THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES //, '^ \ ^:. ^N' THE unclaimed" ^iMcrn'srvd. \ > ? f > / / ) f ? f > ) / f > > > f f f > THE UNCLAIMED DAUGHTER V ; !H Hliisttrij uf Hur umii Diuj. EDITED BY C. G. H., AOTBOR OF "THE COl.ATE OF LINW OOD," " Aiiy HARKINQION," &C. f > ? > f f / / / POK THAIT rusi/ taktn ■ Provu li/'r. IIATTI: niNNS AND GOODWIN. I.OXDOX: WUITTAKKU AND CO. ; HAMILTON AND CO. KDINBUROII : OLIVEH AND BOYD. IlUllLIN ! J. M'GLASIIAN. THE UNCLAIMED DAUGHTER A MYSTEEY 01^ OUE OWN DAY. EDITED BY C. G. H., AUTHOR OF "THE CITRATE OF LINWOOD," "AMY HARRINGTON." ETC. ' Who was her fsrhcr? WtiO uiis hfr motlltir' Had she It bi&tLT .' Hitd she a brother ? Oh, it w;is pitiful, Near a wh'jle city full, Hume (»he hail iioiic I " — Hood. SECOND i: r> I T I O N. BATH: BINNS AND GOODWIN. LONDON : WIIITTAKER AND CO. ; HAMILTON AND CO. EDINBUUGH : OLIVER AND BOYD. DUBLLN' : J. M'oLASUAN. BATH : PRINTED BY BINNS AND GOODWIN. 4739 TO THE iRiijht luiiinnnililf tlir CminitB iif Chirfiihiii. TllK 1-'0LL0\VIN"U l-ACES AltK, wiTii iii:ii KAUVsniPs kixd imckmissiox. MO.il' ItiC-JI'KCI'ia'M.Y DKDK'ATI^D. v,Y TiiK i:i)iT()i:. 71 8734 PPiEFACE. The MSS. from which the following pages are compiled, were put into our hands a few months ago, Avith the request that we Avould arrange them for publication, in the hope that the facts thus made known might lead to the discovery of the forsaken child's parents or kindred, and unravel the secret of her birth. It has been said that truth is more strange than fiction, and it is so in a two-fold sense. First, because fiction professes to be a portrait of truth, and, that the air of reality may not be lost, it is generally safer to depict the aspect iv PREFACE. under which she is most commonly knoAvn, rather than the more rare and startling mani- festations Avhich occur perhaps at long intervals, and are known to a limited number of ob- servers ; and, again, as all the creations of the novelist are but combinations of the familiar elements of human life and circum- stance, these combinations, however skilfully arranged, being but imitations, must fall short of the power and vividness of the real counter- parts. It is almost impossible, with any approach to certainty, to form an idea of what the cir- cumstances were, which thus cast a child, of a few years old, and apparently of gentle birth and careful nurture, into a position so strangely different from that in which she had been born. The facts of the English soldier's attendance after the murder of the lady who is supposed to have been her mother, the advertisement in the " Times," and the English officer's ap- PREFACE. V parent scrutiny, seem to give some colour to the idea that she may not be of Irish extrac- tion. Perhaps, stolen from her parents by some unlawful claimant of property to which she was the natural heir, and never called by her name, that she might lose all trace of her origin. Deceived, perhaps, by a resemblance of the house near Nicholas Murphy's cottage to her half-remembered home ; for it appears hardly probable that she should have been kept so near it. The lady for whom, in her deso- lation, the infant's heart so piteously yearned, may at last have traced, and been hastening to claim her, Avhcn arrested by the murderer's liand — that murderer, it may be, but the agent of others. The house of mourning, which afforded so brief a respite from her woes — was it her native home ? That her mother (if, indeed, it was she to the side of whose silent bier the child was carried) was a member of that family. VI PREFACE. appears evident ; but why, then, was her hap- less infant cast again upon a world of which her experience had already been too bitter ? The lady who would have supplied her mother's place was lured, it might be, on false pretences, to give her up. But why multiply conjectures, when all is dark, mysterious, and unknown ? Since receiving the papers which form the substance of the following narrative, thorough investigation has been made as regards the character borne by Miss Hartley in the circles where she has been best and longest known, and the result has been to confirm the opinion which a constant corresj^ondence since that period, as well as the facts of the narrative, have contributed to form, that she is a lady of the strictest integrity, of high moral and Christian principle, and also distinguished by a tenderness and benevolence of feeling that have well qualified her to fulfil towards the PREFACE. Vll child, whom she took from the most abject misery to the shelter of her home, the place of the parents she has lost. At the period when she adopted this in- fant, Miss Hartley was herself in straitened circumstances, and the dictates of worldly prudence would have forbidden her to burden herself Avith the care of a young and helpless child, whose delicacy of health increased the labour and expense that the charge, under any circumstances, must have involved. But to such dictates Miss Hartley turned a deaf ear, or probably her generous feelings did not even recognize such cold-hearted policy. Satisfied, after due consideration, that the providence of 1 Lim, without whom not a sparrow falleth to the ground, had cast this forsaken little one upon her care, and that she had therefore a right to expend in her support a part of the limited means of Avhich He had made her the steward, she accepted the trust, and fearlessly viii PREFACE. committed to Him the future provision both of herself and her adopted daughter. Could the bereaved parents of the little for- saken one have penetrated the darkness that concealed her fate, how would they have re- joiced to know that she was sheltered in a home as safe and tranquil as that from which slie had been torn, and nurtured by a care as tender as they could have bestowed. They may yet know this — Lucy's parents may behold once more their long lost child, and face to face greet the adopted mother who has cherished her infancy. If it be so, what a life-long debt of gratitude do they owe to her, who not only took their lost one, but in the face of increas- ing difficulties, and in opposition to the harass- ing interference of officious friends, has through every trial, in stedfast faith and changeless love, adhered to the child of her adoption, and guided, guarded, and watched over her, with a tender constancy that nothing could shake. PREFACE, IX But liow will they repay this measureless debt ? By leaving Lucy to repay it, untram- melled by new ties and new duties. She will love the unknown authors of her being, for God has made her grateful and loving, and her protectress has cultivated those feelings ; but let them remember that close as may be the ties that bind them to their newly found child, a claim with which no other must interfere, is hers, but for whom they would never have found their lost one, — or found her only amongst the lowest ranks of society, unfit for the station from which so many indications at the time of her discovery bespoke her to have l)een taken. 