Kitabı oku: «Lizzy Glenn; Or, The Trials of a Seamstress», sayfa 8

CHAPTER XII
PERKINS FINDS IN LIZZY GLENN HIS LONG LOST EUGENIA

AFTER Eugenia Ballantine, for she it really was, had removed to the humble abode of Mrs. Gaston, her mind was comparatively more at ease than it yet had been. In the tenderly manifested affection of one who had been a mother to her in former, happier years, she found something upon which to lean her bruised and wearied spirits. Thus far, she had been compelled to bear up alone—now there was an ear open to her, and her overburdened heart found relief in sympathy. There was a bosom upon which she could lean her aching head, and find a brief but blessed repose. Toward the end of January, her father's symptoms changed rapidly, indicating one day more alarming features than ever, and the next presenting an encouraging aspect. The consequence was, that the mind of Eugenia became greatly agitated. Every day she repaired to the Asylum, with a heart trembling between hope and fear, to return sometimes with feelings of elation, and sometimes deeply depressed.

On the day after Dr. R—had promised to go to Lexington to look after Mrs. Gaston's little boy, the mother's anxious desire to see her child, from whom she had heard not a word for nearly three months, became so strong that she could with difficulty compose herself so far as to continue her regular employments. She counted the hours as they slowly wore away, thinking that the moment would never come when her eyes should rest upon her dear boy. As the doctor had not said at what hour he would return from Lexington, there was no period in the day upon which she could fix her mind as that in which she might expect to see her child; but she assumed that it would not be until the after part of the day, and forward to that time she endeavored to carry her expectations.

When Doctor R—parted with her, as has been seen, on the day previous, he was exquisitely pained under the conviction that the child he had met with in Lexington in so deplorable a condition was none other than the son of Mrs. Gaston, who had been put out to Mr. Sharp at his instance. Hastily visiting a few patients that required immediate attention, he, very soon after parting with Mrs. Gaston, started in a sleigh for the town in which Henry had been apprenticed. On his arrival there, and before he had proceeded far along the main street, he observed the child he had before met, toiling along under a heavy burden. His clothes were soiled and ragged, and his hands and face dirty—indeed, he presented an appearance little or nothing improved from what it was a short time before. Driving close up to the side-walk upon which the boy was staggering along under his heavy load, he reined up his horses, and called out, as he did so—

"Henry!"

The lad stopped instantly, and turned toward him, recognizing him as he did so.

"Don't you want to see your mother, Henry?" asked the doctor.

The bundle under which he was toiling fell to the ground, and he stood in mute surprise for a moment or two.

"What is your name?" Doctor R—asked.

"Henry Gaston," replied the child.

"Then jump in here, Henry, and I will take you to see your mother."

The boy took two or three quick steps toward the doctor, and then stopped suddenly and looked back at the load which had just fallen from his shoulders.

"Never mind that. Let Mr. Sharp look after it," said Doctor R—.

"But he will—," and Henry hesitated.

"Jump in, quick, my little fellow; and say good-bye in your heart to Mr. Sharp! You shall never go back there again."

The child sprang eagerly forward at this, and clambered into Doctor R—'s sleigh. A word to the horses, and away they were bounding toward Boston. When Doctor R—arrived there, his mind was made up, as it had been, indeed, before he started, not to take Henry home to his mother that day. He saw that it would be too cruel to present the child to her in the condition he was; and, besides, he felt that, after having procured for him the situation, he could not look the mother in the face with her abused child in all the deformity of his condition before them. He, therefore, took Henry to his own home; had him well washed, and dressed in a suit of comfortable clothing. The change produced in him was wonderful. The repulsive-looking object became an interesting boy; though with a pale, thin face, and a subdued, fearful look. He was very anxious to see his mother; but Doctor R—, desirous of making as great a change in the child's appearance and manner as possible, kept him at his house all night, and until the afternoon of the next day. Then he took him to his eagerly expectant mother.

