A Tale of Philadelphia.
Originally published in Reynolds's Miscellany of Romance, General Literature, Science, and Art (John Dicks) vol.7 #162 (16 Aug 1851).
It was Christmas Eve. But the sounds of revelry and mirth which were wont to be heard in the old farm house of Paul Somers were hushed in sorrow; for the voice of her who sung the sweetest, whose eyes beamed hope and joy to her gray-haired parents, and whose laughter spread mirth in the Christmas carel, was wanting.
Of three children, two were married, and had removed with their families to another state, and Mary, the youngest, was residing with a wealthy lady in Philadelphia, whose earnest solicitations and brilliant promises had succeeded in prevailing on the old couple to allow her to adopt their daughter as her own. They regarded a superior education and other privileges she would enjoy as the summit of human happiness, and when their thoughts would rest on the trial of parting, they were soon banished as selfish. The young girl too added her solicitations, for she saw, in dreams of the future, that wealth which would enable her to accomplish her dearest wish of placing her parents beyond the reach of want. Mary was accordingly the acknowledged heiress of Miss Ailmer. She was now in her seventeenth year, a period of life when sensibility is keenly alive; and although her love for her parents remained untarnished, she preferred visiting them instead of allowing them to visit her; for she feared (alas! for her weakness) to expose herself to the ridicule of her fashionable acquaintance, by acknowledging before them her plain father and mother.
The old people looked forward to her visits with child-like eagerness, and all the means were employed within their humble sphere to enhance her pleasure; but as time passed, these visits became few and far between, months sometimes elapsed, and then a year rolled by; a year which stamped a heavy impress on the brows of the aged pair. A presentiment of diminished love would sometimes intrude itself; but the thought was too agonising to be supported, and many excuses for her absence were framed. Christmas, however, was near at hand, and then she would surely come: and they would induce her to remain with them, for they doubted not she would heed a mother's tears, and a father's prayers, nor leave them in their loneliness to totter, unsupported, to the grave.
But Christmas came without Mary; and the lonely pair, made more lonely by beholding the festivities which surrounded them, heaved heart-drawn sighs as they gazed om the smiling faces which passed their dwelling on their way to the neighbouring village.
"But look ye, Paul!" suddenly exclaimed his wife. "Who can that young gentleman be, who is making such haste towards our house?"
"Some one who has lost his way; or perhaps it is the unknown proprietor of the new house on the hill; or --"
He was interrupted by the entrance of the person in question, who advanced towards them with an air of familiarity, and they were unable to disguise their astonishment as he earnestly shook their hands.
"Why, my good friends, what is the matter? Do you not remember Charles Morton, the little boy who always stopped to take your Mary to school?"
"Yes, yes, and a good boy he was too. Perhaps you are the gentleman who put him in a store in Philadelphia, when he lost his father," said Paul, with an inquiring tone.
"Oh, no," exclaimed the young man; "I am not he; I am Charles Morton himself."
"Charles Morton!—can it be?" cried Mrs. Somers. "Yes, Paul, it is. Look into that face. Years have passed since he went away, and he has now grown to be a man. But, Charles, are we not excusable for forgetting you, when you have allowed so long a time to pass without coming to see us?"
"Yes, my boy," added Paul; "we as well as your other old friends about here, thought you had been called long since to give up your stewardship in this world."
"It would have been more strange had you recognised me," replied Morton, "for of the seven years that have passed since I left you, only two have been spent in Philadelphia. Three I have passed in India, exposed to the enervating influence of the climate, and travelling occupied the other two."
"But Charles—"
"I know what you would ask, Uncle Paul (for so I must still call you): you marvel at my good fortune, and wonder where I obtained means. I left you in sorrow, and knew not whither I was going, or whether kindness or unkindness would be my portion; but heaven protected the houseless orphan. I went into the employment of Mr. Grant, as an errand-boy, in which station I remained a few months, when the lowest salesman became an invalid; I exerted myself to supply his place, which I did so much to the satisfaction of my employer that he allowed me to retain it, and about a year afterwards his health becoming very precarious, hie physicians advised him to travel; be took me as a companion and assistant, and since our return he has placed me in a lucrative office: it would be in vain for me to attempt to express my gratitude towards such a benefactor."
"God bless you, Charles; you have not forgotten us. May you continue to visit us," said Mrs. Somers, with a deep sigh.
"Not much danger of that, my good people: for I expect to come and live among you, and pass many happy hours with you again. Yonder new house on the hill belongs to my wife, whither we shall shortly remove with her father, my benefactor."
Charles enjoyed their surprise a few minutes, and then inquired after Mary, his old playmate.
"She too has gone to the city," said Paul, unable to hide his painful emotion. "We have not seen her for a
year."
It was now Charles's turn to be astonished. He looked inquiringly for a solution of the mystery; but feared to give utterance to his thoughts lest he might lacerate hearts which he perceived had received a wound.