8he is fit for that station now. Miss Hartley has not only tenderly but carefully educated her, and whilst her amiable character and warm affection form the happi- ness of her kind friend's life, her talents appear to be such as will satisfy a parent's desires. Or should the hope in which this X PREFACE. work is published be disappointed, and Lucy- still remain "The Unclaimed/' — should she be called upon to return, in the declining years of her friend, the benefits she received in her infancy, she may, by the employment of those talents, assist in procuring for her the comforts with which her own childhood was so liberally supplied. Since Miss Hartley's adoption of the child, repeated exertions have been made by her, aided by the co-operation of interested friends, to find some trace of Lucy's origin, but in vain. The Ribbon system prevails so exten- sively over Ireland, binding men, women, and children in an inviolable league, that ten men may pass within a fcAv paces of a murder at the moment of its perpetration, and, because of this oath, will neither aid the victim nor tlie police ; and no efforts nor persuasion can elicit one Avord of evidence, for the priest guarantees pardon for every PREFACE. XI offence. Such, "vre are informed, are the work- ings of a system which renders so difficult and arduous a police administration, in itself peculiarly vigorous and indefatigable. Whether the perpetual failure of every effort to trace Lucy's history was the work of this secret but powerful agency, or not, the result is the same. Rewards have been offered, police agency have been employed, and a long jour- ney undertaken, all in vain. From time to time Miss Hartley Avas misled l)y false reports, but she has wholly failed in the effort to trace the parish, county, or even province, where Nicholas Murphy resided, and whence the child was brought. Amongst other means which she tried, without success. Miss Hartley consulted Sir Duncan McGregor, the head magistrate of police in Dublin, and told hi in of tlie lame man, Tom Kelly, haunting her house, and of his supposed connection witli the abduction of the child. XI 1 PEEFACE. He replied that there were not sufficient grounds to summon him before a magistrate, as he did not in any way annoy Miss Hartley, and the child's statements did not refer to him, but to his Avife, who was dead. Here, therefore, for the present, the matter rests. The narrative is literally and strictly true in every particular, and the real names of places and persons are given in every instance, with the exception of those of Miss Hartley and Lucy, who wish to avoid the publicity that the knowledge of their names and residence would necessarily occasion. As almost a last hope of leading to the disclosure of the long hidden truth, these facts are laid before the public. May it please Him who ruleth among the inhabitants of earth at length to unveil the mystery. CONTENTS. Chapter I.— The Child. ... ... ... ... l' Chapter II.— -Early Development. — The DiuDer Party. — The Parrot. — The Unhappy Servant. ... ... 8 Chapter III. — Early Development, continued : — First Knowledge of God.— The Sea-bath.— The Under Secretai-y. ... ... ... ... ... 14 Chapter IV. — The Cliild's Recollections : — The Lonely Cottage. — The Murdered Lady. — The Burning House. ... ... ... ... ... 24 Chapter V. — The Child's Recollections, continued: — The Joui-ney.— The Hall of Mournmg.— The Dcii of Misery. ... ... ... ... ... 37 CihU'TER VI. — Evidences of the Child's Origin. — Her Fortitude and Patience. — The Offered Guardian. ... 52 xiv CONTENTS. rAGK. CnAPTER VII.— The Cmcl Servant.— The Sign of the Cross. — The Nameless Child. — First day at Church. — Baptism. ... ... ... ... 63 Chapter VIII. —The Lawyer's Questions. —Conjec- tures.— Diversities of Opinion. — The Voices of Friends. ... .. ... •-. •■• 75 Chapter IX. — Lucy's Fears. — The Cradle of Repose. — llevcrses. — The Invalid Lady. — Jealousy. ... 81 Chapter X. — The Kind Instructors. — Lucy a Spartan. — The Troublesome Lodgers. — Lucy's Griefs. — The Impatient Lady. — Night Birds. — The Swiss Family. 94 Chapter XI. — Re-appearance of Thady. — Lucy an Artist. — An Unselfish Nurse. — Confirmation. — The First Communion. — The Country Boarding-School. 106 Chafer XII. — A Haven of Repose. — Phantoms of the Past. — Footprints on the Sand. — The Lady's Bounty. — Lucy at School. ... ... ... 115 Chapter XIII. — Undesei'ved Neglect. — The Overworn Spuit. — Re-appearance of Kelly. — Investigation. — The Hovel Recognized. — Disappointment. ... 124 Chapter XIV. — The Sea-Coast. — Return to Dublin. — Tom Kelly's Haunting. — A Track Discovered. — The Track Pursued. — Lucy's Hopes. — The Jour- ney. — An-ivalinR . ... ... ... 132 CONTENTS. XV Page. Chapfer XV. — The Good Eector. — Fniitless Investiga- tion. — The Strange Resemblance. — Return to Dublin.— The Proposed Tour. ... ... ...140 Chapter XVI. — Departiu'e for the Continent. — Arrival in London. — The Mystei'ious Stranger. — Lucy in the Worlds Thoroughfare.— The Hidden Lmks. ... 14(3 Chapter XVII. — The Storm. — Residence in Fi-ance. — Marie. — The Return Home. — Conclusion. ... 150 Appendix. — Testimonials and Certificates ... ... 159 THE UNCLAIMED DAUGHTER. (Tljnjitrr .firiit. THE CHILD. There is at this moment residing in a well known city in oiu* own country, a young girl, over whose origin and early history a veil of mystery, hitherto un penetrated, hangs ; without name, without locality, claimed by no birthplace, and owning no tie of blood, she was dropped a stray leaf on the tide of life, to be wafted for shelter into any haven whither the wind of destiny, or rather the will of the great Arbiter of destiny, might direct her ! and the will of that all- wise and all-good Disposer of fate, has guided her into a peaceful home, where she remains tenderly nurtured and sheltered until claimed by the unknown authors of her being. 