Mrs. Gaston had waited and waited with all the patience and fortitude she could summon, hour after hour, until the afternoon had advanced far toward evening. So anxious and restless had she now become, that she could no longer sit at her work. She had been standing at the window looking out and watching each approaching vehicle for some time, until she felt sick from constantly awakening hope subsiding in disappointment, when she turned away, and, seating herself by the bed, buried her face despondingly in the pillow. She had been sitting thus only a minute or two, when a slight noise at the door caused her to lift her head and turn in that direction. There stood a boy, with his eyes fixed upon her. For an instant she did not know him. Suffering, and privation, and cruel treatment had so changed him, even after all the doctor's efforts to eradicate their sad effects, that the mother did not at first recognize her own child, until his plaintive voice, uttering her name, fell upon her ear. A moment more, and he was in her arms, and held tightly to her bosom. Her feelings we will not attempt to describe, when he related in his own artless and pathetic manner, all and more than the reader knows in regard to his treatment at Mr. Sharp's, too sadly confirmed by the change im the whole expression of his face.

While her mind was yet excited with mingled feelings of joy and pain, Eugenia came in from her regular visit to her father. Her step was quicker, her countenance more cheerful and full of hope.

"Oh, Mrs. Gaston!" she said, clasping her hands together, "my father is so much better to-day, and they begin to give me great hopes of his full restoration. But who is this? Not your little Henry?"

"Yes, this is my poor, dear boy, whom I have gotten back once more," Mrs. Gaston said, the tears glistening upon her eyelids.

After a few words to, and in relation to Henry, the thoughts of Eugenia went off again to her father, and she spoke many things in regard to him, all of which bore a highly encouraging aspect. For the three or four days succeeding this, Mr. Ballantine showed stronger and stronger indications of returning reason; his daughter was almost beside herself with hope and joy.

Earlier than usual, one day about the second week in February, she went over to the asylum to pay her accustomed visit. She was moving on, after having entered the building, in the direction of the apartment occupied by her father, when an attendant stepped up, and touching her arm in a respectful manner, said—

"This direction, if you please."

There was something in the manner of the attendant that seemed to Eugenia a little mysterious, but she followed as he led the way. He soon paused at the door of an apartment, and half whispering in her ear said—

"Your father is in this room."

Eugenia entered alone. Her father was standing near the fire in an attitude of deep thought. He lifted his eyes as she entered, and looked her inquiringly in the face for some moments. She saw in an instant that he was greatly changed—that reason had, in fact, again assumed her sway over the empire of his mind.

"My dear, dear father!" she instantly exclaimed, springing toward him.

"Eugenia! Eugenia!" he ejaculated, in turn, as he held her from him for a moment or two. "Can this be my own Eugenia? Surely we are both dreaming! But it is! It is!" and he drew her to his bosom, and held her there in a long-strained embrace.

"But what does all this mean, my dear child? Why are we here? What place is it? Why am I so unlike myself that I doubt my own identity? Why am I so changed? Surely! surely! I am not Hubert Ballantine!"

"Be composed, dear father!" said Eugenia, with an instinctive feeling of concern. "We will go from here at once, and then we will talk over all that seems strange to you now."

As she said this, Eugenia pulled a bell, and requested the attendant who answered to call the principal of the institution. He came immediately, and she had a brief interview with him in regard to the propriety of removing her father instantly. He acquiesced, and ordered a carriage to be brought to the door. In this she entered with him, and directed the driver to take them to the Tremont House in Boston. There handsome rooms were ordered, and every effort was made by her to cause external circumstances to assume a character similar to what he had been accustomed to in former years. But her own appearance—her plain, worn, meagre garments, and above all, her changed face, so pale, so thin, so careworn, so marred by years of intense suffering—sadly perplexed him. Still he had a faint glimpse of the truth, and as his mind's eye turned intently toward the point from whence light seemed to come, he more than suspected the real facts in the case—at least the leading fact, that he had been out of his mind for a long time. He could remember distinctly the burning of the vessel at sea, and also the days and nights of suffering which were spent in open boats after leaving the vessel. But all from that time was dim and incoherent, like the vagaries of a dream.

