Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life, Jr. Horatio Alger [best free ereader .txt] 📗

In a short time Mrs. Crump presented herself.

“Won't you come in?” she asked, pleasantly.

“I don't care if I do,” was the reply. “I wish to speak to you on important business.”

Mrs. Crump, whose interest was excited, led the way into the sitting-room.

“You have in your family,” said the stranger, after seating herself, “a girl named Ida.”

Mrs. Crump looked up suddenly and anxiously. Could it be that the secret of Ida's birth was to be revealed at last!

“Yes,” she said.

“Who is not your child.”

“But whom I love as such; whom I have always taught to look upon me as a mother.”

“I presume so. It is of her that I wish to speak to you.”

“Do you know anything of her parentage?” inquired Mrs. Crump, eagerly.

“I was her nurse,” said the other, quietly.

Mrs. Crump examined, anxiously, the hard features of the woman. It was a relief at least to know, though she could hardly have believed, that there was no tie of blood between her and Ida.

“Who were her parents?”

“I am not permitted to tell,” was the reply.

Mrs. Crump looked disappointed.

“Surely,” she said, with a sudden sinking of heart, “you have not come to take her away?”

“This letter will explain my object in visiting you,” said the woman, drawing a sealed envelope from a bag which she carried on her arm.

The cooper's wife nervously broke open the letter, and read as follows:—

“MRS. CRUMP;

“Eight years ago last New Year's night, a child was left on your door-steps, with a note containing a request that you would care for it kindly as your own. Money was sent, at the same time, to defray the expenses of such care. The writer of this note is the mother of the child Ida. There is no need to say, here, why I sent the child away from me. You will easily understand that only the most imperative circumstances would have led me to such a step. Those circumstances still prevent me from reclaiming the child, and I am content, still, to leave Ida in your charge. Yet, there is one thing of which I am desirous. You will understand a mother's desire to see, face to face, the child who belongs, of right, to her. With this view, I have come to this neighborhood. I will not say where, for concealment is necessary to me. I send this note by a trustworthy attendant,—Mrs. Hardwick, my little Ida's nurse in her infancy,—who will conduct Ida to me, and return her again to you. Ida is not to know whom she is visiting. No doubt she believes you her mother, and it is well. Tell her only, that it is a lady who takes an interest in her, and that will satisfy her childish curiosity. I make this request as

“IDA'S MOTHER.”

Mrs. Crump read this letter with mingled feelings. Pity for the writer; a vague curiosity in regard to the mysterious circumstances which had compelled her to resort to such a step; a half feeling of jealousy, that there should be one who had a claim to her dear adopted daughter superior to her own; and a strong feeling of relief at the assurance that Ida was not to be permanently removed,—all these feelings affected the cooper's wife.

“So you were Ida's nurse,” she said, gently.

“Yes, ma'am,” said the stranger. “I hope the dear child is well.”

“Perfectly well. How much her mother must have suffered from the separation!”

“Indeed, you may say so, ma'am. It came near to break her heart.”

“So it must,” said sympathizing Mrs. Crump. “There is one thing I would like to ask,” she continued, hesitating and reddening. “Don't answer it unless you please. Was—is Ida the child of shame?”

“She is not,” answered the nurse.

Mrs. Crump looked relieved. It removed a thought from her mind which would now and then intrude, though it had never, for an instant, lessened her affection for the child.

At this point in the conversation, the cooper entered the house. He had just come home on an errand.

“It is my husband,” said Mrs. Crump, turning to her visitor, by way of explanation. “Timothy, will you come in a moment?”

Mr. Crump regarded his wife's visitor with some surprise. His wife hastened to introduce her as Mrs. Hardwick, Ida's nurse, and handed to the astonished cooper the letter which the latter had brought with her.

He was not a rapid reader, and it took him some time to get through the letter. He laid it down on his knee, and looked thoughtful. The nurse regarded him with a slight uneasiness.

“This is, indeed, unexpected,” he said, at last. “It is a new development in Ida's history. May I ask, Mrs. Hardwick, if you have any further proof. I want to be prudent with a child that I love as my own,—if you have any further proof that you are what you claim to be?”

“I judged that this letter would be sufficient,” said the nurse; moving a little in her chair.

“True; but how can we be sure that the writer is Ida's mother?”

“The tone of the letter, sir. Would anybody else write like that?”

“Then you have read the letter?” said the cooper, quickly.

“It was read to me, before I set out.”

“By——”

“By Ida's mother. I do not blame you for your caution,” she continued. “You must be so interested in the happiness of the dear child of whom you have taken such (sic) excelent care, I don't mind telling you that I was the one who left her at your door eight years ago, and that I never left the neighborhood until I found that you had taken her in.”

“And it was this, that enabled you to find the house, to-day.”

“You forget,” said the nurse, “that you were not then living in this house, but in another, some rods off, on the left-hand side of the street.”

“You are right,” said the cooper. “I am disposed to believe in the genuineness of your claim. You must pardon my testing you in such a manner, but I was not willing to yield up Ida, even for a little time, without feeling confident of the hands she was falling into.”

“You are right,” said the nurse. “I don't blame you in the least. I shall report it to Ida's mother, as a proof of your attachment to your child.”