2 THE CHILD AT A CHARITABLE INSTITUTION. In the December of 1836, a lady, at that time residing in Dublin, visited one day a charitable Institution of that city, established for the relief of unemployed labourers, and for the protection of destitute children. The lady's attention was attracted by the appear- ance of a little girl, apparently not more than four or five years old, crouching in a corner apart from tlie other children. The infant looked pale and delicate, but bore in her whole appearance and manner the aspect of gentle birth. She was dressed in a frock and tippet of thin white muslin, but beyond this was destitute of clothing, and appeared to suffer intensely from the cold. The lady spoke to her, and was still further convinced that her origin widel}' differed from her present position ; but all the particulars she could gather from the mistress of the Institution elicited little information, beyond the fact that the child had been brought there a few weeks before by a person who called herself her sister, but bore no sign of being so, as she was a coarse common-place girl, of a rank to which the little one manifestly did not belong. Unable for the present to devise any other means of relief, as her own circumstances did not permit her to yield to her inclination, by at once adopting the infant. Miss Hartley, the lady referred to, made application to the secretary of the Institution for SUFFERING FROM NEGLECT. .3 clothing, ■which she obtained without delay, and then for the present she left the child to her fate. Her interest, however, had been too strongly excited to permit her to forget its object, and she shortly re- visited the Institution, and seeing the old woman with whom the child was lodged at night, promised her a reward if she would take good care of her, and treat her with kindness. Miss Hartley foujad jipon inquiry, that the girl who called herself the sister of the child had not been seen since the week she first appeared with her, when, after staying at tlie Institution for a few days, she had disappeared with a small quantity of stolen flax. In a few days after this second visit, Miss Hartley re- turned again ; on this occasion she found that the child was confined by illness to the pallet prepared for the children of the Institution, when any of them were overpowered by weariness. She was moaning as if in pain ; Miss Hartley took leave of the little sufferer, with little expectation of ever seeing her again. From this time she was prevented for many weeks from making any further inquiries ; when at length she was able to return to the Institution, slie was surprised to find that the little unfortunate still lived : but when she saw her, her pale face, inflamed eyes, and trembling limbs, told a talc of suffering that <'ould not be long protracted. iStill no tidings had BIDDY KELLY. been heard of her pretended sister ; but an old woman employed in the spinning room, hearing a lady in- quire for Biddy Kelly, came forward uncalled, and said that the girl was a very bad character, and the less any lady had to do with her the better. Miss Hartley inquired if the sisters (for as yet she had no proof that they were not such) had no friends or re- lations who took care of them. " They have none, ma'am," replied the old woman, " they used to lie in halls and entries, and it was I who advised them to come here ; but Biddy is oftener in prisons and peni- tentiaries than anywhere else." Miss Hartley did not at this time suspect any artifice, but had afterwards reason to believe that the old woman knew more of the child's origin than she would acknowledge, and was purposely deceiving her. During this visit she made special inquiry regarding the character and conduct of the child, and heard from every one that she was gentle, quiet, and tractable, but appeared sad and dispirited, never associating with the other children, nor taking any part in their sports. A short time after this visit to the Institution, Miss Hartley saw Biddy Kelly, and found her a coarse country girl, bearing no resemblance to the delicate infant with whom she claimed so near a relationship. She stated that herself and her sister were the orphan FABEICATIONS. O children of a dairyman named Tom Kelly, that they were now left destitute, but that all their former neigh- bours would bear testimony to her family's respecta- bility, and that she could be recommended by the families with whom she had lived in service. She also stated that they had a grandmother living in a distant county, which she named, and that the clergy- man of the parish knew her and her family. Miss Hartley made notej of the information she received, and found that she contradicted herself in several particulars, and that her statements were inconsistent. She, however, agreed to pay her expenses to her grandmother's i)arish, provided she would depart thither immediately, and arrange with the old woman that she should take care of her little sister, Miss Hartley being responsible for her board and clothing. Miss Hartley then dismissed the girl, desiring her to return upon a day which she named, to receive cloth- ing and money for her journey. The day came and ])assed, but Biddy did riot appear, and for the present Miss Hartley heard no more of her. She made inquiries regarding Tom Kelly, in the street to which she had been directed, and found that such a person had lived there, but had been dead for nearly twenty years, and had left no children. The girl's stories respecting the families she had lived with, turned out equally devoid of foundation. G ACCUMULATED HARDSHIPS. About this time, Miss Hartley visited the Institu- tion upon a holiday, and divided a large cake which she had provided amongst the children. She observed that little Bessie (the name by which the child was known) did not eat hers, but vainly tried to discover the reason. Some time afterwards, she learned from the child, that the girl who carried her to and from her nightly lodging, had beaten her for having eaten a biscuit which Miss Hartley had formerly given, and threatened to do so again, should she ever eat any little luxury she might receive. The accumulated sufferings the child was now en- during, produced a rapid and visible effect upon a constitution evidently unqualified, both by nature and habit, to bear such hardships. She became emaciated and feeble, whilst a violent inflammation attacked her eye and ear ; this appeared to have been brought on by the cold she had endured in consequence of the removal of her long flaxen hair upon her admission to the Institution. Miss Hartley saw that the suffer- ings of the poor infant, if not speedily relieved, must terminate her life, and no longer hesitated as to the course she ought to pursue. Disregarding the cold-hearted policy which would limit the active exercise of philanthropy to those in immediate connection with us, and inspired in its stead with the spirit of Him who has left on record THE BENEFACTRESS. 