After satisfying her father's mind, as far as she dared do so at once, in regard to the real position in which he suddenly found himself placed, she left him, and going to the proper representative of the asylum, procured a transfer of the stock held for the support of Mr. Ballantine, and then placed the certificates in the hands of an agent for sale, procuring from him at the same time an advance of one hundred dollars for immediate use. This was all accomplished in the course of a couple of hours. After this arrangement, she paid Mrs. Gaston a hurried visit—explained the happy change in her father's state of mind, and promising to see her again in a little while; had her trunk sent to the hotel, to which she herself returned, after having purchased various articles of clothing. When she next saw her father, her external appearance was greatly changed. This seemed to afford him real pleasure.

The next two or three days she spent in gradually unfolding to him the whole history of the past five years. At every step of her progress in this she trembled for the result—like one traversing a narrow, unknown, and dangerous passage in the dark. But on the third day, after nearly every thing had been told, she began to feel confidence that all would be well. The agitation and strong indignation exhibited when she related the treatment she had received in New Orleans, especially from Mr. Paralette, alarmed her greatly. But this gave way to a calm and rational consideration of the right course to be pursued to prove his identity and claim his property, to do which he was well aware would not be attended with any real difficulty, especially as with the return of reason had come back a distinct recollection of every particular connected with his business and property in New Orleans.

In the mean time, Mrs. Gaston was looked after, and temporary arrangements made for her comfort. As soon as Mr. Ballantine fully understood the position of things in New Orleans, he insisted upon an immediate return to that city, which Eugenia did not oppose. Preparations were therefore made for their early departure, and completed in a very short time.

It was nearly four o'clock on the afternoon of the day fixed for their departure, and when they were about leaving for the cars, that a servant came to the door of their parlor and said that a gentleman wished to see Mr. Ballantine. The servant was requested to ask him to walk up. Eugenia was in the parlor, and could not but feel surprised that any one in Boston should wish to see her father. She waited, therefore, to see who the individual was. He soon made his appearance—entering without speaking, and advancing toward her with his eyes fixed intently upon her face.

"William!" she ejaculated, in a quick, low, astonished voice, and sank instantly upon a chair, pale as ashes, and trembling in every limb.

"Eugenia! Can this be, indeed, my own long-lost Eugenia?" said Perkins, for it was he, springing eagerly forward and taking the half-fainting girl in his arms.

It needed no words of explanation from either—no renewal of early vows—no new pledges of affection—for "Love hath wordless language all its own, Heard in the heart–"

"My dear children!" said the father, coming forward, as soon as he could recall his bewildered senses, and taking both in his arms, "the long night has at last broken, and the blessed sun has thrown his first bright beams upon us. Let us look up to HIM who chasteneth his children for good, and bless him not only for the present joy, but for past sorrow—it was not sent in anger, but in mercy."

The departure of Mr. Ballantine and Eugenia was deferred for some days, during which time, at the urgent solicitation of Mr. Perkins, the nuptial ceremonies, so long delayed, were celebrated. He then accompanied them to New Orleans, where a summary proceeding restored to Mr. Ballantine all his property. He did not resume business, but returned to the North to reside with his daughter and her husband.

Nothing more remains to be said, except that Mrs. Gaston was never after compelled to work for the slop-shop men. Mr. Perkins and his lovely wife cared well for her.

THE FATHER'S DREAM

BY T. S. ARTHUR

WHEN Mr. William Bancroft, after much reflection, determined upon matrimony, he was receiving, as a clerk, the moderate salary of four hundred dollars, and there was no immediate prospect of any increase. He had already waited over three years, in the hope that one or two hundred dollars per annum would be added to his light income. But, as this much-desired improvement in his condition did not take place, and both he and his lady-love grew impatient of delay, it was settled between them, that, by using strict economy in their expenses, they could get along very well on four hundred dollars a year.

"If there should be no increase of family," was the mental exception that forced itself upon Mr. Bancroft, but this he hardly felt at liberty to suggest; and as it was the only reason he could urge against the step that was so favorably spoken of by his bride to be, he could do no less than resolve, with a kind of pleasant desperation, to take it and let the worst come, if it must come. Single blessedness had become intolerable. Three years of patient waiting had made even patience, itself, no longer a virtue.

