University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
A MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS.

It will be remembered, that Sir Walter Clendennan, his
daughter Rosalind, and two of the servants, were away on
the night of the burglarious entrance and robbery of their
mansion. They returned at an early hour on the following
day, and were both startled and pained at the news
which was poured into their ears at the very steps of the
carriage. The house had been robbed of plate, money, and
jewels; and the little stranger, whom they had taken in,
and saved from death, and nursed so tenderly, was the
thief.

“What! that child a thief?” cried Sir Walter, much
excited, while Rosalind listened in dumb amazement. “'Tis
false! the very accusation carries falsehood on its face!”

“I deeply regret to say it is true,” replied Mrs Wyndham,
who was the communicator.

“How do you know it is true?” demanded the Knight,
in a harsh, irritated tone.

“Because, sir, she has fled, taking with her the clothes
which Miss Rosalind was so kind and generous as to give
her.”

“Tut! tut! woman!” cried the Baronet, angrily; “you
forget that a child like her was not strong enough to carry
off my heavy plate!”

“Well, she might have had help, sir—and doubtless she
had; but whoever helped her, must have come in at the front
door—and been let in, sir—for that was found unfastened

in the morning, and every other part of the building just
as it was the night before. And besides, sir, the girl is
gone, and her own clothes gone with her; and if she is
not the thief, the whole matter passes my understanding.”

The Knight got slowly out of his carriage; and supporting
himself, with one hand upon the door, rolled his hollow
eyes, nervously and somewhat wildly, over the group of
startled-looking faces that were now turned toward him.

“Mirabile dictu! Amor habendi!” he exclaimed, with
impressive solemnity. “Well, well—if that sweet child is
guilty, Heaven knows I never want to look upon another
human face! Rosalind, give me your arm, and conduct
me to my own private apartment.”

Rosalind hastened to obey; and when she reached the
door of the apartment, over the threshold of which she
dared not venture without permission, she said, in a low,
troubled tone:

“Father, Ellen is not guilty, believe me! I would stake
my life upon her innocence.”

The Baronet turned and seized her hand.

“You think she is innocent?” he said, with a quivering
lip.

“I know it, father.”

“Thank you! thank you, Rosalind!”

With this he stepped within, closed and bolted his door;
and Rosalind hastened to the drawing-room, to learn the
whole particulars of the affair—at least all that were known
or could be surmised—from Mrs. Wyndham.

An hour later, Rosalind was pacing up and down this
same elegantly furnished drawing-room, in a state of mind
not to be envied. She was alone, and her features were
very pale, and her eyes showed traces of recent tears.
She was evidently expecting some one—for every other
minute she hurried to the window, and looked out into the

street. At length the bell rung; and hastening to seat
herself, she made an effort to appear composed. Presently
the door of the drawing-room opened, and the servant announced:

“Dr. Stanhope.”

The individual thus ushered into the presence of Rosalind,
and who has been previously mentioned in these
pages, deserves a passing notice. He was about twenty-five
years of age, tall, well-formed, with dark, curly hair, and
dark, expressive eyes. His features were finely moulded,
and highly intellectual—but rather thin and pale, like one
much given to thought and study. His finely turned chin,
classic mouth, and slightly acquiline nose, gave character
to the face, and denoted a marked degree of firmness,
energy, and decision. He was elegantly dressed, without
being in the least degree foppish—in every movement
there was grace—and his whole manner was that of a hightoned,
well-bred gentleman. He bowed politely to Rosalind,
who rose on his entrance, and both for a moment or
two seemed slightly embarrassed.

“I trust you will pardon me, Dr. Stanhope,” said Rosalind,
with just sufficient color in her lovely countenance to
render her perfectly beautiful, “for sending for you, to
ask a favor!”

Any thing that I can do for one who has shown herself
so true a friend in time of need, believe me, Miss Clendennan,
I shall perform with a degree of pleasure that I
may not be able to express in words,” replied the young
physician, cordially.

“Pray, be seated,” said Rosalind, pointing to a chair,
and turning away to another—while the glow deepened on
her lovely features, and she found it required no little
effort to suppress all show of agitation. “My father and
myself, with two of our domestics,” she resumed, as she

seated herself a short distance from the young Doctor,
“were out of town last night, and have only just returned,
to be startled with the intelligence that our house has been
robbed in our absence.”

