Poor Fairfield wrung his hands and stamped the floor with rage. He cursed Ireland and her people and laws, or rather the want of them; then, as reason took the place of passion, he sat down and wrote a letter to his wife, informing her of his deplorable condition, and urging her to communicate with the agents of his vessel immediately. This letter never reached her, for, having heard of the wreck of the Glenalpine (some portions of the bows being found by a homeward-bound steamer imbedded in a large block of ice), she never doubted for an instant but that her husband had gone down with the vessel. The poor girl now felt almost broken down. But for the sake of the child which she expected she would have likely died with grief. The Canadian girl, Arline Bertrand, had told her so much of Canada, especially of Montreal, that she decided to follow the girl to her native land, and try to earn a living for herself and child, should God spare it, there, particularly as her aunt, Mrs. Whitcher, seemed to be afraid poor Agnes should return to her. Mrs. Fairfield accordingly sold her little household goods, and soon after bid her aunt and sister farewell, and took passage on a Montreal steamer, Bertrand having secured for herself a place as stewardess. Arrived in Montreal, she visited the girl’s parents, hoping to find reasonable lodgings during her approaching sickness, but the girl’s mother did not believe her daughter’s story about her young mistress, but thought her a young unfortunate girl who had come to Canada to hide her shame. She offered kindly to bring and introduce her to the nuns of St. Pélagie as the most proper place for her in her condition. Mrs. Fairfield, thanking her, was glad to find so suitable a shelter. Paying her board a week in advance, she retired to her room, but found to her surprise that room had several more occupants all in the same condition. The manner and language of those unfortunate creatures did not suit Mrs. Fairfield at all, and as she mentioned her disappointment at not having a room to herself to one of the nuns, she was informed that a private room was three times the amount. The sister also told her that the babe when born could not be cared for there, but would have to be sent to the Grey Nunnery, and that she had better part with it as soon as born. This frightened poor Agnes so much that she resolved not to stay there, come what might. Asking the next morning permission to take a walk, she had great trouble to get it granted, the nun informing her that the people in Montreal were so very bad, and that she would run great danger to go out alone. But Agnes thought she would risk this danger. She accordingly went up Campeau street, at which corner St. Pélagie is situated. She walked and walked till she came to St. Mary street. There inquiring for the residence of a physician, some kind person directed her to Dr. P——‘s drug store on Notre Dame street. To him she told her story and her desire to find a more suitable place. He gave her the address of my house, and advised her to come under my care. On hearing her story I could not for a moment doubt her truthfulness, and received her gladly at, my place, sending the servant with a note for Mrs. F——‘s things to St. Pélagie in the afternoon, which were, after some little delay and trouble, handed out to her, no doubt the sisters feeling sorry that the fair young English lady did not return. Her former servant, Arline Bertrand, having returned as stewardess to England again, Mrs. Fairfield did not care to let the girl’s mother know that she had left the convent, hoping to find means to let Arline know her whereabouts later, as the old lady had certainly meant well enough when bringing her to St. Pélagie. Mrs. Fairfield was only three weeks at my house when a baby boy was born to her. Then her sorrows seemed to be greater than ever. She thought of having lost her husband, the father of the innocent baby, so early seemed almost to kill her, and I frequently heard her implore God to take them both. But it was not in his wise ordination to grant her wish. She regained her strength gradually, and with it grew the love for her child which in all unconsciousness grew quite a stout little fellow who wanted to be fed, clothed and cared for, which obligations fell alone on its mother, and as her means became always smaller, she decided to take a situation with a wealthy family from Savannah who were staying at this time at my house, the Southern lady having taken a great interest from the beginning of their meeting in Mrs. Fairfield, offered her a comfortable home and fair compensation if she would accompany them, attend to the wants of the lady and her baby during their travels, and act as companion and housekeeper when at their Southern home. Mrs. Fairfield took it very hard to part from her little boy, but leaving it with a reliable nurse, and under my special observation, she was reconciled at last. Hoping to return in one year, she left. Every thing went on well. Her letters were full of gratitude. Her Southern friends never allowed her to feel her subordinate position for a moment. She also remitted regularly the wages for the nurse, and little George was, when fifteen months old, a lovely fair boy, and as large as a child two years old.
Some months passed during which I did not hear from Mrs. Fairfield, nor did the nurse receive her payment. I wrote to Savannah, but received no answer. The nurse, poor woman, naturally could not keep the child without payment, and brought him one fine afternoon to my house to leave him, and also demanding the back pay. My own children, being delighted with the dear little fellow, we decided to keep and bring him up as our own child should his mother never return. And many of my fair patients will remember the lovely, little curly-headed fellow who would run into the parlor uninvited, but whose large blue eyes would appeal so sweetly to be allowed to stay. Indeed we all became so attached to him that we hoped nobody would ever claim him. And, as twelve months had passed, I gave up all hope of ever hearing from Mrs. Fairfield again.
Fairfield had been confined in Pentenville, having been convicted on a charge of felony-treason, and sentenced to five years’ imprisonment. His wife and, friends not having heard of his trial, no one was present to bear testimony in his favor, and both he and his men (many of whom happened to be Irishmen) were imprisoned. The Americans claimed the protection of their flag, a covering which proved sufficiently substantial to protect them, but the only flag which could have been claimed by poor unfortunate George was the very one he was accused of attacking.
