[Indexed as: “Twice Married” (fiction, anonymous), The Herald and Torch Light (Hagerstown, Md.), Jul. 11, 1885]

“Oh, papa, I’m so tired !”

“I know you are, Ailsie, but we must keep on till we reach the mountain top.”

“Is mamma up there?” asked the child. Then, with a wistful glance at her father: “Do you think she will be glad to see us, papa?”

“Glad to see you, I hope, but—oh, Ailsie, you must ask her to forgive me.”

There was a slight quiver in the man’s voice, and the child, although not comprehending the cause of it, laid her small band on his coat sleeve with a sympathetic touch. They walked on for some time without speaking, then she broke the silence, saying:

“Papa, why is mamma angry with you? I will not lover her if she is not good to you, for I love you dearly – dearly.”

“Let us sit here a while, Alisie, and I will endeavor to make you understand all about it.”

She obeyed, glad of an opportunity to rest her tired limbs. Crossing her hands on her lap she looked up into his face trustfully.

“You see,” he began, “your mother wasn’t like me; I mean long ago when I first met her. She was a lady, and I was a groom or servant, on her father’s place. She used to ride out every day, and I rode after her to see that no harm came to her. After a while we grew to be friends—then, lovers. She was only a chit of a girl, and when I asked her to run away with me she consented. One night she stole oat of her father’s house and came to the oak grove where I was waiting for her. I had secured a fleet-footed horse, and when morning dawned we were miles away. We took passage on a steamer bound for America, and were married the day after our arrival. For a while she appeared happy enough, although, of course, we were very poor; but I was young and hopeful and loved my child-wife. Gradually she began to pine for her old home. She was unused to poverty, and didn’t know how to bear, the tips and downs of life as a poor girl would have done.”

“She frequently upbraided me for the misfortune I had brought upon her, and in time began to hate me. I did the best I could for her and looked forward to your birth, thinking she would be more content when she held her baby in her arms; but I was mistaken; nothing could reconcile her to a life of poverty with me.”

“When you were a few mouths old I discovered she was receiving letters from her father. Every day helped to widen the breach between us. Although she treated me with cold contempt, I did not blame her much, for I knew too well I how I had ruined her life, and her unhappiness increased mine tenfold.”

“At that time I was employed on the docks. One morning while at work a lady, closely veiled, accompanied by a gentleman and a nurse, with a child in her arms, passed me. Something about her figure attracted my attention, and as I turned to look after them I caught a glimpse of the baby’s face. I stood for a moment unable to move or speak. Meanwhile they had boarded a steamer that would sail for Liverpool in a few hours. When I recovered my surprise I went as rapidly as possible to the home that bad never been a happy one, and learned that my wife and child had gone away in a carriage an hour or two before.”

“Burning with rage and excitement I hurried back to the vessel. Your mother was on deck talking earnestly to her companion, and the nurse was saving good-bye to some friends who had come to see tier off. I walked boldly up to her and inquired the number of her stateroom, saying that her mistress had sent me for her shawl. The girl replied that she would go and get it, but I said, pleasantly, ‘Talk to your friends while you have time.’”

“Only too glad of an opportunity to have a last word with those she was leaving behind, she told me the number, at the same time charging me to be careful and not awaken the baby. Trembling with excitement I hurried to the state-room, wrapped you in the shawl, and walked off the steamer.”

“Have I made the story of my early life clear to you, Ailsie?”

“Yes, papa, I understand it perfectly, and am so sorry for you, poor, dear papa.” Then, with a wistful glance in his face, “Do you think mamma cried for me—for her baby?”

“It may be that she did, but probably the prospect of being reunited to her family lessened her grief for your loss. Twelve years have passed and I have never seen or heard from her since. I have heard of her, though, and know that our marriage was annulled on the ground that she was too young to wed without the consent of her parents and about seven years ago she became the wife of a man of rank. That was the last news I had of her. I wronged your mother, Ailsie, and wronged you in taking you from her. And now, if she

will receive you back, I will give you up. But you will not return to her penniless – you will have a fortune of $20,000.”

“And will you live with us, papa?”

“No, my child, I will return to my old life in the mines.”

“Oh, papa! papa!” cried Ailsie, bursting into a passionate flood of tears, “I cannot—will not—stay here without you.”

He drew the child to his breast and soothed her with tender words, telling her that she would soon learn to love her mother – that he would watch over her and perhaps see her often. After she grew calm they started on their journey again and soon reached the old-fashioned inn where they were to pass the night.

Ailsie retired early, and her father descended to the public room, where, after a few moments’ conversation with the landlord, he learned that Ailsie’s mother, Lady Caroline Denbeigh, was living at Denbeigh hall, with her child, a sickly little fellow, about four years of age. The old lord had been dead a year or more, and the Hon. Mrs. Featherstone, Lady Caroline’s mother, had been with her until recently, but was then in Paris.