So the marriage took place. Two comfortable rooms in a very comfortable house, occupied by a very agreeable family, with the use of the kitchen, were rented for eighty dollars a year, and, in this modest style, housekeeping was commenced. Mrs. Bancroft did all her own work, with the exception of the washing. This was not a very serious labor—indeed, it was more a pleasure than a toil, for she was working for the comfort of one she loved.

"Would I not rather do this than live as I have lived for the past three years?" she would sometimes say to herself, from the very satisfaction of mind she felt. "Yes, a hundred times!"

A year passed away without any additional income. No! we forget there has been an income, and a very important one; it consists in the dearest little babe that ever a mother held tenderly to her loving breast, or ever a father bent over and looked upon with pride. Before the appearance of this little stranger, and while his coming was anxiously looked for, there was a due portion of anxiety felt by Mr. Bancroft, as to how the additional expense that must come, would be met. He did not see his way clear. After the babe was born, and he saw and felt what a treasure he had obtained, he was perfectly satisfied to make the best of what he had, and try to lop off some little self-indulgences, for the sake of meeting the new demands that were to be made upon his purse.

At first, as Mrs. Bancroft had now to have some assistance, and they had but two rooms, a parlor and chamber adjoining, it was thought best to look out for a small house; the objection to this was the additional rent to be paid. After debating the matter, and looking at it on all sides, for some time, they were relieved from their difficulty by the offer of the family from which they rented, to let their girl sleep in one of the garret-rooms, where their own domestic slept. This met the case exactly. The only increased expense for the present, on account of the babe, was a dollar a week to a stout girl of fourteen, and the cost of her boarding, no very serious matter, and more than met from little curtailments that were easily made. So the babe was stowed snugly into the little family, without any necessity for an enlargement of its border. It fit in so nicely that it seemed as if the place it occupied had just been made for it.

And now Mr. Bancroft felt the home-attraction increasing. His steps were more briskly taken when he left his desk and turned his back, in the quiet eventide, upon ledgers and account books.

At the end of another year, Mr. Bancroft found that his expenses and his salary had just balanced each other. There was no preponderance any way. Like the manna that fell in the wilderness from heaven, the supply was equal to the demand. This, however, did not satisfy him. He had a great desire to get a little ahead. In the three years preceding his marriage, he had saved enough to buy the furniture with which they were enabled to go to housekeeping, in a small way; but, since then, it took every dollar to meet their wants.

"In case of sickness and the running up of a large doctor's bill, what should I do?" he would sometimes ask himself, anxiously; "or, suppose I were thrown out of employment?"

These questions always made him feel serious. The prospect of a still further increase in his family caused him to be really troubled.

"It is just as much as I can now do to make both ends meet," he would say, despondingly, and sometimes give utterance to such expressions even in the presence of his wife. Mrs. Bancroft was not a woman very deeply read in the prevailing philosophies of the day; but she had a simple mode of reasoning, or rather of concluding, on most subjects that came up for her special consideration. On this matter, in particular, so perplexing to her husband, her very satisfactory solution to the difficulty, was this—

"He that sends mouths, will be sure to send something to fill them."

There was, in this trite and homely mode of settling the matter, something conclusive, for the time, even to Mr. Bancroft. But doubt, distrust and fear, were his besetting sins, and in a little while, would come back to disturb his mind, and throw a shadow even over the sweet delights of home.

"If there was to be no more increase of family, we could do very well," he would often say to himself; "but how we are to manage with another baby, is more than I am able to see."

