A CRADLE MYSTERY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXVII, Issue 8360, 13 September 1890, Page 3 (Supplement)

A CRADLE MYSTERY.

BY MRS. OEOIIGIK SHELDON. Author of " Queen Bess," " The Forsaken Bride,'

" Brownie's Triumph," etc.

CHAPTER XLIIL— Continued.) A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD.

Looking around, Mrs. Remington saw Agnes lying back in her chair, pale, faint, and panting, while the letter shook like a leaf in her trembling grasp. " Agnes !" she cried, springing to her side, " what dreadful message has affected you like this ?" The girl hold out the letter to her friend.

" Read it," she whispered, too overcome to say more. " Wait a moment," Mrs. Remington returned, fearing that she would faint entirely away, and quickly going into the kitchen, she brought her a glass of water. "I do not like to see you agitated like this," she said, anxiously, as she held it to her lips; " you are not strong enough yet to bear much excitement; you must lie down —let me help you to bed." But Agnes shook her head. "No, i shall be better presently," she said. "Read the letter." Mrs. Remington took it, without saying more, and, seating herself by the window, read the following strange communication : " My Dear Agnes, -When you read this I shall be locked in the sleep that knows no waking and beyond the reach of either blame or commendation. I cannot tell whether I have done right or wrong in the course which I have pursued, but at all events I trust you will believe that I have tried to act for the best and with the sole object of securing your happiness. You have, all your life, been a dear, kind daughter to me, and I have loved you with a love second only to that which I bore my husband. There aro people who claim that the love of children is the most tender

and sacred of nil affections ; I cannot tell if this be so, I only know that my husband was, next to God, the ono object of my heart's fondest love ; for—l novel' had a child of my own ! "My darling, does this revelation astonish and shock you—does it make you feel as if your mother had not regarded you as tenderly as she ought to have done ? Do nob allow such a thought to make you unhappy, for I firmly believe, even though I feel it to bo my duty to make this revelation, that there are few children who arc loved as fondly as both your father and mother, by adoption, loved you. No, Agnes, you are not my own daughter, and now let me tell you how you were thrown upon my care. "One day, during the summer of IS—. my husband and I were on our way home from a visit to friends in the town of Michigan. It was late in the day—almost evening, when at a small station—in fact at a junction of two roads—a gentleman bearing a little child in his arms, got or board the train. The little ono was f beautiful child, less than a year old, having blue eyes and bright golden hair, and she was very richly dressed. The gentleman a line-looking man of stately presence ant courtly bearing, though looking as if he hat been ill, appeared to be very weary anc kept putting his hand to his head, as if h( was suffering intensely from a headache Presently the little one began to cry, anc this seemed to greatly annoy him. \V< were in a drawing-room car, and there wen only a very few passengers aboard—thret men and an old lady, besides ourselves. "My sympathies were at onco enlis'

! in behalf of the stranger and his little one for I imagined that the man hud been left a widower with this helpless babe on his hands. Ho looked so worn and haggard that at last I left my seat and, going to him, asked him to let me take the baby and see if I could quiet it. He thanked me very heartily and seemed to be greatly relieved as ho gave her to me, for it was evident that he was wholly unaccustomed to the care of it. I wondered, as I took tho child in my arms, why he had no food or comforts for it, while it had only a light worsted shawl wrapped about it; but I thought he was probably only going a short distance and would perhaps get off at the next station. I made my charge as comfortable as I could, then folded it in my arms and tried to hush its fretful cries. In ten minutes it was slumbering peacefully on my lap. The gentleman made no movement to get off at the next station, and as the train was an express from that point to a distant city, I concluded that he must be destined to that place. He sat leaning against the car, looking very worn and weary, while every now and then heavy sighs broke from him. 'The poor man has surely lost his wife,' I said to my husband, ' and been left with this dear little innocent to care for.' He thought it probable, and remarked how pretty and peaceful the babe looked, sleeping so quietly with its little dimpled hands folded upon its breast. Suddenly the gentleman looked around and appeared much relieved to see the child asleep. After a few moments he arose and came to me. 'Thank you, madam, very much for this kindness,' he said, courteously. ' May I trespass upon it still further? Would you mind keeping her a little longer, while I go out upon the platform to get tho air? I have a severe headache' " ' No,' I told him, ' I should not mind ; I should be glad to keep her as long as he cared to leave her with me.' " He bowed his thanks, and passed out at the back of the car. He was tall, r.. .her slight, with light hair thickly sprinkled with grey, dark blue eyes—yours, Agnes, are very like them—and wasevidently a polished gentleman. He stood upon the platform for a few moments, then passed into the car behind us. I thought perhaps he had gone into the smoking-car to smoke. " The train sped on until it was within a mile of the city, and ho did not return. We were to get out when it stopped, and I began to got a little anxious to get rid of my charge, so that I might gather up my own belongings. My husband said he would go and find the little one's father, and he passed out to look through the train for him. " Presently he returned, looking anxious and excited. He could not find the man in |