7 the command, "As ye have opportunity, do good unto all," she determined to rescue from her misery the helpless little being whom a chance wave of life's ocean had thus washed to her feet, and to trust to Him who feedeth the young ravens when they cry, for a supply sufficient to meet the growing necessities of the forsaken little one. She at once made arrange- ments for removing for a time to the sea-coast, and applied to the directors of the Institution for permis - sion to take the child with her, retaining the power of returning her to her present abode, should she afterwards find it necessary. Her request was readily acceded toj and the little one, provided with new though coarse clgthiug, was sent to her on the follow- ing day. (^jinpftr Irrnnli. EARLY DEVELOPMENT : — THE DINNER PARTT. — THE PARROT. — THE UNHAPPY SERVANT. » No sooner did tbe lonely little child, who at this time was known only by the name she had borne at the Institvition, " Bessie Kelly," find herself restored to liberty, and removed from the uncongenial atmos- phere of the Institution to the kind nurture of her adopted parent, than her faculties developed them- selves with rapidity. Like a bird escaped from its cage, she appeared to delight in every exercise of her liberated powers, and with the budding gratitude that afterwards showed itself to be a strongly rooted quality of her disposition, she appeared to delight in obeying every command and anticipating every wish of her maternal friend. Miss Hartley watched with deep interest and growing affection the expanding MENTAL CHARACTERISTICS. i) character of the child she had adopted, and was sur- prised to find that she was wholly free from the faults which the wretched influences to which she had been exposed had led her to expect. Though timid and reserved i^ manner, she dis- played even in minute actions a single-minded truth and patient fortitude, that evinced no less strength than uprightness. But what appeared even more wonderful, considering the society by which from her very infancy she had been surrounded, was the innate refinement of her mind and feelings, which expressed itself in all her habits and actions. She also showed great dislike of low society, and though kind and considerate to servants and inferiors, instinctively avoided all unnecessary contact with them. As the child did not appear to be more than four or five years old when Miss Hartley adopted her, this aftbrds a strong presumptive proof of what the child's testimony afterwards confirmed, that during her residence with the people who had charge of her, she had been treated as a superior, and not accus- tomed to mix with them on terms of equality. Otherwise it would have been scarcely possible for so young a child to have retained the intuitive percep- tion she evidently possessed of her own rank. Upon one occasion, while at the sea-coast, a friend came to spend a few days with Miss Hartley. Feeling at a 10 THK DINNER PARTY. loss how to dispose of the child at dinner, as the people of the house were not such as she could entrust her to, her protectress desired her to wait by her side, and hand the plates to the guests, promising afterwards to give her a piece of veal pie, which was at table ; but on a plate being given to the child, she threw herself on the floor, crying bitterly, and exclaiming, "Oh! I cannot, I cannot, don't ask me; I don't want any dinner, but pray do not ask me to do this." She was carried out of the room in a passion of tears. Two or three years afterwards she was reminded of this incident, and asked if she could remember the feelings that had caused her so much distress. She replied that she had acted foolishly, but could not help it. She had felt it a disgrace to wait at table like a servant, and added, " I wonder how I could be so foolish when T was little. When I was at the Institution I did not like to play with the children, I thought them much be- neath me, and yet none of them, I am sure, were so friendless and so badly off as I was ; but indeed they were so filthy, I could not bear to touch them. Then I had no shoes, and I could not run and play on the rough ground." " But almost all the children were without shoes THE PARROT. 1 1 and stockings," said Miss Hart ey, " yet they ran and danced merrily." " I know they did," replied the child, " but I wonder how they could ; I am sure I could not." " But you never had shoes, I think," replied her protectress, " until you came to live with me." " Yes," said the child, " T had once a pair of nice little red boots." " Who gave them to you ?" " I do not know." " What became of them ?" " I don't know, but my nice little beaver was kicked under the table at the Institution, and lost." Airs. Hartley had a parrot, which had been taken with the little party to the sea-coast lodging. This bird was in the habit of being fed with sugar, and one day a piece dropped on a chair in Miss Hartley's room : it lay there for several days, though Bessie was constantly in the room with her friend. At last she pointed it out to Miss Hartley, and asked if she might have it ; the request was immediately granted, and Miss Hartley inquired why she had not taken it sooner. The child appeared surprised, and looking up, rc])lied in lier childish dialect, " you know I tould not, it was not mine suga." This was an early development of honourable feel- ing, which, up to the period of her adoption, the child 12 SYMPATHY AND KINDNESS. had certainly not been taught, either by precept or example ; and though the misfortunes of her infancy doubtless did their work in cultivating the patience and fortitude that were so early called into exercise, and giving to her character a somewhat precocious formation, yet that a child so young should have maintained, in the midst of the contending and de- basing elements which surrounded her, such rectitude, and such honourable and sensitive feeling, displays a strength as well as beauty of character, as valuable as it is rare. Another trait of the little wanderer's infancy evinces a tender sympathy with others, in the suffer- ings with which she had too early become acquainted. In the house where Miss Hartley lodged, a wretched looking girl, about twelve or foiu'teeu, was employed as a servant ; she was scantily clothed, badly fed, and appeared besides to be often treated with a culpable degree of harshness. The mihappiness of this girl awakened strong feelings of compassion in little Bessie's mind ; she begged Miss Hartley to teach her to pray for the poor orphan, that she might have friends and kind treatment. One day at luncheon the child suddenly left the room, carrying with her the food with which she had been supplied. In a short time she returned, and began to occupy herself in a distant corner. THE UXHAPPY SERVANT. 