Books: Lizzy Glenn

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"Yes, sir."

"What kind of work do you do?"

"Here are some common shirts, which I have just brought home."

"Well, how much do you get for them?"

"Seven cents, sir."

"_Seven cents_! How many of them can you make in a day?"

"Two are as many as I shall be able to get through with, and attend
to my children; and even then I must work half the night. If I had
nothing to do but sit down and sew all the while, I might make three
of them."

"Shameful! Shameful! And is that the price paid for such work?"

"It is all I get."

"At this rate, then, you can only make fourteen cents a day?"

"That is all, sir. And, even on the best of work, I can never get
beyond a quarter of a dollar a day."

"How in the world, then, have you managed to keep yourself and three
children from actual want?"

"I have not been able, doctor," she replied, with some bitterness.
"We have wanted almost every thing."

"So I should suppose. What rent do you pay for this poor place?"

"Three dollars a month."

"What! seventy-five cents a week! and not able to earn upon an
average more than a dollar a week?"

"Yes, sir. But I had better work through the summer, and sometimes
earned two dollars, and even a little more, in a week."

The doctor paused some time and then said--

"Well, Mrs. Gaston, it's no use for you to struggle on at this rate,
even with your two remaining children. You cannot keep a home for
them, and cover their nakedness from the cold. Now let me advise
you."

"I am ready to hear any thing, doctor."

"What I would propose, in the first place--and that, in fact, is
what has brought me in this morning--is that you put Henry out to a
trade. He is young, it is true; but necessity, you know, knows no
law. He will be just as well off, and better, too, under the care of
a good master than he can be with you. And, then, such an
arrangement will greatly relieve you. The care of little Emma will
be light in comparison to what you have had to endure."

"You are no doubt right, doctor," the poor woman said, while the
tears came to her eyes as she glanced toward Henry, who, for want of
a pair of shoes, was compelled to stay home from school. "But I
cannot bear the thought of parting with him. He is a delicate child,
and only ten years old this winter. He is too young to go from home
and have a master."

"He is young, I know, Mrs. Gaston. But, then, it is vain to think of
being able to keep him with you. It is a cruel necessity, I know.
But it cannot be avoided."

"Perhaps not. But, even if I should consent to put him out, I know
of no one who would take him. And, above all, I dread the
consequences of vicious association in a city like this."

"That matter, I think, can all be arranged to your satisfaction. I
saw a man yesterday from Lexington, who asked me if I knew any one
who had a lad ten or twelve-years old, and who would like to get him
a good place. I thought of you at once. He said a friend of his
there, who carried on the hatting business, wanted a boy. I inquired
his character and standing, and learned that they were good. Now, I
think this an excellent chance for you. I have already mentioned
your little boy to the man, and promised to speak to you on the
subject."

"But think, doctor," said Mrs. Gaston, in a trembling voice, "Henry
is but ten. To put a child out for eleven years is a long, long
time."

"I know it is, madam. But he has to live the eleven years somewhere,
and I am sure he will be as comfortable in this place as you can
make him; and, indeed, even more so."

"In some respects he may, no doubt. But a child like him is never
happy away from his mother."

"But suppose it is out of his mother's power to get him food and
comfortable clothing?"

"True--true, doctor. It is a hard fate. But I feel that I have only
one way before me--that of submission."

And submit she did, though with a most painful struggle. On the
following day, the friend of the hatter called upon Mrs. Gaston, and
it was settled between them that little Henry should be called for
by the man who was to become his master on the morning of the next
day but one. The best that the mother could do for her son, about to
leave his home and go out among strangers, was to get him a pair of
shoes, upon which she paid forty cents, promising to settle the
balance in a couple of weeks. His thin, scanty clothes she mended
and washed clean--darned his old and much-worn stockings, and sewed
on the torn front of his seal-skin cap. With his little bundle of
clothes tied up, Henry sat awaiting on the morning of the day
appointed for the arrival of his master, his young heart sorrowful
at the thought of leaving his mother and sister. But he seemed to
feel that he was the subject of a stern necessity, and therefore
strove to act a manly part, and keep back the tears that were ready
to flow forth. Mrs. Gaston, after preparing her boy to pass from
under her roof and enter alone upon life's hard pilgrimage, sat down
to her work with an overburdened heart. At one moment she would
repent of what she had done, and half resolve to say "No," when the
man came for her child. But an unanswerable argument against this
were the coarse shirts in her hands, for which she was to receive
only _seven cents a-piece!_

At last a rough voice was heard below, and then a heavy foot upon
the stairs, every tread of which seemed to the mother to be upon her
heart. Little Henry arose and looked frightened as a man entered,
saying as he came in--

"Ah, yes! This is the place, I see. Well, ma'am, is your little boy
ready?"

"He is, sir," replied Mrs. Gaston, almost inaudibly, rising and
handing the stranger a chair. "You see he is a very small boy, sir."

"Yes, so I see. But some small boys are worth a dozen large ones.
Come here, my little fellow! What is your name?"

The child went up to the man, telling him his name as he did so.

"That's a fine little fellow! Well, Henry! do you think you and I
can agree? Oh, yes. We'll get along together very well, I have no
doubt. I suppose, ma'am," he continued, addressing Mrs. Gaston,
"that the better way will be for him to stay this winter on trial.
If we like each other, you can come out to Lexington in the spring
and have him regularly bound."

"That will be as well, I suppose," the mother replied. Then, after a
pause, she said--

"How long will it be, Mr. Sharp, before I can see Henry?"

"I don't know, ma'am. How long before you think you can come out to
Lexington?"