any of tlio cars behind us. I was sure lie

had not passed through tho one wo were in to the forward cars, but lie insisted upon Koiri£ to see if lie had done so ; but he still

could nob find him. He then called the eon

due tor and laid the matter before him. He

remembered the man, and went at once

upon another thorough search for him. The result was the same—he was nowhere on the

train, and the conductor said that ho must

have swung himself off while it was in motion and with the intention of deserting the child. He remarked that there was a

sharp curve in the road a few miles back, and the train always slackened its speed while rounding it; without doubt the man

had availed himself of that opportunity to get off. "We were in a fearful dilemma. I could not think of leaving my beautiful, helpless charge alone on the train, and yet I did not really like to assume the responsibility of taking it with me. Finally, we concluded that this would bo best, and we did ho, leaving our address with the conductor, so that, in case there was any inquiry made for the lost little one, he could direct its friends where to find it. Ido not need to tell

j'ou after all this, Agnes, that that beautiful babe was yourself.

" Upon reaching homo I fed you, took off your clothing, gave you a refreshing bath, and put you comfortably to bed, where you slept the whole night through. I judged you to be about seven or eight months old, and you seemed to be a perfectly healthy child, although delicately organised. For a day or two you appeared to be a little shy of us— seemed to realise that you were among strangers ; but after that you always awoke with a happy smile for us, and greeted our approach with a happy crow and laugh.

" It was not long before wo became very much attracted to you, and began to dread the appearance of friends to claim you. For months I never heard the door- ring without a sudden heart-sinking. Still, we felt it to be our duty to do everything in our power to restore you to your family. We made many inquiries, and the conductor of the train upon which you were deserted faithfully performed his duty in that respect. But all these efforts proved fruitless ; no one ever came, and we could learn of no one who had lost a child answering to your description, and after nearly a year had elapsed we believed we should never learn

to whom you belonged, and resolved to adopt you as our own. '• The clothing which you wore that day I pub sacredly aside, intending some time

