Books: Lizzy Glenn
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T.S. Arthur >> Lizzy Glenn
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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.
The death of Flora bowed Mr. Bancroft to the ground: that of William
completely prostrated him. He remembered, too distinctly, how often
and how recently he had murmured at the good gift of children sent
him by God, and now he trembled lest all were to be taken from him,
as one unworthy of the high benefactions with which he had been
blessed. How few seemed now the number of his little ones. There
were but five left. The house seemed desolate; he missed Flora every
where, and listened, in vain, for her light step and voice of music.
William was never out of his thoughts.
For weeks and months his heart was full of fear. If Mary, or Kate,
or little Harry looked dull, he was seized with instant alarm. A
slight fever almost set him wild. Scarcely a week passed that the
doctor was not summoned on some pretense or other, and medicine
forced down the throats of the little ones.
This was the aspect of affairs, when, in a time of great fiscal
derangement, the bank in which Mr. Bancroft was clerk suffered a
severe run, which was continued so long that the institution was
forced to close its doors. A commission was appointed to examine
into its affairs. This examination brought to light many
irregularities in the management of the bank, and resulted in a
statement which made it clear that a total suspension and winding-up
of the concern must ensue.
By this disaster, Mr. Bancroft was thrown out of employment.
Fortunately, the clerk in his old situation in the insurance company
gave up his place very shortly afterward, and Bancroft on
application, was appointed in his stead. The salary was only a
thousand dollars, but he was glad to get that.
So serious a reduction in his income made some reduction in existing
expenses necessary. This was attained, in part, by removing into a
house for which a rent of only two hundred dollars, instead of
three, was paid.
Still the parents trembled for their children, and were filled with
alarm if the slightest indisposition appeared. A few months passed
and again the hand of sickness was laid upon the family of Mr.
Bancroft. Mary and Kate and little Harry were all taken with the
fatal disease that had stricken down Flora and William in the
freshness of youth and beauty. The father, as he bent over his desk
had felt all day an unusual depression of spirits. There was, upon
his mind, a foreshadowing of evil. On leaving the office, rather
earlier than usual, he hurried home with a heart full of anxiety and
fear. His wife opened the door for him. She looked troubled, but was
silent. She went up-stairs quickly--he followed. The chamber they
entered was very still. As he approached the bed, he saw that Mary
and Kate were lying there, and that Harry was in the crib beside
them. Their faces were red, and when he placed his hands upon their
foreheads, he found them hot with fever.
Hopelessly and silently the unhappy man turned from the bed, and
seated himself in a distant corner of the room. The death-mark was
upon his children--did he not recognize the fatal sign? He had
remained thus for only a minute or two, it seemed, when he felt a
hand upon his arm. He looked up; his wife stood beside him, and her
eyes rested steadily in his own. She pointed to the bed and motioned
him to return there. He obeyed with a shrinking heart. No words were
spoken until they were again close to the children; then the mother
said, in a calm, cold, stern voice--
"You murmured at the blessings God gave us, and he is withdrawing
them one by one. When these are gone, it will not cost us over five
hundred dollars to live, and then you can save five hundred a year.
Five hundred dollars for three precious children! But it's the price
you fixed upon them. Kate and Mary and Harry, dear, dear, dear ones!
not for millions of dollars would I part with you!"
A wild cry broke from the lips of the agonized mother, and she fell
forward upon the bed, with a frantic gesture.
The father felt like one freezing into ice. He could not speak nor
move; how long this state remained he knew not. A long, troubled,
dreary period seemed to pass, and then all was clear again. His wife
had risen from the bed, and left the chamber. Little Harry had been
removed from the crib, but Kate and Mary were still on the bed, with
every indication of a violent attack of the same disease that had
robbed them of their two oldest children. He was about leaving the
room for the purpose of inquiring whether a physician had been sent
for, when the door opened and the doctor came in with Mrs. Bancroft.