But they told him all. In return he encouraged them to hope, promising to use all his endeavours to remove the barrier which the laws of society had placed between Mary and her parents. On his return to the city, a few days after, Charles called at tho house of Miss Ailmer, where every thing appeared in commotion, as if preparation was being made for some grand event. He remained a long time in the drawing-room waiting Mary's appearance; servants were passing to and fro, some bringing in magnificent bouquets, others filling vases, and one was turning wreaths of white roses around the marble pillars which supported the lofty ceiling. He felt discouraged in his undertaking, whilst contrasting this mansion of luxury and splendour with the humble residence of the farmer, and even thought Mary in some degree excusable. Whilst indulging this train of thought, he heard the sound of footsteps and peals of laughter in the hall, and the next moment two ladies and a gentleman of foreign aspect made their appearance. Charles was unprepared for such a reception, and was thrown into a state of confusion on reflecting that his business was private, and that a request to see Mary alone, perhaps might create suspicion; but now no alternative remained but to request an interview with her. But his embarrassment was greatly increased when the youngest of the ladies replied she was the person whom he desired to see, and would be happy to hear what business he could possibly have to transact with her, at the same time casting a confidential glance at the gentleman on whose arm she leaned.
Charles replied that he had a few words to say to her privately on an important subject.
"Oh, well, say it now then, for I have nothing, or will hear nothing which these friends cannot hear."
But her face crimsoned as she spoke, and she looked so imploringly to Miss Ailmer, at the same time endeavouring to conceal her confusion from the gentleman, that Charles apologised for intruding at this particular time, rose to withdraw. Miss Ailmer and Mary were well pleased with the prospect of so speedy a termination of a visit, which they were both convinced appertained to her parents and her home: but the Count de Langrave, for as such the gentleman now introduced himself to Charles, demanded to know the purport of hie visit in so authoritative and insolent manner, which the proud spirit of Charles could not brook. He replied that his business was not with him, but with Miss Somers.
"It is with me then," was the reply of the count, "for before sunset this day she will be my wife; so what say you to that?"
Charles could scarcely restrain his indignant feelings, but he thus addressed Mary:—"If what I hear is true, of course he is your confidant, and the weighty business with which I am commissioned is merely a request from your parents to come and see them."
This was said jeeringly, as he had no doubt it would be laughed off, not thinking of the possibility of the count's ignorance of Mary's birth. But what was his consternation on beholding Mary pale and agitated with dreadful emotion, almost fainting—Mies Ailmer red with fury—and the Count de Langrave all amazement, gazing from one to the other.
"What is the meaning of all this? Some trick is being played. Where are you from, sir?"
Charles did not allow him to finish hie inquiries, but handing a card, added he might fix any time which
best suited him to afford satisfaction.
All must have been arranged satisfactorily by Miss Ailmer and Mary, for a few days after the Count and Countess de Langrave, with Miss Ailmer, left for Europe, where they expected to reside, with the prospect of visiting their friends in America every few years. Charles was at a loss to know how to communicate the dreadful intelligence to Paul and his wife, but he resolved to go immediately and inform them before they should hear it through any other channel. But his task was not so difficult as he had anticipated; for Mary had written them an affectionate letter, although she placed an immoveable barrier between herself and them.
They seemed heart-broken but resigned, and murmured not.
Two years rolled by, Christmas came again. Paul Somers and his wife were seated in their lonely home, endeavouring to support each the other's heart. Neither mentioned the name of Mary. In her father's house hers was a tale untold. We said it was Christmas, ay, and the day was drawing to a close, and no friend had stepped in to cheer them, not even Charles Morton and his wife.
"But," said Paul, "something has happened; they have not forgotten us, I know. I will just go over and see as soon as I see a friend passing who will assist me up the hill. Perhaps this is one coming now! Oh, no! what a wretched horse, poor thing! and the cart—surely it will soon come asunder. It is coming here. Good God! what does it mean? Father of mercies, what do I see? Mary! oh, no! Mary, is it thee, my child?"
"Father, forgive me—mother, forgive me!" and she fell senseless into the arms of her father. Tears were poured forth and prayers breathed. They thought not whence she came or how; she was with them, that was enough. A loud knock at the door, accompanied by an oath, reminded them of her forlorn situation, when the man who had brought her demanded his money for bringing the luggage go many miles. That evening her tale was told. Her husband proved an impostor, and after impoverishing Miss Ailmer under false pretences and using artful means, left them, unprotected, soon after they arrived in Europe. Miss Ailmer had taken up her abode with a wealthy uncle in Scotland; and Mary, after enduring the keenest remorse, had succeeded in reaching her home through difficulties which would make the stoutest heart shrink to narrate. Again came the yearly festival. Look ye into the little graveyard; three spotless stones are there, side by side, bearing the names of Paul Somers, Rebecca Somers, and Mary de Langrave.