13 Miss Hartley iuquired what she had done with her luncheon. The little one came forward, leaned her hands on her friend's knee, and burst into tears ; then looking up piteously in her face, " Please do not be angry," she said, " I did not eat it, I gave it to the poor orphan. Oh, you would pity her if you knew how badly they use her. Yesterday she washed all the lady's and the child's clothes after they were in bed ; and now, though it is Sunday, they have turned her into an out-house in the garden, and won't give her any dinner. Please let me give her my dinner, she wants it more than I do. And do, oh do, pray for her." Miss Hartley relieved, through the child, the pre- sent wants of the orphan, and afterwards repeated the case to a neighbouring magistrate, who took the un- fortunate girl under his protection. Thus little Bessie's prayer was answered. Cjinjitcr (Kijiril. EARLY DEVELOPMENT, CONTINUED : — FIRST KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. — THE SEA-BATH. — THE UNDER SECRETARY. At the period of her adoption by Miss Hartley, Bessie appeared almost entirely without religious knowledge. Miss Hartley was anxious that her first associations with the knowledge of God should be of a joyous natui-e, and choosing one bright and sunny morning when the child was contentedly eating her breakfast by her side, she spoke of God as a great and good Being, who loved her, and took care of her, who would take her to heaven if she trusted him, and who had given her to be Miss Hartley's child, that she might supply all her wants. As her friend spoke, the child appeared absorbed. She did not speak, but sat with her porringer of milk in one hand, arrested on its way to her lips, her un- FORTITUDE. 15 tasted bread in the other, and ber eyes and mouth open, as if to drink in each word as it was uttered. AVhen Miss Hartley ceased to speak she resumed her breakfast with an air of silent abstraction. To the principle of faith, however, though hitherto exercised in a human being only, the child was no stranger. Her confidence in her protectress, and submission to her will, led to efforts almost beyond her strength. Miss Hartley was anxious to try the effect of sea-bathing,~antl- Bessie was carried to the beach. She submitted willingly though much afraid, but when plunged into the water, she screamed aloud. Miss Hartley did not reprove her, but the bathing woman told the child it would please Miss Hartley if she did not cry. "Do you think so?" said the child, "then I will not scream." She was plunged into the sea, and remained silent; but the effort it cost was too much for the delicate little frame that encased so firm a spirit. When she was carried out of the water her face was livid, with black circles round her mouth and eyes. It was several days before she recovered the effects of this exertion. Miss Hartley did not venture to bathe her again for some time, and then carried her into the sea in her arms. The child now reposed with perfect 16 GRATITUDE. confidence, and was bathed without any agitation or alarm. Stronsr and trusting: in her affection, the little one was not less remarkable for the unselfishness of her spirit. Any appearance of self-interest in others, ex- cited in her mind emotions of surprise and disgust. When she saw a little English girl, whom Miss Hartley had for a time had under her protection, flatter and caress Mrs. Hartley for the sake of the sweetmeats the kind old lady liberally bestowed, she would retire to a distant corner of the room, and gaze on the juvenile sycophant with looks of contempt, probably restrained from any other expression only by the gentleness and reserve of her nature. Another marked feature in her character was her unbounded gratitude to all who had ever shown her kindness, and the tenacity with which she remem- bered even the slightest benefits that had ever been conferred upon her. An unappreciated instance of this she manifested to the under secretary of the Institution, when upon one occasion she met him with her protectress, some time after she had been eman- cipated from his care. When he had finished the business which had engaged him, and was about to retire, Miss Hartley was surprised to see the. child come forward, take his hand, and say, " Good bye, sir ; thank you, thank you." The secretary, a vulgar FEAR OF BEING CARRIED OFF. 17 and coarse person, who considered himself a great man in virtue of his office, looked down with con- tempt upon the child, angrily withdrew his hand, and hastened aAvay. Bessie was too much occupied with her own feelings to observe the manner in which he had received the artless expression of her gratitude ; but addressing her friend, she said, " Did 1 not do right to take leave of him ? you know I was a long time kept and fed at the Institution uncler his care, and though I was very unhappy there, it was not his fault." For some years after Miss Hartley adopted the de- serted little one, she continued under the constant influence of fear lest she should be again carried away. Upon one occasion she was taken by her pro- tectress to see the departure by sea of the English orphan. When she saw the steam vessel and the other ships in the harbour, she became much alarmed, and resisted every attempt to take her on board of the vessel, or into the carriage which waited for Miss Hartley, and preferred standing by herself in the street, weeping with terror when any attempt was made to persuade her to go on board, and exclaiming, " No, no, if I go into a ship it will run away with me; if I stay in the carriage it will run away with me. When her protectress rejoined her, and they drove c 18 SUMMER-HILL. away from the pier, she said, " Now I am away from the ships, I am not afraid they will run away with me," and she appeared to have no fear of the carriage when her friend was with her. If she walked with Miss Hartley in a private street or lonely road, she often said in an accent of terror, " What would you do now if some one were to come and carry me away 1 " Miss Hartley satisfied her by saying she would hold her fast and call the police. During one of these walks, as they were ascending a hill on a rather lonely road, the child said, " This is like Summer-hill. Nicholas Murphy lived near Sum- mer-hill." Miss Hartley thought she had now found a clue to the locality from which the child had been brought, and set on foot inquiries in every place she could hear of bearing the name of Summer-hill. But her efforts were vain. There