The stern expression that but lately rested upon the face of the
latter, had passed away. She looked kindly and tenderly into her
husband's face, and even leaned her head against him while the
physician proceeded to examine the children.
But little, if any encouragement was offered to the unhappy parents.
The incipiency of the disease gave small room for hope, it was so
like the usual precursor of the direful malady they feared.
Ten days of awful suspense and fear succeeded to this, and then the
worst came. Two happy voices that had, for so many years, echoed
through the familiar places of home, were hushed forever. Kate and
Mary were no more. But, as if satisfied, death passed, and Harry was
spared.
Three were now all that remained of the large and happy household;
the babe, whose coming had awakened afresh the murmurings of the
father, and clear little Harry, just snatched, as it were, from the
jaws of death, and the gay, dancing Lizzy, whose voice had, lost
much of its silvery sweetness. Mrs. Bancroft did not again, either
by look or word, repeat or refer to her stunning rebuke. But her
husband could not forget it. In fact, it had awakened his mind to a
most distressing sense of the folly, not to say sin, of which he had
been guilty.
In self upbraidings, in the bitterness of grief for which there came
no alleviation, the time passed on, and Mr. Bancroft lived in the
daily fear of receiving a still deeper punishment.
One day, most disastrous intelligence came to the office in which he
was employed. There had been a fierce gale along the whole coast,
and the shipping had suffered severely. The number of wrecks, with
the sacrifice of life, was appalling. Among the vessels lost, were
ten insured in the office. Nothing was saved from then. Five were
large vessels, and the others light crafts. The loss was fifty
thousand dollars. Following immediately upon this, was another loss
of equal amount arising from the failure of a certain large moneyed
institution, in the stock of which the company had invested largely.
In consequence of this serious diminution of the company's funds,
the directors found themselves driven to make sacrifices of
property, and to diminish all expenses.
"We shall have to reduce your salary Mr. Bancroft," said the
president, to him, some weeks after the company had received the
shock just mentioned. "The directors think that five hundred dollars
is as large a salary as they now ought to pay. I am sorry that the
necessity for reduction exists, but it is absolute. Of course we
don't expect you to remain at the diminished compensation. But we
will be obliged to you, if you will give us as much notice as
possible."
With a heavy heart did Mr. Bancroft return to the home that seemed
so desolate, when the duties of the day were done. He tried, at
tea-time, to eat his food as usual, and to conceal from his wife the
trouble that was oppressing him. But this was a vain effort. Her
eyes seemed never a moment from his face.
"What is the matter, dear?" she asked, as soon as they had left the
table. "Are you not well?"
"No; I am sick," he replied, sadly.
"Sick?" ejaculated the wife, in alarm.
"Yes, sick at heart."
Mrs. Bancroft sighed deeply.
"My cup is not yet full, Mary," he said, in a bitter tone. "There is
yet more gall and wormwood to be added. We must go back to the two
rooms, and live as we began some sixteen or seventeen years ago. My
salary, from this day, is to be only five hundred dollars. It is
useless to try for a better place--all is ill-luck now. We must go
down, down, down!"
Mrs. Bancroft wept bitterly, but did not reply.
Back to the two rooms they went, but oh! how sad and weary-hearted
they were. It was not with them as when with the first dear pledge
of their love, they drew close together in the small bounds of a
chamber and parlor, and were happy. Why could they not be happy now?
They still had three children, and an income equal to their
necessities, if dispensed with prudent care. They were relieved from
a world of labor and anxiety. No--no--they could not be happy. Their
hearts were larger now, for they had been expanding for years, as
objects of love came one after the other in quick succession; but
these objects of love, with two or three solitary exceptions, had
been taken away from them, and there was silence, vacancy, and
desolation in their bosoms.