to give it to you and tell you the circumstat - your adoption ; bub wo grew to love yv fondly, and you seemed to return our affection so fully, that we kept putting off the revelation, fearing that it might make you restless and unhappy, by creating a longing that could nob bo satisfied— _ desire to learn your parentage. Your little dress, skirt, shoes, stockings, and so forth, with the light shawl in which you were wrapped, you will find in the box with this letter. I have never looked at them since the day that I put them away, bub I used greab care in doing them up, and I believe you will find them well preserved. There was also a delicate, finelywrought chain, with some initials engraven upon the clasp, about your neck, and that I shall put in the envelope with this, and perchance it may some time lead to your identity ; if ib never should, you will be glad to retain ib as a memento of the mysterious fate which so strangely threw you upon the care of your foster parents. " I have always thought, and still firmly believe, that your father—if that man was your father—was insane ; that he was not responsible for your desertion, for he was evidently an educated and cultured gentleman, who, in his right mind, could never have been guilty of such a deed. He looked as if he had been seriously ill, and was suffering, as I have told you, with severe pain in the head. As long as my husband lived, you know, my darling, that we aimed to give you every advantage which our means would allow, and your childhood, until his death, was a happy one. It has been a matter of deep regret to me that life should have been so hard for you since we lost him. Had my own health been better, I could doubtless have made it easier for you ; but through sunshine and shadow I have loved you, I honestly believe, with all the tenderness which a mother could have bestowed upon her own and only child, and it, is inexpressibly comforting to me to feel that an own daughter could not have rendered sweeter, more devoted service to a natural parent than you have given to me, especially during the years of your poverty and hardship. " I feel that I may nob have long to livo, and am impressed that it is my duty to tell you of this strange incident of your life; but, oh ! my child, I hope it will nob make you love me less. If by any chance, or a kind Providence, you learn in the future who your parents are, I hope and believe you will never cease to remember with affection . her who tried to be a faithful mother to you. "May God bless you, my Agnes—we pave you this name because the first initial npon the clasp of the chain was * A.' —and guard you tenderly always, and make your future life a blessing to yourself and to others. This is the earnest prayer of your loving mother, Mary E Walton. " Mrs. Remington was no less agitated than Agnes had been, by the reading of this wonderful communication. She, too, had grown very pale, and a nervous trembling had seized her ; tears rolled like rain over her face, and heavy sobs choked her utterance, so that she seemed unable to speak, though she made the effort, when the letter dropped from her grasp after she had mastered its contents.

The chain, Agnes— me seo the chain," she managed to say, brokenly, at last.

This roused the young girl, who appeared to have fallen into a troubled reverie. She took up the little package, which she had drawn from the envelopo with Mrs, Walton's letter, but had forgotten in the excitement and emotion which the reading of her strange history had produced'! Unfolding the ti.«sue paper that had been wrapped about it, she held up a simple chain of finely-wrought gold, which was fastened with a pretty clasp with a single ruby set in the centre of it. Turning this over, she read on the back the initials "A. R."and the date, "Sent. 2, IS—.'* '

Without a word, bub wondering what name those letters represented, she passed the chain to Mrs. Remington. The woman eagerly seized it in her trembling hands, and as her eye caught sight of the ruby in the clasp, a quick, sharp cry escaped her. Turning it, she, too, read the initials and date upon the back. The next moment she had slipped from her chair, and lay in a dead faint upon the floor.

CHAPTER XLIV. "STOP!—YOU HAVK CONK PAR ENOUGH!" Agnes, greatly alarmed, sprang to Mrs. Remington's side, begging to know what was the matter ; and at that moment, Max, who had promised to join them there, to accompany them home, entered the room. " What has happened to my mother?" he asked, an anxious look on his face as he knelt beside her. He gathered her in his strong arms and bore her to the bed, while Agnes reached i for the glass of water which Mrs. Remington had brought her but a little while before, and vigorously sprinked hei face. She began to recover almost immediately. " What could have caused such an attack ?" Max inquired. "A strange story which wo have both been reading," Agnes replied, yet wondering why it should have unnerved her friend so completely. l " A story make my mother faint away !" Max returned, incredulously ; " that is the queerest thing I ever heard of. L do not remember that she ever fainted before. Are you better now?" ho gently asked, as Mrs. Remington tried to smile reassuringly. " Yes," she whispered, but her lips quivered with a sudden return of emotion, and quick tears gushed from her eyes as she turned to Agnes, seized one of her hands, and carried it passionately to her lips. Why, mother!" Max exclaimed, " I never saw you so unnerved before What has occurred to upset you so ?" "The chain, Agnes !—bring me the chain again !" she said, in a tremulous tone.

Agnes found it lyin<' upon the floor, brought it, and put into her hands. The excited woman grasped it—almost snatched it in fact—and then burst into a storm of tears, while her companions regarded her with undisguised astonishment.

" Bring the other things !" she said, after a moment or two, and struggling for self control—-"the little dress, shoes, stock iga—everything!" #

Agnes took the several packages from the box,' toro the wrappings from them, and laid them upon the bed beside her friend, a strange feeling of awe and a vague suspicion beginning to creep into her mind as she did so.