were in Ireland many places of that name, but at none of them could any information be obtained. The child was very young when Miss Hartley adopted her, and must at a still earlier age have been taken from her home, so that it was very difficult to obtain anything like a correct account of herself, or the least indication of the neighbourhood from which she had come. Miss Hartley, however, continued to mark every little action that appeared an indication of former habits, and to draw forth, as they were RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLIER DAYS. 19 revived by accidental associations, any recollections of the past that ofFered a hope, however remote, of identifying her. One day while engaged in play, Bessie saw a padlock, and said, " I know what that is ; it is a thing to lock people up. Plenty of times it locked me up all alone, then I was frightened, it grew so dark, so lonely, for there was no one in the house. Once Mrs. Keegan, a woman who lived opposite, came to the window and tried to open it to' give me bread, but it was too fast shut, so she took away the bread, and I cried till I went to sleep." "And how did you get out?" inquired her friend. " In the morning Kitty came with the key, and opened the door. She washed and combed me, put on my clean white pinafore, and let me run out on the road as I pleased ; and then I saw the great coach laden, which was called the Dublin coach, and sometimes carts of coal, but very few people." Another time, as the child sat on the hearth-rug dressing her doll, she found a card. !She was pleased with her treasure, and said, " 1 know what this is for, it is to play with when people have company." " What do you mean by playing with it?" inquired Miss Hartley. " This way, this way," replied the child, moving 20 ACQUAINTANCE WITH NOBLE LIFE. her little hand very gracefully, as if to imitate the act of dealing cards. "Whom did you see doing this?" inquired her friend. " I do not know." " Where did you see it V " I don't know, I forget." Upon another occasion, when the child was ill, an old piano was opened to amuse her, and she was allowed to touch it. She immediately sat down, though suffering at the time from the application of leeches, and with the air of a little lady, ran her fingers over the keys, saying repeatedly, " I must learn to play on the piano." These little incidents, combined with her general appearance and manner, prove almost beyond a doubt that the child had been accustomed to the habits and accomplishments of polite life, and treated with re- spect by the people who had had charge of her, however much her comfort and happiness might have been neglected by them. But for the present no further light was thrown upon the mysterious origin of the little stranger. Miss Hartley attempted by her inquiries to elicit further information, and at last the broken thread of memory appeared gradually to re-unite, and one circumstance after another stole to light, though many particulars were still unhappily BIDDY Kelly's filthy home. 21 wanting to make it available for the tliseovery of her birth. The facts thus thrown together were drawn from Bessie at different times and by different persons. Directing her inquiries first towards the only connec- tion the child had appeared to be possessed of at the time ^liss Hartley found her, her protectress inquired what Biddy Kelly had done with her, as she had no home, nor father, nor mother. " But she has a home," said the child," a nasty filthy home, and a father and mother too." " Did you always live there 1 " inquired Miss Hartley. " Oh no, only for a very little time, after Mrs. Kelly, Biddy's mother, brought me from Nicholas Murphy to Dublin under her cloak."' " Were you not always in Dublin ! " " No ; I was far away among nice corn-fields, and green trees, and pretty blue mountains, till Mrs. Kelly took me on her back, and brought me to her filthy house, with dirty stairs and broken floor, and there I first saw Biddy, and Biddy's father, with a wooden leg, and Biddy's sister Mary, and a little boy ; and they took off" my clothes, all but my frock, and my nice new checked pinafore with sleeves, and put them on him, and a few days after Mrs. Kelly sent Biddy to carry me to the Institution. 22 CRUEL TREATMENT. " If I can find Biddy's motlier," said Miss Hartley, " would you like to go back to her ?" At the moment this question was asked the child Avas leaning- her little arms on her friend's knee, and Miss Hartley was startled by the thrill of horror which passed like an electric shock through her frame. " Oh no ! " she exclaimed, imploringly, " don't give me to her ; I would rather go back to the Insti- tution. Look," she continued, pushing aside the fair hair from her forehead, " see what she did to me." There, on the head of the innocent child, was a deep scar, evidently the remains of a wound inflicted by a blunt and heavy instrument. " They never would let me out of the room," the child re- sumed, after she had shown this mark of the cruel treatment to which she had been subjected, " I did not like to be there, so one day I went to the door hoping to get out. Mrs. Kelly saw me, and gave me a blow with something hard which hurt me greatly, and made a great deal of blood to fall on the hearth. But no one minded, and after a long time the blood stoi)ped, and the place got well." When such treatment had been endured by the ftnfortunate infant during her wanderings, it is no wonder that for some time after she was placed in happier circumstances, her mind appeared stupefied, GRADUAL COLLECTION OF INFORMATION. 23 like one who had awakened from the horrors of ni^ -ry s.. „: -.-..i. All w^ts silent, cold, and dark — and r, without one HtiV of kindred or affection to her kind, a little islet in the waste of waters, stood the forssiken one. Xo memorv of home held the infant XICHOLAS MUEPHT's COTTAGE. 