Books: Lizzy Glenn
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T.S. Arthur >> Lizzy Glenn
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Thus passed the hours until twelve, one, and two o'clock, the mother
feeling that her child was too sick for her to seek repose, and yet,
as she could do nothing to relieve her sufferings, she could not sit
idly by and look upon her. For fifteen or twenty minutes at a time
she would ply her needle, and then get up and bend over the bed for
a minute or two. A thought of duty would again call her back to her
position by the work-table, where she would again devote herself to
her task, in spite of an aching head, and a reluctant, over-wearied
body. Thus she continued until near daylight, when there was an
apparent subsidence of Ella's most painful symptoms. The child
ceased to moan and throw herself about, and finally sunk into
slumber. In some relief of mind, Mrs. Gaston laid down beside her
upon the bed, and, in a little while was fast asleep. When she
awoke, the sun had been up some time, and was shining brightly into
the room. Quickly rising, her first glance was toward her sick
child. She could scarcely suppress a cry of agony, as she perceived
that her face and neck had swollen so as to appear puffed up, while
her skin was covered with livid spots. An examination of the chest
and stomach showed that these spots were extending themselves over
her whole body. Besides these signs of danger, the breathing of the
child was more like gasping, as she lay with her mouth half opened.
The mother laid her hand upon her arm, and spoke to her. But she did
not seem to hear the voice.
"Ella, dear! how do you feel this morning?" repeated Mrs. Gaston in
louder and more earnest tones.
But the child heeded her not. She was already past consciousness! At
an early hour Doctor R--came in. The moment he looked at his patient
his countenance fell. Still, he proceeded to examine her carefully.
But every symptom was alarming, and indicated a speedy fatal
termination, this was especially the case with the upper part of the
throat, which was black. Nothing deeper could be seen, as the
tonsils were so swollen as to threaten suffocation.
"Is there any hope, doctor?" asked Mrs. Gaston, eagerly, laying her
hand upon his arm as he turned from the bed.
"There is always hope where there is life, madam," he replied,
abstractedly; and then in a thoughtful mood took two or three turns
across the narrow apartment.
"I will come again in an hour," he at length said, "and see if there
is any change. I would rather not give her any more medicine for the
present. Let her remain perfectly quiet."
True to his promise, Doctor R--entered the room just an hour from
the time he left it. The scene that met his eye moved his heart
deeply, all used as he was to the daily exhibition of misery in its
many distressing forms. The child was dead! He was prepared for
that--but not for the abandoned grief to which the mother gave way.
The chords of feeling had been drawn in her heart too tightly. Mind
and body were both out of tune, and discordant. In suffering, in
abject want and destitution, her heart still clung to her children,
and threw around them a sphere of intenser affection, as all that
was external grew darker, colder, and more dreary. They were her
jewels, and she could not part with them. They were hidden away in
her heart of hearts so deeply, that not a single one of them could
be taken without leaving it lacerated and bleeding.
When the doctor entered, he found her lying upon the bed, with the
body of her child hugged tightly to her bosom. Little Emma had crept
away into a corner of the room, and looked frightened. Henry was
crouching in a chair, with the tears running down his cheeks in
streams.
"You are too late, doctor," said the mother, in a tone so calm, so
clear, and yet to his ear so thrilling, that he started, and felt a
chill pass through his frame. There was something in the sound of
that voice in ill accordance with the scene.
As she spoke, she glanced at the physician with bright, tearless
eyes for a moment; and then, turning away her head, she laid her
cheek against that of the corpse, and drew the lifeless body with
trembling eagerness to her heart.
"This is all vain, my dear madam!" urged Dr. R--, approaching the
bedside, and laying his hand upon her. "Come! Be a woman. To bear is
to conquer our fate. No sorrow of yours can call back the happy
spirit of your child. And, surely, you would not call her back, if
you could, to live over the days of anguish and pain that were meted
out to her?"
"I cannot give up my child, doctor. Oh, I cannot give up my child!
It will break my heart!" she replied, her voice rising and trembling
more and more at each sentence, until it gave way, and the hot tears
came raining over her face, and falling upon the insensible cheek of
her child.
"'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,' Mrs. Gaston. Can you
not look up, even in this sore affliction, and say, 'Blessed be the
name of the Lord?' It is your only hope. An arm of flesh cannot
support you now. You must look to the Strong for strength."