I There was a little dress, of finest lawn, richly embroidered ; two tiny skirts, one of cotton, having a dainty edging of lace, the other of flannel, heavy with needlework ; a silken undervest, a pair of hose of the same material, a pair of black kid shoes, which might have fitted a good-sized doll, and a pretty cap of lace and embroidery, together with the light cashmere shawl spoken of in the letter. One by one Mrs. Remington took up the things, caressing them with a reverent touch, while sob after sob burst from her overcharged heart. "Can you not understand?" she cried, looking up into the wondering faces above her. " Agnes,", seizing the girl's hand and drawing her down to her, ♦' do you comprehend?" r

Agnes was trembling so that she could scarcely stand, for it was dawning upon her what it all meant.

"Do you mean— do you think—" she began, with white lips, while her eyes searched, wistfully, the beautiful face upon the pillow. "That I am your mother—that you are my daughter ! Yes, that is just what I mean," replied Mrs. Remington. " These clothes— this chain—all belonged to my baby—to my dear little girl that I have believed to be dead for so many years." " Impossible !" Max now burst forth, and looking almost as pale and agitated as his companions, while Agnes sank into a chair beside the bed and dropped her head upon the pillow by Mrs. Remington's. "I must say this is the most incomprehensible scene to me," the young man continued, in a state of extreme bewilderment. "I think it is very fortunate that I happened to come in upon you two half-dazed women just now, and I should be very glad if you would compose yourselves and explain the situation." " Pi . k, up fcnab letter by the window and read it," Mrs. Remington said, speaking more collectedly than she had yet done ; •'that will explain everything better and more quickly than we can do. Max obeyed, possessed himself of the history which Mrs. Walton had written, and retired to the same chair that his mother had occupied while reading it,