"My cup is not yet full, Mary." No, it seemed that it was not yet
full, for a few days only had elapsed, after the family had
contracted itself to meet the diminished income, before little Harry
began to droop about. Mr. Bancroft noticed this, but he was afraid
to speak of it, lest the very expression of his fear should produce
the evil dreaded. He came and went to and from his daily tasks with
an oppressive weight ever at his heart. He looked for evil and only
evil; but without the bravery to meet it and bear it like a man.
One night, after having, before retiring to bed, bent long in
anxious solicitude over the child for whom all his fears was
aroused, he was awakened by a cry of anguish from his wife. He
started up in alarm, and sprung upon the floor, exclaiming:
"In Heaven's name, Mary! what is the matter?"
His wife made no answer. She was lying with her face pressed close
to that of little Harry, and both were pale as ashes. The father
placed his hand upon the cheek of his boy, and found it marble cold.
Clasping his hands tightly against his forehead, he staggered
backward and fell; but he did not strike the floor, but seemed
falling, falling, falling from a fearful height. Suddenly he was
conscious that he had been standing on a lofty tower--had missed his
footing, and was now about being dashed to pieces to the earth.
Before reaching the ground, horror overcame him, and he lost, for a
moment, his sense of peril.
"Thank God!" was uttered, most fervently, in the next instant.
"For what, dear?" asked Mrs. Bancroft, rising up partly from her
pillow, and looking at her husband with a half-serious,
half-laughing face.
"That little Harry is not dead." And Mr. Bancroft bent over and
fixed his eyes with loving earnestness upon the rosy-cheeked,
sleeping child.
Just then there came from the adjoining room a wild burst of girlish
laughter.
"What's that?" A strange surprise flashed over the face of Mr.
Bancroft.
"Kate and Mary are in a gay humor this morning," said the mother.
"But what have you been dreaming about, dear?"
As this question was asked, a strain of music was heard floating up
from the parlor, and the voice of Flora came sweetly warbling a
familiar air.
The father buried his face in the pillow, and wept for joy. He had
awakened from a long, long dream of horror.
From that time Mr. Bancroft became a wiser man. He was no longer a
murmurer, but a thankful recipient of the good gifts sent him by
Providence. His wife bore him, in all, ten children, five of whom
have already attained their majority. He never wanted a loaf of
bread for them, nor anything needful for their comfort and
happiness. True, he did not "get ahead" in the world, that is, did
not lay up money; but One, wiser than he, saw that more than enough
would not be good for him, and, therefore, no efforts that he could
make would have given him more than what was needed for their "daily
bread." There was always enough, but none to spare.
I'LL SEE ABOUT IT.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
MR. EASY sat alone in his counting-room, one afternoon, in a most
comfortable frame, both as regards mind and body. A profitable
speculation in the morning had brought the former into a state of
great complacency, and a good dinner had done all that was required
for the repose of the latter. He was in that delicious, half-asleep,
half-awake condition, which, occurring after dinner, is so very
pleasant. The newspaper, whose pages at first possessed a charm for
his eye, had fallen, with the hand that held it, upon his knee. His
head was gently reclined backward against the top of a high,
leather-cushioned chair; while his eyes, half-opened, saw all things
around him but imperfectly. Just at this time the door was quietly
opened, and a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years, with a pale,
thin face, high forehead, and large dark eyes, entered. He
approached the merchant with a hesitating step, and soon stood
directly before him.