As Doctor R--thus urged her to reason and duty, the tears of the
bereaved mother gradually ceased to flow. She grew calmer, and
regained, in some degree, her self-possession. As she did so, she
slowly disengaged her arm from the body of her child, placed its
head, as carefully as if it had been asleep, upon the pillow, and
then arose, and stood with her hands tightly clasped across her
forehead.
"I am but a weak woman, doctor, and you must bear with me," said
she, in a changed voice. "I used to have fortitude; but I feel that
I am breaking fast. I am not what I was."
The last two sentences were spoken in a tone so sad and mournful,
that the doctor could scarcely keep back the tears.
"You have friends here, I suppose," he remarked, "who will be with
you on this afflicting occasion?"
"I have no friends," she replied, in the same sad voice. "I and my
children are alone in this hard world. Would to heaven we were all
with Ella!" Her tears again gushed forth and flowed freely.
"Then I must send some one who will assist you in your present
need," said Dr. R--; and turning away he left the room, and, getting
into his chaise, rode off at a brisk pace. In about a quarter of an
hour, he returned with a woman who took charge of the body of the
child, and performed for it the last sad offices that the dead
require.
Upon close inquiry, he ascertained from Mrs. Gaston that she was in
a state of extreme destitution; that so far from having the means to
bury her dead child, she was nearly without food to give to her
living ones. To meet this pressing need, he went to a few benevolent
friends, and procured money sufficient to inter the corpse, and
about ten dollars over. This he gave to her after the funeral, at
which there were only three mourners, the mother and her two
children.
CHAPTER IV.
LIZZY GLENN AROUSES THE INTEREST OF A STRANGER.
BERLAPS was leaning over his counter late in the afternoon of the
second day from that on which the person calling herself Lizzy Glenn
had applied for and obtained work, when a young man entered and
asked for some article of dress. While the tailor was still engaged
in waiting upon him, the young woman came in, carrying a small
bundle in her hand. Her vail was drawn over her face as she entered;
but was thrown partly aside as she retired to the back part of the
store, where she stood awaiting the leisure of the man from whom she
had obtained work. As she passed him, the customer turned and looked
at her earnestly for a moment or two, and then asked in a whisper--
"Who is that?"
"Only one of our sewing-girls," replied Berlaps, indifferently.
"What is her name?"
"I forget. She's a girl to whom we gave out work day before
yesterday."
This paused the man to look at her more attentively. The young
woman, becoming conscious that she was an object of close scrutiny
by a stranger, turned partly away, so that her face could not be
seen.
"There is something singularly familiar about her," mused the young
man as he left the store. "Who can she be? I have certainly seen her
before."
"Ah, good-afternoon, Perkins!" said a familiar voice, while a
friendly hand was laid upon his arm. "You seem to be in a browner
mood than usual!"
"I am a little thoughtful, or abstracted, just as you please,"
replied the individual addressed.
"Are you, indeed? May I ask the reason?"
"The reason hardly seems to be a sufficient one--and, therefore, I
will not jeopardize your good opinion of me by mentioning it."
"O, very well! I am content to have my friends conceal from me their
weaknesses."
The two young men then walked on arm and arm for some distance. They
seemed to be walking more for the sake of a little conversation than
for any thing else, for they went slowly, and after winding about
among the labyrinthine streets for ten or twenty minutes, took their
way back again.
"There she is again, as I live!" Perkins exclaimed, half pausing, as
the young woman he had seen at the tailor's passed quickly by them
on their turning a corner.
"You've noticed her before, then?" remarked the friend, whose name
was Milford.
"I saw her a little while ago in a clothing store; and her
appearance instantly arrested my attention. Do you know who she is?"
"I do not. But I'd give something to know. You saw her in a clothing
store?"
"Yes. In the shop of that close-fisted Berlaps. She is one of his
seamstresses--a new one, by the way--to whom he has just given work.
So he informed me."
"Indeed! She must be in great extremity to work for his pay. It is
only the next remove, I am told, from actual starvation."
"But tell me what you know of her, Milford. She seems to have
attracted your notice, as well as mine."
"I know nothing of her whatever," replied the young man, "except
that I have met her five or six times during the last two weeks,
upon the Warren Bridge, on her way to Charlestown. Something in her
appearance arrested my attention the first time I saw her. But I
have never been able to catch more than a glimpse of her face. Her
vail is usually drawn."
"Who can she visit in Charlestown?"
"No one, I have good reason to think."
