; and the unsuspecting Margaret became a victim, where she fondly believed she was to be a wife.

More than a year, however, elapsed before she discovered the perfidy to which she had been sacrificed. But when, after the birth of her child, Aylesford’s passion began to cool, Arrison surprised her by insulting proposals, which, on her indignantly rejecting them, and adding that she would expose him to her husband, led to an avowal from the ruffian of the true position in which she stood. She lost no time in charging Aylesford with the deed; a violent altercation ensued, and the sated young man, not sorry for an excuse to quarrel, parted from her forever.

We draw a veil over years that followed. The deserted, heart-broken creature, whom common rumor said had consented to marry Arrison, would not even see that person, but hiding herself from all eyes, sought to earn a humble livelihood by her needle. But the blow, which had ruined all her bright hopes, had undermined her health forever. She was not fitted, either physically or otherwise, to struggle with adversity. From the hour that she learned she was not a wife, she faded slowly but surely. After a few years of severe toil, rendered necessary to obtain food for herself and child, she found herself on the bed of death.

At this crisis, the pride, which had made her reject pecuniary assistance from Aylesford, gave way in view of the approaching destitution of her child. She penned a letter to her betrayer, which would have moved a heart of stone, and which induced him, though he had long since forgotten her, and though he had sworn, when she first declined his money, never to give her or her babe a farthing, to propose supporting the orphan. He would not consent, however, even to do this, unless the child should pass for Arrison’s niece. An annual stipend, promised to his uncle’s former servant, secured the co-operation of the latter. To these cruel terms the dying mother was compelled to accede. Deserted by all the world, she was fain to charge her child to remain with Arrison.

But trembling for the influences the orphan would be brought under, she besought the little one to remember what she had taught of God, and to read, at least once a day, the Testament, her only legacy, which she placed in the daughter’s hands. Perhaps the dying mother would have declined the proffered aid altogether, if it had not been for a secret hope that when Aylesford knew the child he would become interested in it. But this expectation was never realized. Aylesford studiously avoided seeing the friendless orphan, and only remembered her existence when called on to pay her annual stipend.

With these facts before her, no wonder that Kate loved that orphan so much. The mother’s wrongs, not less than the child’s sufferings, appealed to our heroine’s heart. “Little Maggy,” as she called her protege, repaid these feelings with a fervor that was beautiful to see. Never having had any one to love since she lost her mother, the child fairly worshipped our heroine.

Kate took pleasure in instructing the orphan, and in watching the rapid unfolding of this youthful intellect, which promised to be one of rare and precocious power. Yet often a sigh rose to our heroine’s lips, as she thought of the future destiny of her protege, for in that day, even more than in this, such children suffered for the parent’s sin; and Kate foresaw that the cruel sneer, the whispered remark, the cold avoidance, would be almost death to the sensitive nature of little Maggy.

Meanwhile the family at Sweetwater went into mourning for Aylesford, and the marriage of Kate, which otherwise would have taken place immediately, was postponed until the spring. There was a town house in Philadelphia, belonging to the family, and thither it was resolved that they should remove for the winter, partly because Kate wished her protege to have the benefit of teachers, who could not be obtained at Sweetwater, and partly for reasons connected with her large property.

In one particular, the arrangement was fortunate for the lovers, for, about this time, Major Gordon received an appointment in the metropolis.

While these events had been transacting, the British expedition, which burned the Neck, having found itself thwarted in the further measures it proposed, had returned to New York. Count Pulaski, though arriving too late to prevent the destruction of the prizes, succeeded in intimidating the enemy, who abandoned the field, being able to pluck no more laurels except the surprising of a picket, about thirty in number, whom they slaughtered in cold blood. In retiring, the man-of-war which accompanied the expedition grounded in the inlet, when the British, finding they could not get her off, set fire to her, lest she should fall into the hands of the Americans. It was amid the derisive cheers of the patriots, and the echoes of her guns, which went off as they became heated, that the royal troops finally stood out to sea, and took their way, crest-fallen, towards Sandy Hook. They had, indeed, burned a few store-houses, given some thirty dismantled prizes to the torch, and ravaged one or two inconsiderable patriot settlements; but they had failed of the great object of their undertaking, the seizure of the privateers, and had lost the most valuable ship of their flotilla. Taught by the result of this enterprise, they never again vexed the neighborhood, though it continued to be a thorn in their side to the very last month of the war.

This is the proper place to mention that one of the refugees who had escaped into the swamp, was captured the day subsequent to his flight, on his coming forth to seek some food; and that, it being proved that he had committed many atrocities, which brought him within the pale of the law, he was condemned to be hung. The sentence was executed at the Forks, and to this day, as a superstitious tradition goes, his ghost haunts the spot where he expiated his crimes.