25 in its sheltering embrace, no brother or sister's voice had mingled in her play, no mother's arms had cradled her little form, nor mother's voice hushed her in the soft repose of infancy. A solitary cottage, in the midst of corn-fields and blue mountains, was the place where the child first awoke to conscioxis existence. A rather elderly man, called Nicholas Murphy, with a care-worn countenance, appeared to be the owner of the cottage, and was with her there during the day. He was never harsh to her ; but she could not remember his caressing or appearing to love her, and her little heart instinctively yearned for the ten- derness that, if ever known, had been so at too early a period for her to remember it ; she longed for some one to love her, some friend in whose arms she might rest. And the unseen though present Friend, yet unrevealed to her infant mind, was preparing for her such a haven of repose ; but the time was not yet come for her to find it. At night, when the little being, whose consciousness of Almighty protection still slumbered, most required to feel that an earthly protector was near, she was wholly deserted. Nicholas Murphy quitted the cottage, and the child was left to herself, to brave all the terrors of darkness alone. These nights appear to have been times of great distress to the deserted infant ; for she described 26 LONELY NIGHTS. herself as often awaking in alarm ; and not only suffering from fear, but from hunger, she lay awake weeping in her desolate misery with no human help at hand. Her cries reached the ear of a kind neighbour, a Mrs. Keegan, of whom she frequently spoke, and upon more than one occasion, she tried to force open the window, that she might give her bread ; but in vain. These times of suffering were terminated by the return of morning, when a girl, named Kitty, who the child believed to be Nicholas Murphy's daughter, came and opened the door, washed and dressed her, and she thought gave her food ; for she did not remember feeling hungry, except during the night. It was one amongst many proofs afforded by the child's early history, of a more than common strength of mind, that at so early an age night after night she endured these terrors, and as each evening declined must have dreaded their approach, without her intellect being impaired or her temper injured. When Kitty had dressed and fed her, she was allowed to run about freely all day in the open air, and this freedom of companionship with nature, probably, did much both in soothing her spirit and preserving her health. She bore no name while residing at the cottage, and could not remember any by which she had been called. The people around her addressed her as ONE BRIGHT IDEA. 27 '•Little One." She did not tbink she was in any way related to them, and they did not appear to regard her with any special affection, bnt treated her with respect as if from a sense of duty. From the nature of his occupations, Nicholas !Murphy appears to have been a small farmer, and some of his relatives lived at a larger farm near. Amidst the distress and desolation of her present life, the child drew an inward support from one idea that jiossessed her. " This was the image of a pretty lady, who loved her and would one day come to take her home ; for the feeling that she was not at home never for an instant appears to have deserted bei-. This partially remembered home, for which her young- heart yearned, was somehow associated in her mind with a large house visible at some distance across the fields, which the child, when dressed in her little white pinafore and permitted to wander about by herself, used to climb a bank near for the purpose of contemplating, wondering as she did so how she could get to it. The lady's return appears to have been the star of hope to which the child's expectation was con- stantly directed ; and day after day she watched for lior appearing on the lonely road along whicii her longing eyes were directed. Ikit day after day passed and no one came ; only the Dublin mail toiled up the hill; and carts from a colliery went by. 28 THE BLIND BEGGAR, Still the cliild continued her watch ; though each evening closed upon her hope deferred, the morning might bring its accomplishment, and meanwhile the image that filled her heart, dim and shadowy as that image might be, raised her above the overwhelming power of the trials that surrounded her. One morning Nicholas Murphy was sitting at the door of his cottage, when a tall man approached, dressed in a large grey coat with a cape ; he appeared blind, and was led by a little shaggy terrier, which he held by a chain ; he had a long stick in his hand. Murphy addressed him, and invited him to sit down, saying, " Well, Thady, you are going your rounds." The child felt an instinctive dislike to the beggar, and crept away, so that she did not hear the conver- sation nor observe his departure. Another morning (probably that of the day suc- ceeding the blind beggar's appearance) arose upon the child's still unfulfilled hopes. Full of her old expecta- tioiis, and unconscious, perhaps, of the heart-sickness she had not yet learned to know, she got on her accustomed watch-tower, and once more turned her gaze to the point where she expected her star to arise. She looked no more in vain ; her long ex- pected friend appeared in the distance, and a flood of joy rushed into her young heart at the sight. De- scending from the bank, she ran quickly along the A SIGHT OF HORROR. 29 road ; a rising ground now hid from her the object of her ardent longings, but she knew where she was, and sped on her way, her mind filled with bright images of the future opening before her. Now she was no longer desolate, now she had found her rest ; those arms to which she fled would shelter her, that heart love and care for her. She had found her home. She reached the summit of the rising ground, she rushed forward to her long sought place of rest, and looked around, but the spot where she had thought to see her friend was void ; all around stretched a dreary expanse of earth and sky, untenanted by the form that comprised them all to her. The sudden shock echoed fearfully through the waste that was long to remain unfilled in her young spirit. While she stood paralyzed by the blow, a low moaning struck upon her ear. Even in the accents of pain that voice was not unknown. Looking around in alarm, she at last saw a gap in the hedge ; towards this she timidly crept, and bending down, looked through. Long was it ere the dark spell of the sight she beheld passed from her young spirit. Long was it ere the icy chain with which it bound her was dissolved, and her lips dared to repeat that scene of horror, written on her memory in characters never to be effaced. On the ground lay the be- loved being to whose embrace but a moment before 30 THE MURDERED LADY. the infant had sped as the goal of all her desires. Life was ebbing fast away, Avhile the only sounds that parted those lips whose accents of love the child had bounded to hear, were the moans wrung forth by the anguish of her death-wound. Bending over her, glutting the sight, of which in fearful falsehood he said that heaven had deprived him, with the spectacle of her dying pangs, stood her murderer, the Avretched Thady. He held a knife, the instrument of his deadly purpose, in his hand. A cry of mingled terror and despair burst from the lips