while Mrs. Remington, twining her arm about Agnes' neck, drew her closer to her and whispered: "My daughter ! lb seems too good—too wonderful to be true. And your eyes are like your father's, as she said; your hair, too, and the shape of your forehead ! I wonder I never thought of it before. But I did not dream that my darling lived; I have always supposed that some dreadful ate must have been yours, before they found your father dead in that forlorn place." Agnes clung to her convulsively and weeping. Now she understood why she had experienced that strange thrill that went vibrating through her nei , when, long years before, this beauti' . woman had stooped over her, as she la„ upon the platform at the station at Elgin where she so nearly lost her life, and kissed her upon the forehead. It was the unerring instinct of her nature which had gone out to meet, yet could not recognise, a similar yearning; in the heart of her mother. She could now understand, too, why, within these few last months, she had been so strangely drawn toward her she had even taken herself to task, during the week that she had spent with her, for allowing her heart to go out to her in such a strong and over increasing affection, for it had seemed almost like disloyalty to the woman whom she had always supposed to be her mother. She remembered also, though never before had she been able to account for it, how restful and , content she had felt— a sense of peace and security had seemed to surround her when, after her long illness in the Hotel, she had suddenly aroused to the fact that Mrs. Remington was beside her. It did not seem so wonderful, after all, that she should have addressed her as " mamma," and now every fibre of her being was vibrating to the music of those two words that she had so thrillingly spoken—" my daughter !" Neither could say much ; the moment was too sacred for many words; but they clung to each other with a clasp that was far more eloquent than language. Max, sitting by the window, was much too deeply absorbed to pay them 'any attention. The story which he was reading held all his senses spellbound for the time, and he was oblivious of all else. He, of course, knew all the circumstances of Mr. Remington's sad death, and the loss of the beautiful little girl which had so nearly cost his mother her reason, and he could readily uuderstand what connection this written history had with those events. He finished it at last and laid it down with a wondering sigh. " Well, this is surely a strange romance in real lifo !" he exclaimed, rising and going to Agnes' side. She lilted her face, all wet with grateful tears, and tried to smile at him ; but the effort was too much for her strength ; she broke down utterly again, and winding her arms about Mrs. Remington's neck, sobbed out: "Mother ! oh, my mother !" She had always called Mrs. Walton "mamma," and Mrs. Remington smiled fondly at the peculiar emphasis which she had laid upon the word " mother." Max himself was nearly overcome by this touching scene, and had to struggle a moment before ho could speak. Let me see the chain," he said, presently. Mrs. Remington passed it to him, and he examined it curiously and critically. " You recognised the relationship by this ?" he said, inquiringly. " Yes. I myself purchased it and had it marked with the letters *A.R.,' which stand for Adele Remington, her father having insisted that she should be named for me; and the 2nd of Sept., IS—, is the date of her birth," Mrs. Remington explained. ''And this clothing?" Max continued, pointing to it. " Every article is as familiar as can be," replied his mother, laying her hand tenderly upon it. " I took so much pride in having my baby prettily dressed—l expect every mother does, especially the first one. This flannel skirt was embroidered by a lame girl, who took in such work because she was not able to do anything else, and she was very expert with her needle, as you can see—it is beautifully done. This little under vest I, in a fit of extravagance, gave three dollars for—see how I can remember even the price ! The shoes were bought in Philadephia, just before we went to the springs atSt. Louis. Butthe little cap I made myself. Ah ! how cunning she looked in it, with the little rings of golden hair.peeping out beneath the frill and just shading her pretty blue eyes. Can it be possible, Agnes, that you are the baby grown to womanhood ? And to think that you are going to marry my dear boy ! How wonderful it all is !" Wax flushed with pleasure at this mention of himself, for it told him that, in spite of the fact that his mother had found the child whose place in her heart and home he had held for so many years, he was her "dear boy" still. They continued to talk over the wonderful revelation for some time longer, and then they felt obliged to complete their work, for the day was fast waning and there was considerable yet to be done. With Max's help they finished their packing within a couple of hours, and then Agnes bade a final farewell to the cozy home where for a few months she had been so happy with the woman who had given her a mother's care all her life, and where, too, by her unvarying sweetness, she had won the heart and fortune of the eccentric millionaire. Mr. Trowbridge was no less astonished than our other friends had been upon learning of the romantic revelations of the day. " Well, somehow it seems kind of natural, after all," he remarked, as they were discussing the matter during the evening. " Did you ever notice, youngster, that little trick Agnes has of folding her hands when sitting still ? Look at her now, and then look at your mother." Max glanced from one to the other, and, sure enough, their attitude was exactly the same. " Then there is another thing," continued the observant old man : " when either of them is listening intently, she turns at a peculiar angle a little to the left. I've noticed that many a time." Yes, now that his attention was called to it, Max remarked it also ; a certain tone in Agnes' voice, too, was like his mother's, and he had sometimes been deceived by it.

It was nob difficult for Agnes to call Mrs. Remington "mother," her heart had long yearned to bestow the affectionate title upon her, and she had often congratulated herself of late that she -would soon have the righo to do so—that when she was Max's wife it would be expected of her. But now she would not need to wait for that, and almost involuntarily she at once dropped into the habit of addressing her as such.

The days lengthened into weeks, and these, slipping rapidly by, the wedding day of the young couple drew near. But during all this time nothing had been heard or seen of Laura; she had moved from the place where Mr. Trowbridge had called upon her, and the family often wondered what had become of her.

Agnes often thought of her, with sympathy and regret for her lonely condition ; at times she felt almost guilty to be so happy— to have so much of this world's

! prosperity, while the poor girl had no ! friends, no money, and no home. Several times she had been upon the point of asking Mr. Trowbridge to settle something upon her to continue to allow her at least a portion of the income which he had previously given her mother, but somehow her lips were always sealed when she attempted to do so. She knew that he had no patience with, no sympathy for the girl, for he never heard her name mentioned without betraying his displeasure, and she feared that her plea would be a vain one, even if she could

muster the necessary courage to present it

[To be continued.]

In the course of a few weeks the opening chapters of a new and interesting story, by a well-known author, will be published in our columns.