As the British Government did not wish to deal harshly with Fenian prisoners, or, as its enemies said, was afraid to trample any longer on the Irish people, George Fairfield and his companions, in common with many real Fenians, were liberated some years before the expiration of their term of servitude. Fairfield at once sought his late home, hoping to find his wife and child still alive, and cursing his fate, which had cast him twice on the pitiless ocean, only to be arrested and imprisoned as soon as he got to land. But the worst had yet to come. When he arrived at his old home and found it occupied by strangers his heart sank within him; on enquiring for Mrs. Fairfield he was informed that she had gone to America with her servant Bertrand. Grasping the railings to keep himself from falling, the poor stricken man gazed wildly at his informant, as though stunned by a severe blow; then gasping out an apology of some kind he rushed along the street like a madman, stopping not till he had got far out into the open country. There, throwing himself headlong on the grass, he shed tears of anguish, moaning as if in bodily pain. “Why did I not go down with the ship?” he cried bitterly; “Was it for this I toiled twice over on the open sea? Ah, why was I ever born to be tossed about, imprisoned, and deserted?”
For hours he lay insensible on the grass, till the cool evening air, bringing his mind once more into activity, he arose with a groan, and slowly retraced his steps, not caring whither he went. Passing along the quay he looked at the dark, sullen water, and for a moment was impelled to cast himself in and so put an end to his misery, but something in his better nature restrained him, and he walked moodily along to where an ocean steamer lay preparing for sea. Anything was better than inaction, so, as his money was all gone and he would have some difficulty in obtaining a position as Captain or even as mate, he shipped as a foremast hand, and took his place with the crew. Right glad would he have been to have changed places with any one of the jolly tars around him; their songs and jests, however, diverted the current of his thoughts and kept him from his bitter reflections for a time at least.
In a short time they were out at sea and, having plenty of work to do handing sails, reefing and steering, he almost forgot his great and deep heart-wound, and, although he could not be prevailed upon to sing a song or even to join in a chorus, yet he listened attentively to the yarns of the sailors, and always applauded their songs.
The vessel was trading between Glasgow and Montreal, and within a short time they were anchored at the latter port; the sailors all went ashore as soon as the vessel was safely moored, and Fairfield having nothing else to occupy his mind, went up the wharf in search of Bertrand’s parents house. He was directed to a house on St. Bonaventure street, where he found the mother of Arline Bertrand all right, but her daughter was not at home. She had gone as stewardess abroad again and married there. She had promised to visit her parents at some future time. When Captain Fairfield enquired about the lady she had come out with three years previous, the old lady broke out into sobs, and told him that the lady had died during her confinement in St. Pélagie, but that the nuns would give him more information about it if he would go there. If the babe had lived she did not know, but the sisters had offered to give to her daughter the lady’s clothes and trunk if she came herself to demand it. This last blow seemed to be the hardest in all his sorrow. Thinking himself so near to find his beloved wife, and now all gone and forever, it seemed to hard. But he would go and see the nuns and hear how she had died, and if his child had lived or was alive now. This thought gave him new hopes, and, Madame Bertrand offering to accompany him, they proceeded to St. Pélagie to obtain an interview with the Lady Superioress. He had never thought of the child before, but now it was his whole thought and hope to find it alive.
Arriving at the convent he had not to wait very long to see the desired lady, and on informing her of his wishes she most kindly consented to search all records, but, as the number of patients received every year is very large he had to content himself till the following day when she would give him all the information he desired. The next day seemed never coming. But at last poor George felt as if his worst doom would be sealed now. The lady in waiting informed him that she felt happy to be able to tell him that his child (a little girl) was alive and at that present moment at a convent in Cemetery street, where he could see it and take it out on payment of its maintenance. The lady’s clothes had been disposed of. As already stated, a long time had elapsed since her death. Capt. Fairfield, with a few lines from the sisters of St. Pélagie, proceeded to the St. Joseph’s Home, on Cemetery street, and, on handing the note, a little girl about three years old was shown to him to be his child. The poor little girl seemed afraid to look at him, and as the child could only speak French he felt as if a board was between him and the child; but her looks, he thought, were somewhat like his beloved Agnes. The child’s little curls had been cut a few days before, so a nun told him. What was he to do with the child? He was not a Captain now, and would have to make first a position for himself again, and then he could claim his child. The child seemed happy, and the nuns offering to keep it for a moderate price he decided to give what money he had earned during his passage and come again and again till the little girl could speak English to him, which the nuns promised to teach her, and then, to take her home to his native land. He had no parents alive, but he thought when going back to England he would call and see Mrs. Taylor, Agnes’ sister Alice. He had never visited her, and he felt so bad to think that she had not helped her sister in distress. He well remembered his wife’s spirit and independence, and that made him think that his wife had never made her wants known to them. However, the ship sailed again. He brought toys and sweetmeats to his darling little girl, to whom he felt with every visit more and more attached, and the parting was harder than he could have imagined.
Returned to Glasgow. On a later voyage, he proceeded at once to Mrs. Taylor’s house, and was struck at the happy appearance of his sister-in-law, who, when she recognized him, became quite alarmed and was near fainting. When Mr. Taylor, who was struck for a moment also, regained his self-possession, he allowed poor George to tell his sad story, both listening with interest. But when he related how his wife had died and he had at last found his child—Alice broke out, “She is not dead! She is not dead, George! We had a letter only a week ago. She is in Paris.” George Fairfield was thunderstruck at this revelation. Alice brought the letter, which he saw was from his Agnes. But how could be this mistake with the deceased lady in the convent and the child,—whose child was it!
Agnes wrote to her sister that she had intended travelling with the Southern family to the Continent. When on the oceans the Franco-Prussian war was declared. They had to stop at Southampton and, instead of going to Germany, they went to the South of France, and, as she had no letters from me for some time, she was almost beside herself. The Southern lady being in such delicate state of health she could not think of leaving her, but had to accompany her. All letters sent from or sent to France were carefully inspected by the Government, and thus it happened that I had not received any communication for a long time. She had at last expected that her letters had gone astray, then she had written to her sister, Mrs. Taylor, asking her to write to me and try to obtain in this way information about her boy.