of the child as she beheld this horrible scene. The murderer turned, and fixing upon her his baleful glance, fiercely bade her begone, or she should share the same fate. Distracted with amazement, horror, and grief, the infant fled back to the mid- night darkness of the unkindly home, from v/hich hope, its only light, had fled. Had she possessed one friend in whom the confiding faith of infancy reposed, she would have told what she had seen ; but sur- rounded only by objects of fear or distrust, her lips Avere sealed. In the vague imaginings of a mind strained by fear and misery l>eyond its infant capa- city, she fancied that if she spoke of the scene she had witnessed, its horrors Avould return ; and thus she was silent, and the fearful vision, unshared with THE SOFTENING VEIL OF TIME. 31 any human being, continued to haunt her sad and desolate heart. The only beam that had cheered her lonely and forsaken life was quenched in utter darkness. The star of her heart had set, and she had nothing- left. In her own artless and touching language she said that "All her joy and gladness were gone. Her heart was empty and gone down. Now she must be sad and lonely in her very heart. Now she had no one to love her." "" It appeared to be on that evening or the following day, that the man, I\Iurphy, was absent from ' home, and Bessie was left alone with all the new-born misery of her situation. Her infant powers were })robably quite unequal to describe at the time what she underwent ; and in after years, when she spoke of the past, touching and vivid as her descriptions were, there is no doubt that the softening veil of time and distance obscured much that nuist have well-nigh sapped the very springs of life. C)f this climax of forsaken loneliness the child appears to have preserved no record, but the relief sent in the moment of need by Him who as a Father piticth his cliihlren, remains vividly impressed upon lier memory. Mrs. Keegan, the kind neighbour who licfon; had endeavoured to suj)ply her with bread, came to her, and finding her alone, took her to her 32 A MYSTERIOUS OCCURRENCE. cottage, tlie only dwelling that appears to liave been near Nicholas Murphy's house. Bessie remembers when she entered the cottage an appearance of bustle and preparation as if visitors were expected, and she had not been long there when a woman and a soldier entered bearing with them a coffin. They placed this ominous looking object in the cottage, and sat down apparently fatigued by their journey. The soldier spoke of England and of his master. The child became alarmed by the strange scene around her, and began to cry, when Mrs. Keegan took her in her arms, and carrying her up stairs laid her in her own bed, where, exhausted no doubt by all she had gone through, she fell asleep. When she awoke, which she thinks was not until the following mornino- the soldier and the woman were gone, the coffin also had been carried away, and no one spoke of what had passed. About this time ISTicholas Murphy appeared to be unusually busy with his farm labours, and a man came to assist him, whom Kitty called " Uncle John ;" a boy named Tim also sometimes worked with him, whom the child supposed to be his son. But the poor infant's condition was in no way improved by the increased number of those who surrounded her; still she was amongst alien hearts, and whether few or many made little diffei'ence. The boy Tim appears to THE BURNING MANSION. 33 have disliked the child, but whether merely from his 0W11 temper, or from any other cause, she knew not. One Sunday morning, apparently about the same period that the terrible scene of the lady's murder took place, Bessie observed that Nicholas Murphy dressed himself in his best clothes, and spent the morning at home, while Kitty made his breakfast. He then brushed his hat, took a book out of his chest, and appeared preparing to go to some place of worship, when a procession passed the cottage, com- posed of a number of men dressed in frieze coats and carrying sticks in their liands. Murphy went to the door of his cottage and spoke to them, but did not join them. He then returned to the house, and if he had previously entertained the idea of going to church, he now abandoned it, and passed the day quietly in his cabin, reading to Kitty from the book which he had taken from his chest. On the evening of the same day another sight of terror greeted tlie eyes of the unfortunate infant. The house across the fields, the paradise of her young imagination, so mysteriously associated with her dimly remembered home, was in flames. Tlic strange protectors of the child stood calmly contemplating the work of destruction, without making any effort to arrest its jtrogress, or assist the inhabitants of the mansion. Mrs. Keegan expressed pity for the D 34 IMPENETRABLE MYSTERY. proprietors, saying she feared they would suffer greatly; but Murphy seems to have preserved an absolute silence, both regarding the event and its authors. The child wept piteously as she witnessed the ruin of her pictured home, while a fresh tide of lonely despair seems to have invaded the little heart so sorely tried. Now that her long-expected friend was gone, and her bright ideal home destroyed, she felt that she had nothing more to hope for or expect. The veil of mystery that hangs over these events is still as impenetrable as that which enshrouds every- thing else relating to the origin of the forsaken child. Whether she is correct in associating the murder of the unfortunate lady and the destruction of the house with each other, and in believing them to be connected with herself, or whether she was in one or both cases deceived by some real or fancied resem- blance, it is impossible, with anything approaching to certainty, to decide. That she was correct, at least, as regards the lady, is more than probable, from her at once identifying her with the image that so long had filled her mind. There is, perhaps, more room to doubt that the house was indeed the early home of the little wanderer, as it appears probable that whatever motive caused her to be removed from it, would have induced those who sent her away to COIXCIDEXCE. 35 place her at a greater distance, where the risk of discovery woukl be diminished. Or, if she was stolen from her home, the ravishers would hardly keep the bird within sight of the nest from which they had torn it, liable at any moment to escape and return thither, or to be recognized by the parents from whom she had been taken. An accidental resem- blance, too, was more likely to deceive her here than in the lady. But, on the other hand, the coincidence of the burnin