"Why so?"
"I had once the curiosity to follow her as far as I deemed it
prudent and courteous. She kept on entirely through the town--at
least through the thickly settled portion of it. Her step was too
quick for the step of one who was merely going to pay a friendly
visit."
"You have had, if I understand you, at least a glimpse of her
countenance?"
"Yes. Once, in passing her, her vail was half drawn aside, as if to
get a freer draught of air."
"And her face?"
"Was thin and pale."
"And beautiful?"
"So I should call it. Not pretty--not a mere doll's face--but
intellectually beautiful; yet full of softness. In fact, the face of
a woman with a mind and heart. But sorrow had touched her--and pain.
And, above all, the marks of crushed affection were too plainly
visible upon her young countenance. All this could be seen at the
single glance I obtained, before her vail was drawn hurriedly down."
"Strange that she should seek so to hide her face from every eye.
Can it be that she is some one we have known, who has fallen so
low?"
"No, I think not," replied Milford. "I am certain that I have never
seen her before. Her face is a strange one to me. At least, the
glance I had revealed no familiar feature."
"Well, I, for one, am resolved to know more about her," remarked
Perkins, as the two friends paused before separating. "Since she has
awakened so sudden, and yet so strong an interest in my mind, I
should feel that I was not doing right if I made no effort to learn
something of her true position in our city, where, I am much
inclined to think, she is a stranger."
The young men, after a few more words, separated, Perkins getting
into an "hourly" and going oyer to Charlestown to see a man on some
business who could not be at his house until late in the day. The
transaction of this business took more time than he had expected,
and it was nearly an hour after nightfall before he returned to
Boston. After passing the "draw," as he crossed the old bridge, he
perceived by the light of a lamp, some distance ahead, a female
figure hurrying on with rapid steps.
"It's the strange girl I saw at Berlaps', as I live!" he mentally
ejaculated, quickening his pace. "I must see where she hides herself
away."
The night was very dark, and the form of the stranger, as she
hurried forward, was soon buried in obscurity. In a little while,
she emerged into the little circle of light that diffused itself
around the lamp that stood at the termination of the bridge, and in
the next moment was again invisible. Perkins now pressed forward,
and was soon clear of the bridge, and moving along the dark, lonely
avenue that led up to the more busy part of the city. He had
advanced here but a few paces, when a faint scream caused him to
bound onward at full speed. In a moment after, he came to the corner
of a narrow, dark street, down which he perceived two forms
hurrying; one, a female, evidently struggling against the superior
force of the other.
His warning cry, and the sound of his rapidly advancing footsteps,
caused the man to relax his hold, when the female figure glided away
with wind-like fleetness. The man hesitated an instant; but, before
Perkins reached the spot where he stood, ran off in an opposite
direction to that taken by the woman.
Here was an adventure calculated to give to the mind of Perkins a
new and keener interest in the young seamstress. He paused but a
moment, and then ran at the height of his speed in the direction the
female form, which he had good reason to believe was (sic) her's,
had taken. But she was nowhere to be seen. Either she had sought a
shelter in one of the houses, or had hurried forward with a
fleetness that carried her far beyond his reach.
Thoughtful and uneasy in mind, he could hardly tell why, he sought
his lodgings; and, retiring at once to his chamber, seated himself
by a table upon which were books and papers, and soon became lost in
sad memories of the past that strongly linked themselves, why he
could not tell, for they had no visible connection, with the
present. For a long time he sat in this abstract mood, his hand
shading his face from the light. At last he arose slowly and went to
a drawer, from which he took a small morocco case, and, returning
with it to the table, seated himself again near the lamp. He opened
the case, and let the light fall strongly upon the miniature of a
most beautiful female. Her light brown hair, that fell in rich and
glossy ringlets to her neck, relieved tastefully her broad white
forehead, and the gentle roundness of her pure cheeks, that were
just tinged with the flush of health and beauty. But these took not
away from the instant attraction of her dark hazel eyes, that beamed
tenderly upon the gazer's face. Perkins bent for many minutes over
this sweet image; then pressing it to his lips, he murmured, as he
leaned back, and lifted his eyes to the ceiling--
"Where, where in the spirit-land dost thou dwell, dear angel? In
what dark and undiscovered cave of the ocean rests, in dreamless
sleep, thy beautiful but unconscious body? Snatched from me in the
bloom of youth, when fresh flowers blossomed in thy young heart to
bless me with their fragrance, how hast thou left me in loneliness
and desolation of spirit! And yet thou seemest near to me, and, of
late, nearer and dearer than ever. Oh, that I could hear thy real
voice, even if spoken to the ear of my spirit, and see once more thy
real face, were it only a spiritual presence!"