But all this trouble upon interest availed not. The baby came, and was received with the delight such visits always produce, even where there is already a house full of children. A crib for little Flora, who was now two years old, and able to amuse herself, with occasional aid from her mother and Nancy, the stout girl, who had in two years, grown stouter and more useful, was all the change the coming of the little stranger, already as warmly welcomed as the oldest and dearest friend could be, produced in the household arrangements of Mr. Bancroft. But sundry expenses attendant upon the arrival and previous preparations therefor, drew rather heavier than usual upon his income, and made the supply fall something short of the demand. At this point in his affairs, a vacancy occurred in an insurance office, and Mr. Bancroft applied for and obtained the clerkship. The salary was seven hundred dollars a year. All was now bright again. In the course of a few months, it was thought best for them to rent the whole of a moderate-sized house, as they really needed more room, for health, than they now had; besides, it would be much pleasanter to live alone. For an annual rent of one hundred and fifty dollars, they suited themselves very well. They waited, until the additional salary gave them the means of increasing their furniture in those particulars required, and then made the change. The second comer was a boy, and they had him christened William. As year after year was added to his young life, he grew into a gentle, fair-haired, sweet-tempered child, whose place upon his father's knee was never yielded even to his sister, on any occasion. His ear was first to catch the sound of his father's approaching footsteps, and his voice the first to herald his coming. This out-going of affection toward him, caused Mr. Bancroft to feel for little "Willy," as he was called, a peculiar tenderness, and gave to his voice a tone of music more pleasant than sounds struck from the sweetest instruments.

Year after year came and went, in ever varying succession, adding, every now and then, another and another to the number of Mr. Bancroft's household treasures. For these, he was not always as thankful as he should have been; and more than once, in anticipation of blessings in this line, was known to say something, in a murmuring way, about being "blessed to death." And yet for Flora, and William, and Mary, and Kate, and even Harry, the last and least, he had a place in his heart, and all lay there without crowding or jostling each other. The great trouble was, what he was to do with them all. How are they to be supported and educated? True, his salary had been increased until it was a thousand dollars, which was as much as he could expect to receive. On this he was getting along very well, that is, making both ends meet at the expiration of each year. But the children were getting older all the time, and would soon be more expense to him; and then there was no telling how many more were still to come. They had been dropping in, one after another, ever since his marriage, without so much as saying "By your leave, sir!" and how long was this to continue, was a question much more easily asked than answered. Sometimes he made light of the subject, and jested with his wife about her "ten daughters;" but it was rather an unrelishable jest, and never was given with a heartiness that made it awaken more than a smile upon the gentle face of his excellent partner.

We will let five or six years more pass, and then bring our friend, Mr. Bancroft, again before the reader. Flora has grown into a tall girl of fifteen, who is still going to school. William, now a youth of thirteen, is a lad of great promise. His mind is rapidly opening, and is evidently one of great natural force. His father has procured for him the very best teachers, and is determined to give him all the advantages in his power to bestow. Mary and Kate are two sprightly girls, near the respective ages of eight and eleven; and Harry, a quiet, innocent-minded, loving child, is in his sixth year. There is another still, a little giddy, dancing elf, named Lizzy, whose voice, except during the brief periods of sleep, rings through the house all day. And yet another, who has just come, that the home of Mr. Bancroft may not be without earth's purest form of innocence—a newborn babe.

To feed, clothe, educate, and find house-room for several children, was more than the father could well do on a thousand dollars a year. But this was not required. During the five or six years that have elapsed, he has passed from the insurance office into a banking institution as book-keeper, at a salary of twelve hundred dollars, thence to the receiving teller's place, which he now holds at fifteen hundred dollars a year. As his means have gradually increased, his style of living has altered. From a house for which he paid the annual rent of one hundred and fifty dollars, he now resides in one much larger and more comfortable, for which three hundred dollars are paid.

This was the aspect of affairs when the seventh child came in its helpless innocence to ask his love.

One evening, after the mother was about again, Mr. Bancroft, as soon as the children were in bed, and he was entirely alone with his wife, gave way to a rather stronger expression than usual, of the doubt, fear and anxiety with which he was too often beset.

"I really don't see how we are ever to get through with the education of all these children, Mary," he remarked with a sigh, "I'm sure it can't be done with my salary. It takes every cent of it now, and in a little while it must cost us more than it does at present."

"We've always got along very well, William," replied the wife. "As our family has increased our means have increased, and I have no doubt will continue to increase, if the wants of our children require us to have a larger income than we enjoy at present."