Mr. Easy felt disturbed at this intrusion, for so he felt it. He
knew the lad to be the son of a poor widow, who had once seen better
circumstances than those that now surrounded her. Her husband
had, while living, been his intimate friend, and he had promised him
at his dying hour to be the protector and adviser of his wife and
children. He had meant to do all he promised, but not being very
fond of trouble, except where stimulated to activity by the hope of
gaining some good for himself, he had not been as thoughtful in
regard to Mrs. Mayberry as he ought to have been. She was a modest,
shrinking, sensitive woman, and had, notwithstanding her need of a
friend and adviser, never called upon Mr. Easy, or even sent to
request him to act for her in any thing, except once. Her husband
had left her poor. She knew little of the world. She had three quite
young children, and one, the oldest, about sixteen. Had Mr. Easy
been true to his pledge, he might have thrown many a ray upon her
dark path, and lightened her burdened heart of many a doubt and
fear. But he had permitted more than a year to pass since the death
of her husband, without having once called upon her. This neglect
had not been intentional. His will was good but never active at the
present moment. "To-morrow," or "next week," or "very soon," he
would call upon Mrs. Mayberry; but to-morrow, or next week, or very
soon, had never yet come.
As for the widow, soon after her husband's death, she found that
poverty was to be added to affliction. A few hundred dollars made up
the sum of all that she received after the settlement of his
business, which had never been in a very prosperous condition. On
this, under the exercise of extreme frugality, she had been enabled
to live for nearly a year. Then the paucity of her little store made
it apparent to her mind that individual exertion was required,
directed toward procuring the means of support for her little
family. Ignorant of the way in which this was to be done, and having
no one to advise her, nearly two months more passed before she could
determine what to do. By that time she had but a few dollars left,
and was in a state of great mental distress and uncertainty. She
then applied for work at some of the shops, and obtained common
sewing, but at prices that could not yield her any thing like a
support.
Hiram, her oldest son, had been kept at school up to this period.
But now she had to withdraw him. It was impossible any longer to pay
his tuition fees. He was an intelligent lad--active in mind, and
pure in his moral principles. But like his mother, sensitive, and
inclined to avoid observation. Like her, too, he had a proud
independence of feeling, that made him shrink from asking or
accepting a favor, or putting himself under an obligation to any
one. He first became aware of his mother's true condition, when she
took him from school, and explained the reason for so doing. At once
his mind rose into the determination to do something to aid his
mother. He felt a glowing confidence, arising from the consciousness
of strength within. He felt that he had both the will and the power
to act, and to act efficiently.
"Don't be disheartened mother," he said, with animation. "I can and
will do something. I can help you. You have worked for me a great
many years. Now I will work for you."
Where there is a will, there is a way. But it is often the case,
that the will lacks the kind of intelligence that enables it to find
the right way at once. So it proved in the case of Hiram Mayberry.
He had a strong enough will, but did not know how to bring it into
activity. Good, without its appropriate truth, is impotent. Of this
the poor lad soon became conscious. To the question of his mother--
"What can you do, child?" an answer came not so readily.
"Oh, I can do a great many things," was easily said; but, even in
saying so, a sense of inability followed the first thought of what
he should do, that the declaration awakened.
The will impels, and then the understanding seeks for the means of
effecting the purposes of the will. In the case of young Hiram,
thought followed affection. He pondered for many days over the means
by which he was to aid his mother. But the more he thought, the more
conscious did he become, that in the world, he was a weak boy. That
however strong might be his purpose, his means of action were
limited. His mother could aid him but little. She had but one
suggestion to make, and that was, that he should endeavor to get a
situation in some store or counting-room. This he attempted to do.
Following her direction, he called upon Mr. Easy, who promised to
see about looking him up a situation. It happened, the day after,
that a neighbor spoke to him about a lad for his store--(Mr. Easy
had already forgotten his promise)--Hiram was recommended, and the
man called to see his mother.
"How much salary can you afford to give him?" asked Mrs. Mayberry,
after learning all about the situation, and feeling satisfied that
her son should accept of it.
"Salary, ma'am?" returned the storekeeper, in a tone of surprise.
"We never give a boy any salary for the first year. The knowledge
that is acquired of business is always considered a full
compensation. After the first year, if he likes us, and we like him,
we may give him seventy-five or a hundred dollars."
Poor Mrs. Mayberry's countenance fell immediately.
"I wouldn't think of his going out now, if it were not in the hope
of his earning something," she said, in a disappointed voice.