“Robbed!” exclaimed young Stanhope, with a start.
“I sincerely hope your loss is not heavy, Miss Rosalind!”

“I do not know the full extent of our loss,” replied
Rosalind; “but that, however much or little, can easily
be repaired, and is the least which troubles me.”

“Indeed!” said the other, with increased interest;
“something more serious? I pray you speak as to a
friend. Your father—”

“Is as well as usual,” rejoined Rosalind, hastily;
“though I do not know how this affair may affect him.
But it is of another I wish to speak. You remember my
little coz—I mean the little girl who was run over in
Chestnut street, on last Christmas day, and whom I had
conveyed hither, and succeeded, by the aid of kind Providence,
in restoring to life and health?”

“I have heard my sister Linda speak of her, as a very
bright, sweet, interesting little child.”

“She was every thing that was good and lovely,” said
Rosalind, with considerable emotion; “and oh! how I
loved her, from the depths of my inmost soul! I can not,
can not, will not believe that she is guilty—it would
destroy my faith in human innocence.”

“Guilty of what, Miss Rosalind?” exclaimed the other,
quickly.

“Of robbing us—of robbing her benefactors.”

“Of robbing you? Good heavens! is she suspected of
so heinous a crime against law and gratitude?”

“By some she is, sir—though not by me. She is gone,
however; and the clothes I presented her, are gone with
her.”

“You astonish me! May it not be a case of burglary,
robbery, and abduction?”

“Yes! yes! it must be—I dare not think otherwise!”
cried Rosalind, greatly excited. “But it is so singular—
so very strange! I am half-bewildered—I know not what
to think. All the servants believe her guilty, and are
eager to inform the police—but I have forbidden them to
speak of the matter to a single soul. If she is guilty—
and I will not think she is—she must escape detection—at
least I will not be guilty, either as principal or accessory,
of hunting her down like a wild beast! How can she be
guilty, Doctor? She is a poor orphan—when I took her
in, she had neither home nor friends—how could she rob
one who had treated her so kindly? who loved her so
dearly? Oh! speak, sir! and tell me you believe her
innocent of so foul a crime! let me know there is one
impartial judge who thinks suspicion wrongs her!”

Rosalind spoke under great excitement, seemingly controlled
by a noble, generous impulse; and in spite of herself,
the tears started into her sweet blue eyes, and made
them dim. The look of young Stanhope betrayed deep
sympathy; he unconsciously moved his chair nearer to
Rosalind; a slight color overspread his pale features; and
his voice was a little tremulous, as he replied:

“Calm yourself, Miss Rosalind, I pray you! you are
much agitated. I appreciate your noble feelings—they
are worthy of a pure and generous mind; but try and be
calm, and let me know the whole particulars, and I will
advise with you to the best of my humble ability.”

“Thank you!” returned Rosalind, somewhat warmly;
“thank you, Dr. Stanhope! I believed you would advise
me for the best; and therefore, on the impulse of the moment,
I ventured to take the liberty of sending for you.
I am so circumstanced, that I have but few acquaintances,

and fewer friends, of whom I may ask a favor, and in
whom I can confide. I would have sent for your dear
sister, Linda; but she, like myself, would be unable to do
what I would have done.”

“I assure you, Miss Rosalind, it affords me a high degree
of pleasure and pride, to know you think me worthy
of your confidence, and that I have been selected to give
you any little assistance which may be in my power,”
replied the young physician, warmly. “Believe me,” he
continued, with a degree of emotion which he evidently
strove to suppress—but which betrayed itself in his manner,
look, and voice: “Believe me, Miss Rosalind, when
I say, that though I have not made so marked a display of
my feelings as some might have done, I have not forgotten,
and will never forget, that you are one of the few
friends, who, having known us in prosperity, did not desert
my dear sister and family in the hour of adversity—but
stood nobly by them, unchanged, save in being kinder,
more generous, and more affectionate.”

His voice faltered so much toward the last, that he was
scarcely able to articulate the closing words of the sentence;
and he turned his face away to conceal his emotion;
while Rosalind, with the hot blood mounting to her
very temples, experienced a degree of agitation that she
would not have had the other observe for the world; and,
unperceived by him, she hastily brushed a tear from her
eye.