The young man then fell into a dreamy (sic) stat of mind, in which
we will leave him for the present.
CHAPTER V.
SOME OF THE TROUBLES OF A NEEDLEWOMAN.--A FRIEND IN NEED.
THE prompt assistance rendered, by Dr. R--to Mrs. Gaston came just
in time. It enabled her to pay her month's rent, due for several
days, to settle the amount owed to Mrs. Grubb, and lay in more wood
for the coming winter. This consumed all her money, and left her
once more dependent upon the meagre reward of her hard labor to
supply food and clothing for herself and her two remaining children.
From a state of almost complete paralysis of mind, consequent upon
the death of Ella, her necessities aroused her. On the second day
after the child had been taken, she again resumed her suspended
toil. The sight of the unfinished garment which had been laid aside
after bending over it nearly the whole night previous to the morning
upon which Ella died, awakened a fresh emotion of grief in her
bosom. As this gradually subsided, she applied herself with patient
assiduity to her task, which was not finished before twelve o'clock
that night, when she laid herself down with little Emma in her arms,
and soon lost all care and trouble in profound sleep.
Hasty pudding and molasses composed the morning meal for all. After
breakfast, Mrs. Gaston took the two jackets, which had been out now
five days to the shop.
"Why, bless me, Mrs. Gaston, I thought you had run off with them
jackets!" was Michael's coarse salutation as she came in. The poor,
heart-oppressed seamstress could not trust herself to reply, but
laid her work upon the counter in silence. Berlaps, seeing her, came
forward.
"These kind of doings will never answer, madam!" he said angrily. "I
could have sold both jackets ten times over, if they'd been here
three days ago, as by rights they ought to have been. I can't give
you work, if you are not, more punctual. You needn't think to get
along at our tack, unless you plug it in a little faster than all
this comes to."
"I'll try and do better after this," said Mrs. Gaston, faintly.
"You'll have to, let me tell you, or we'll cry 'quits.' All my women
must have nimble fingers."
"These jackets are not much to brag of," broke in Michael, as he
tossed them aside. "I think we had better not trust her with any
more cloth roundabouts. She has botched the button-holes awfully;
and the jackets are not more than half pressed. Just look how she
has held on the back seam of this one, and drawn the edges of the
lappels until they set seven ways for Sunday! They're murdered
outright, and ought to be hung, with a basin under them to catch the
blood."
"What was she to have for them?" asked Berlaps.
"Thirty cents a-piece, I believe," replied the salesman.
"Don't give her but a quarter, then. I'm not going to pay full price
to have my work botched up after that style!" And, so saying,
Berlaps turned away and walked back to his desk.
Lizzy Glenn, as she had called herself, entered at the moments and
heard the remark of the tailor. She glided noiselessly by Mrs.
Gaston, and stood further down the store, with both her body and
face turned partly from her, where she waited patiently for the
interview between her and Michael to terminate.
The poor, heart-crushed creature did not offer the slightest
remonstrance to this act of cruel oppression, but took the half
dollar thrown her by Michael for the two jackets with an air of meek
resignation. She half turned to go away after doing so, but a
thought of her two remaining children caused her to hesitate.
"Have'n't you some more trowsers to give out?" she asked, turning
again toward Michael.
The sound of her voice reached the ear of the young female who had
just entered, causing her to start, and look for an instant toward
the speaker. But she slowly resumed her former position with a sigh,
after satisfying herself by a single glance at the woman, whose
voice had fallen upon her ear with a strange familiarity.
"We haven't any more ready, ma'am, just now."
"What have you to give out? Any thing?"
"Yes. Here are some unbleached cotton shirts, at seven cents. You
can have some of them, if you choose."
"I will take half a dozen," said Mrs. Gaston in a desponding tone.
"Any thing is better than nothing."
"Well, Miss Lizzy Glenn," said Michael, with repulsive familiarity,
as Mrs. Gaston turned from the counter and left the store, "what can
I do for you this morning?"
The young seamstress made no reply, but laid her bundle upon the
counter and unrolled it. It contained three fine shirts, with linen
bosoms and collars, very neatly made.