"How much did you expect him to earn?" was asked by the storekeeper.
"I didn't know exactly what to expect. But I supposed that he might
earn four or five dollars a week."
"Five dollars a week is all we pay our porter an abled-bodied,
industrious man," was returned. "If you wish your son to become
acquainted with mercantile business, you must not expect him to earn
much for three or four years. At a trade you may receive from him
barely a sufficiency to board and clothe him, but nothing more."
This declaration so damped the feelings of the mother that she could
not reply for some moments. At length she said--
"If you will take my boy with the understanding, that, in case I am
not able to support him, or hear of a situation where a salary can
be obtained, you will let him leave your employment without hard
feelings, he shall go into your store at once."
To this the man consented, and Hiram Mayberry went with him
according to agreement. A few weeks passed, and the lad, liking both
the business and his employer, his mother felt exceedingly anxious
for him to remain. But she sadly feared that this could not be. Her
little store was just about exhausted, and the most she had yet been
able to earn by working for the shops, was a dollar and a half a
week. This was not more than sufficient to buy the plainest food for
her little flock. It would not pay rent, nor get clothing. To meet
the former, recourse was had to the sale of her husband's small,
select library. Careful mending kept the younger children tolerably
decent, and by altering for him the clothes left by his father, she
was able to keep Hiram in a suitable condition, to appear at the
store of his employer.
Thus matters went on for several months. Mrs. Mayberry, working late
and early. The natural result was, a gradual failure of strength. In
the morning, when she awoke, she would feel so languid and heavy,
that to rise required a strong effort, and even after she was up,
and attempted to resume her labors, her trembling frame almost
refused to obey the dictates of her will. At length, nature gave
way. One morning she was so sick that she could not rise. Her head
throbbed with a dizzy, blinding pain--her whole body ached, and her
skin burned with fever. Hiram got something for the children to eat,
and then taking the youngest, a little girl about two years old,
into the house of a neighbor, who had showed them some good-will,
asked her if she would take care of his sister until he returned
home at dinner time. This the neighbor readily consented to
do--promising, also, to call in frequently and see his mother.
At dinner-time, Hiram found his mother quite ill. She was no better
at night. For three days the fever raged violently. Then, under the
careful treatment of their old family physician, it was subdued.
After that she gradually recovered, but very slowly. The physician
said she must not attempt again to work as she had done. This
injunction was scarcely necessary. She had not the strength to do
so.
"I don't see what you will do, Mrs. Mayberry," a neighbor who had
often aided her by kind advice, said, in reply to the widow's
statement of her unhappy condition. "You cannot maintain these
children, certainly. And I don't see how, in your present feeble
state, you are going to maintain yourself. There is but one thing
that I can advise, and that advice I give with reluctance. It is to
endeavor to get two of your children into some orphan asylum. The
youngest you may be able to keep with you. The oldest can support
himself at something or other."
The pale cheek of Mrs. Mayberry grew paler at this proposition. She
half-sobbed, caught her breath, and looked her adviser with a
strange bewildered stare in the face.
"Oh, no! I cannot do that! I cannot be separated from my dear little
children. Who will care for them like a mother?"
"It is hard, I know, Mrs. Mayberry. But necessity is a stern ruler.
You cannot keep them with you--that is certain. You have not the
strength to provide them with even the coarsest food. In an asylum,
with a kind matron, they will be better off than under any other
circumstances."
But Mrs. Mayberry shook her head.
"No--no--no," she replied--"I cannot think of such a thing. I cannot
be separated from them. I shall soon be able to work again--better
able than before."
The neighbor who felt deeply for her, did not urge the matter. When
Hiram returned at dinner-time, his face had in it a more animated
expression than usual.
"Mother," he said, as soon as he came in, "I heard to-day that a boy
was wanted at the Gazette office, who could write a good hand. The
wages are to be four dollars a week."
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