“I have ever loved Linda, as a dear, sweet sister,” she
hastened to reply; “and what little I have done, has
been but a poor repayment for the delightful hours I have
spent in her company. But pardon me, Doctor—”

“You once called me Newton,” he interrupted, hastily;
“may I not hope that the friend of my sister and family
can be induced to address me as formerly?”

“Certainly,” replied Rosalind, with some embarrassment;
“if—if you desire it; and on condition that you
will use as little formality to me, as when you—”

She hesitated, and he quickly rejoined:

“I will, Rosalind—I will. The present shall be as of old
—we will forget the long interval between. I scarcely need
tell you, that I am proud and sensitive; and it was pride
that made me seem so cold and formal. I should have
acted differently to one who has been so kind; I have
often regretted my sullen waywardness; but, somehow,
nature would out, and it seemed as if I could not do
otherwise. I was poor, and you were rich; and the world
sees such a gulf between poverty and riches. But as
regards you, I acted foolishly, wrongly, unjustly; and I
now take a pride in acknowledging my fault, and in
craving your forgiveness! But I interrupted you—pardon
me!”

Rosalind flushed and paled alternately, while the other
was speaking—and it was some little time before she
could recover the composure she desired.

“I was about to say,” she resumed—“that is, I was
about to request your assistance, in finding this little girl.
If she is guilty, I would have her found and reclaimed
from vice; and if she is not guilty, I would have her
found and restored to me. I do not wish the police to
know of this affair; for should she fall into the iron grasp
of the law, I might not be able to save her from the disgrace
of a prison, the doom of a criminal. I thought if
you would be so kind as to make a search for her, perhaps—”

“Yes, yes—I understand!” again interrupted the other;
“I understand; and believe me, all that I can do, shall
be done. I will proceed in the matter at once; and I will
search for her as if she were my sister; and if so fortunate

as to find her, she shall find in me a brother, whether
guilty or not. Please inform me of her name, age,
and appearance—what dress you suppose she wore away—
what you know of her history, her former associates, and
the particulars of the robbery.”

Rosalind hastened to put the young physician in possession
of all the facts she knew concerning the robbery
and the unfortunate little orphan, with the exception of
her name, parentage, her own relationship, and the events
connected with the two families of Norbury and Clendennan.

“But you have forgotten to mention her name, Rosalind!”
said the other, as she paused.

“She is called Ellen.”

“But she has a surname?”

“We never addressed her by any other name than
Ellen, while with us,” she answered, coloring.

“But if I knew her surname, it might assist me in my
search,” he replied.

“Oh! do you think her guilty?” she inquired—thus
turning the conversation from the point upon which she so
much dreaded inquiry, and for reasons which are already
known to the reader.

“No,” he replied, after some reflection, “I cannot say
I think her guilty of robbing you—certainly she could not
have done so alone, to the extent you mention. I think
it more probable that she was abducted—though for what
purpose, it is difficult to divine. The whole affair is very
singular and mysterious! Perhaps the Burglar, whoever
he was, knew her—she might have seen and recognized
him—and thus have been taken away for his own security.
Or, what seems even more probable still, considering that
she carried off her own garments, he might have compelled

her to do this, in order to attract suspicion to her, and
thus be the better able to screen himself.”

“Oh! Newton,” cried Rosalind, as a wild, terrible
thought flashed upon her brain—“you do not think she
has been murdered?”

“No, Rosalind, I hardly think that—because, by murdering
her, he would gain nothing, and would put his own
life in jeopardy.”

“Oh! find her! find her!” exclaimed Rosalind, laboring
under great excitement: “find her, Newton, and my
gratitude shall almost be boundless!”

“I will do all that can be done, Rosalind,” he replied,
rising; “and I will set about it at once. Calm yourself,
I pray you—try and be composed. The first intelligence
I get concerning her, shall be forwarded to you without
delay; and if I am not successful, I will myself come in
the evening, and make a full report of the day's search.”

“Thank you! thank you!” returned Rosalind: “may
Heaven aid you, and protect the poor child! If you see
Linda, bid her come to me—tell her I feel very low
spirited.”

The young physician promised to do so, and took his
departure. For half an hour after he had gone, Rosalind
walked hastily, up and down, over the rich, yielding carpet
of that gorgeous apartment, her mind agitated by strange
conflicting emotions: then she threw herself heavily upon a
crimson-plush divan, and found relief to her overcharged
heart in a flood of tears.