The next morning Ailsie and her father went down to the village hotel, where their luggage had been sent a week before, and after making the needful change in their dress, they set out for the hall.

The well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking individual who walked up the graveled path with a firm step and independent air bore but a faint resemblance to the groom with whom Caroline Featherstone had eloped some four years before.

As they approached the house he espied Lady Denbeigh and the young heir on the broad veranda, and his heart gave a quick, painful throb as he gazed upon the face he knew so well.

“Is that lady my mamma?” whispered Ailsie.

“Hush,” he answered softly; then, under his breath: “time will tell if she is indeed your mother.” Lifting his bat respectfully, he said:

“I have come to crave a few moments’ conversation with yon, madam, in behalf of this child.”

Something in his tone touched a chord in her breast that vibrated painfully. She looked earnestly from one to the other, then, with a sudden effort, recovered her calmness, and said:

“State the nature of your errand, sir ?”

He had fancied himself fully prepared for this interview; but finding himself face to face with the woman he had never ceased to love—his courage failed him, and the man who had been knocked around the world for years, whoso wealth had made him powerful and self-asserting, grew as embarrassed as a school girl. The fine speeches he had meant to utter were forgotten. Drawing Ailsie to his side, he blurted out almost savagely:

“Does not your heart tell you who this child is?”

Pale with emotion, she cried: “Tell me, Miles Carlyle. Tell me quickly—is it my lost baby?” Reaching out her hands she swayed for a moment and would have fallen had he not caught her in his arms. When she opened her eyes again Ailsie was bending over her.

“Are you better, mamma ?” she inquired, stroking her mother’s pale cheek. “Is it true then—are you indeed my lost darling ?” murmared Lady Denbeigh, faintly.

Yes, mamma, and I am going to love you dearly to make up for the time we have not known each other. Some hours elapsed before Lady Denbeigh was sufficiently composed to listen to a recital of the events that had transpired since Ailsie’s abduction. Then Miles told her how he had gone West with the baby, where, after a sharp struggle with poverty, he finally obtained employment, and from that time onward had been what the world terms a successful man. How, while amassing wealth, he strove to cultivate his mind.

He was now a rich man. The few relatives he had left in his old home were dead, and in the event of his demise Ailsie would be entirely alone. His chief reason for seeking Lady Denbeigh was to entreat her to receive the child, and bestow upon her a mother’s loving care. He would settle upon her a sum sufficient for all wants, so that in a pecuniary sense she would not be a burden.

Ludy Deubeigh gladly agreed to all his plans for the girl’s future. Ailsie was to stay at the hall, and Miles would remain in the village, seeing her every day until she grew accustomed to her new life.

At first Lady Denbeigh maintaiued a diguiried reserve before him, but on the eve of his departure for London she confessed that when she had realized what efforts he had made to secure her happiness, she had bitterly regretted deserting him, and had written craving his forgiveness. For years detectives had searched for the child. Although legally separated from him, she had kept his image enshrined in her heart, and not until convinced that he was dead did she, at the urgent solicitation of her family, consent to marry Lord Denbeigh.

“I scarcely blamed you for returning to the life of luxury and refinement from which I had taken yon, he admitted,” and as years went by I saw more distinctly the social gulf which divided us and realized more fully the wrong I had committed. When I heard you were married to one of your own rank I rejoiced for your sake, even when acknowledging to myself that you were lost to me forever.”

His tone was infinitely sad. He bowed his head for a moment and seemed lost in gloomy reflection.

“Did you never meet any one—I mean—“ He looked up—their eyes met. “Any one to fill the void in my lonely heart?

“No.”

“Oh, Miles, forgive me—forgive me !” Pride—reserve—were cast aside, and she lay sobbing in his arms,

A week later Hon. Mrs. Featherstone read in the “London Times”: “Married at Denbeigh, July 10th, Miles Carlyle to Lady Caroline, widow of the late Lord Denbeigh.”

“Carrie always did have low tastes. I suppose this is the same creature she eloped with before, and I am glad her poor father is not living to hear of this new disgrace,” was her angry comment.

NOTE

The story articulates two important themes: the relationship of father and child; and paternal kidnapping as “last resort” in response to a preceding parental kidnapping in progress by the other parent.

The pedantic stereotype – long promoted by social historians and sociologists – holding that somehow paternal love is not natural – but rather the product of supposed “social forces” or the influence of “new fatherhood” experts’ influence is challenged by such cultural artifacts as this story (and hundreds of other examples). Likewise the false information promulgated by Parental Kidnapping “experts” that the parent who kidnaps (ot the one who ends up being called the kidnapping parent) is most often motivated by malice is challenged.

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