"Very well done, Lizzy," said Michael, approvingly, as he inspected
the two rows of stitching on the bosoms and other parts of the
garments that required to be sewed neatly.
"Have you any more ready?" she asked, shrinking back as she spoke,
with a feeling of disgust, from the bold, familiar attendant.
"Have you any more fine shirts for Lizzy Glenn?" called Michael,
back to Berlaps, in a loud voice.
"I don't know. How has she made them?"
"First rate."
"Then let her have some more, and pay her for those just brought
in."
"That's your sorts!" responded Michael, as he took seventy-five
cents from the drawer and threw the money upon the counter. "Good
work, good pay, and prompt at that. Will you take three more?"
"I will," was the somewhat haughty and dignified reply, intended to
repulse the low-bred fellow's offensive familiarity.
"Highty-tighty!" broke in Michael, in an undertone, meant only for
the maiden's ear. "Tip-top airs don't pass for much in these 'ere
parts. Do you know that, Miss Lizzy Glenn, or whatever your name may
be? We're all on the same level here. Girls that make slop shirts
and trowsers haven't much cause to stand on their dignity. Ha! ha!"
The seamstress turned away quickly, and walked back to the desk
where Berlaps stood writing.
"Be kind enough, sir, if you please, to hand me three more of your
fine shirts," she said, in a firm, but respectful tone.
Berlaps understood the reason of this application to him, and it
caused him to call out to his salesman something after this homely
fashion--
"Why, in thunder, Michael, don't you let the girls that come to the
store, alone? Give Lizzy three shirts, and be done with your
confounded tom-fooleries! The store is no place for them."
The young woman remained quietly beside the desk of Berlaps until
Michael came up and handed her the shirts. She then walked quickly
toward the door, but did not reach it before Michael, who had glided
along behind one of the counters.
"You're a fool! And don't know which side your bread's buttered," he
said, with a half leer, half scowl.
She neither paused nor replied, but, stepping quickly out, walked
hurriedly away. Young Perkins, before alluded to, entered at the
moment, and heard Michael's grossly insulting language.
"Is that the way to talk to a lady, Michael?" he asked, looking at
him somewhat sternly.
"But you don't call her a lady, I hope, Mr. Perkins?" the salesman
retorted, seeming, however, a little confused as he spoke.
"Do you know any thing to the contrary?" the young man asked, still
looking Michael in the face.
"I can't say that I know much about her, any way, either good or
bad."
"Then why did you use such language as I heard just now?"
"Oh, well! Never mind, Mr. Perkins," said Michael, his whole manner
changing as a new idea arose in his thoughts; "if she's your game,
I'll lie low and shut my eyes."
This bold assurance of the fellow at first confounded Perkins, and
then made him very indignant.
"Remember, sir," said he, in a resolute voice, and with a determined
expression on his face, "that I never suffer any one to trifle with
me in that style, much less a fellow like you; so govern yourself,
hereafter, accordingly. As to this young lady, whom you have just
insulted, I give you fair warning now, that another such an act will
bring with it merited punishment."
Perkins then turned from the somewhat crestfallen salesman, and
walked back to where Berlaps was standing at his desk.
"Do you know any thing about that young woman I just now saw leave
here, Mr. Berlaps?" he asked.
"I do not, Mr. Perkins," was the respectful answer. "She is a
stranger, who came in some days ago for work."
"What is her name?"
"Lizzy Glenn, I believe."
"Where does she live?"
"Somewhere at the north end. Michael; there, knows."
"Get from him her street and number for me, if you please."
Berlaps asked Michael for the street and number where she lived,
which the fellow took good care to give wrong. Perkins made a
memorandum of the name and residence, as furnished, in his
note-book, and, bowing to the man of shears, departed.
With her half-dozen shirts at seven cents, Mrs. Gaston returned
home, feeling as if she must give up the struggle. The loss of Ella,
after having striven so long and so hard for the sake of her
children, made her feel more discouraged than she had ever yet felt.
It seemed to her as if even Heaven had ceased to regard her--or that
she was one doomed to be the sport of cruel and malignant powers.
She had been home for only a short time, when Dr. R--came in. After
inquiring about her health, and if the children were still free from
any symptoms of the terrible disease that had carried off their
sister, he said--
"I've been thinking about you a good deal in the last day or two,
Mrs. Gaston, and have now called to have some talk with you. You
work for the stores, I believe?"
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