"I don't know—I'm not sure of that. It was more by good fortune than any thing else that I succeeded in obtaining better employment than I had when we were married. Suppose my salary had continued to be only four hundred dollars, what would we have done?"

"But it didn't continue at four hundred dollars, William."

"It might though—think of that. It was by the merest good luck in the world that I got into the insurance office—there we're two or three dozen applicants, and the gaining of the place by me was mere chance work. If I hadn't been in the insurance office for so many years, and by that means become acquainted with most of the directors of the bank, I never would have attained my present comfortable place. It makes me sick when I think of the miserable plight we would now be in, if that piece of good fortune had not accidentally befallen me."

"Don't say accidentally," returned the wife, in a gentle tone, "say providentially. He who sent us children, sent with them the means for their support. It isn't luck, dear, it is Providence."

"It may be, but I can't understand it," returned Mr. Bancroft, doubtingly. "To me it is all luck."

After this remark, he was silent for some time. Then he said, with a tone made cheerful by the thought he expressed,

"How pleasantly we would be getting along if our family were no larger than it was when I had only four hundred dollars income. How easy it would be to lay up a thousand dollars every year. Let me see, we have been married over sixteen years. Just think what a handsome little property we would have by this time—sixteen thousand dollars. As it is, we haven't sixteen thousand cents, and no likelihood of ever getting a farthing ahead. It is right down discouraging."

The semi-cheerful tone in which Mr. Bancroft had commenced speaking, died away in the last brief sentence.

"Two or three children are enough for any body to have," he resumed, half fretfully; "and quite as many as can be well taken care of. With two or even three, we might be as happy and comfortable as we could desire. But with seven, and half as many more in prospect, O dear! It is enough to dishearten any one."

Mrs. Bancroft did not reply, but drew her arm tighter around the babe that lay asleep upon her breast. Her mind wandered over the seven jewels that were to her so precious, and she asked herself which of them she could part with; or if there was an earthly good more to be desired than the love of these dear children.

Mr. Bancroft had very little more to say that evening, but his state of mind did not improve. He was dissatisfied because his income, ten years before, when his expenses were less, was not as good as it was now, and looked ahead with, a troubled feeling at the prospect of a still increasing family, and still increasing expenses, to meet which he could see no possible way. In this unhappy mood he retired at an earlier hour than usual, but could not sleep for a long time—his thoughts were too unquiet. At last, however, he sunk into a deep slumber.

When again conscious, the sun was shining in at the window. His wife had already risen. He got up, dressed himself, and went down stairs. Breakfast was already on the table, and his happy little household assembling. But after all were seated, Mr. Bancroft noticed a vacant place.

"Where is Flora?" he asked.

A shade passed over the brow of his wife.

"Flora has been quite ill all night," she replied; "I was up with her for two or three hours."

"Indeed! what is the matter?"

Mr. Bancroft felt a sudden strange alarm take hold of his heart.

"I can't tell," returned the mother. "She has a high fever, and complains of sore throat."

"Scarlet fever?" ejaculated Mr. Bancroft, pushing aside his untasted cup of coffee and rising from the table. "I must have the doctor here immediately. It is raging all around us."

The father hurried from the room, and went in great haste for the family physician, who promised to make his first call that morning at his house.

When Mr. Bancroft came home from the bank in the afternoon, he found Flora extremely ill, with every indication of the dreadful disease he named in the morning. A couple of days reduced doubt to certainty. It was a case of scarlatina of the worst type. Speedily did it run its fatal course, and in less than a week from the time she was attacked, Flora was forever free from all mortal agonies.

This was a terrible blow to the father. It broke him completely down. The mother bore her sad bereavement with the calmness of a Christian, yet not without the keenest suffering.

But the visitation did not stop here. Death rarely lays his withering hand upon one household flower without touching another, and causing it to droop, wither, and fall to the ground. So it was in this case. William, the manly, intelligent, promising boy, upon whom the father had ever looked with love and pride so evenly balanced, that the preponderance of neither became apparent, was taken with the same fatal disease and survived his sister only two weeks.