"Indeed, sir, I don't know that I shall be able to get out there
this winter. Couldn't you send him in sometimes?"

"Perhaps I will, about New Year's, and let him spend a few days with
you."

"It is a good while to New Year's day, sir. He has never been from
home in his life."

"Oh no, ma'am. It's only a few weeks off. And I don't believe he'll
be homesick for a day."

"But _I_ shall, Mr. Sharp."

"You?"

"Yes, sir. It is hard to let my child go, and not see him again
before New Year's day."

"But you must act the woman's part, Mrs. Gaston. We cannot get
through life without some sacrifice of feeling. My mother had to let
me go before I was even as old as your boy."

As Mr. Sharp said this, he arose, adding as he did so--

"Come, my little man. I see you are all ready."

Holding back her feelings with a strong effort, Mrs. Gaston took
hold of Henry's small, thin hand, bent over him, and kissed his fair
young cheek, murmuring in an under tone--

"God be with you, and keep you, my boy!"

Then, speaking aloud, she said--

"Be a good and obedient child, and Mr. Sharp will be kind to you,
and let you come home to see me at New Year's."

"Oh, yes. He shall come home then," said the man half indifferently,
as he moved toward the door.

Henry paused only to kiss his sister, and then followed after, with
his little bundle in his hand. As he was about descending the steps,
he turned a last look upon his mother. She saw that his eyes were
filled with tears. A moment more, and he was gone.

Little Emma had stood looking wonderingly on while this scene was
passing. Turning to her mother with a serious face, as the door
closed upon Henry, she said--

"Brother gone, mamma?

"Yes, dear! Brother is gone," sobbed the mother, taking the last
child that remained to her, and hugging it passionately to her
bosom. It was a long time before she could resume her work, and then
so deep was her feeling of desolation, that she could not keep back
from her eyelids the blinding tear-drops.

CHAPTER V.

PERKINS' NARRATIVE.

THE efforts made by Perkins to find the residence of the stranger
proved unavailing. Half suspecting that Michael had deceived him, he
returned to the shop of Mr. Berlaps, and asked the direction anew.
It was repeated precisely as at first given.

"But I have been there."

"Well, wasn't she at that number?"

"No."

"I don't know any thing about her, then. It often happens that these
sewing girls deceive us as to their whereabouts?"

Perkins turned away disappointed, but with his interest in the
stranger more than ever excited.

"Who and what can she be? and why do I feel so deep an interest in a
perfect stranger, who cannot possibly be any thing to me?" were
involuntary questions which the young man endeavored, but in vain,
to answer.

That night, as he sat alone in his room, his friend Milford came in
and found him with the miniature before alluded to in his hand.

"Whose sweet face is that? Bless me! But she is a lovely creature!"
said Milford, as his eye caught a glimpse of the picture which
Perkins made a movement to conceal. "Aha! Mr. Sober-sides! have I
found you out at last?"

But seeing that his remarks had the effect to disturb, even agitate
his friend, he said, in a changed tone--

"Forgive me if I have thoughtlessly jarred a string that vibrates
painfully! I knew not that you carried in your heart an unhealed
wound."

"And yet I do, my friend. A wound that, I fear, will never
cicatrize. Five years have passed since I parted with the living
original of this picture. The parting was to be only for a few
months. We have never met since, and never will, in this world! The
sea gives not up its dead!"

There was a solemn earnestness in the voice of Perkins, that showed
how deeply the loss still affected him.

"To me," said his companion, after a pause, "it seems strange that
you should never have alluded to this subject, even to your nearest
friend."

"I could not, Milford. The effort to keep my feelings under control
has been severe enough, without permitting myself to speak of the
matter at all. But now that it has been alluded to, I feel inclined
to talk upon the subject, if you have any desire to hear."

"I certainly have an anxious desire to hear," replied Milford.

Perkins shaded his face for a few moments with his hand, and sat
silent and thoughtful. He then gave, in a calm voice, the following
narration:--

"You are aware that, when I came to this city to reside, a few years
since, I removed from Troy, New York. That is my native place--or,
at least, I had lived there from boyhood up, when I removed to
Boston. It is now about ten years since a man named Ballantine, who
seemed to possess considerable wealth, made his appearance in the
place, accompanied by his daughter, a young girl about thirteen
years of age. He came from New Orleans, where his wife had died, and
where he was still engaged in business. His object in coming North
with his child was to secure for her the advantages of a good
seminary. He seemed to prefer Troy, and after remaining there for
some months concluded to place his child in the family of a
newly-married man, whose wife, somewhat matronly in age and in
habits, happened to please his fancy, as a maternal guardian for his
child. After making every requisite arrangement in regard to her
education, he returned to New Orleans, from which city money to
defray her expenses was regularly transmitted. Once a year he came
North to visit her, and remained in our town for a few weeks.

"I happened to know the family in which Eugenia Ballantine was
placed, and became acquainted with her immediately. I was then but a
boy, though some four years her senior, yet old enough to feel for
her, from the beginning, something more than a mere fraternal
regard. And this sentiment was reciprocal. No place was so pleasant
to me as that which was cheered by her presence--no smile warmed my
heart like her smile; and I could always see her countenance
brighten the moment I came where she was.

"Gradually, as year after year passed, and she still remained among
us, our early preference for each other, or rather our early
affection, assumed a more serious character. We loved each other;
she was just seventeen, and I twenty-one, when I ventured to tell
her how deeply, fervently, and purely I loved her. The formal
announcement did not seem to create surprise, or agitate her in the
least.

"'I never doubted it,' was her innocent reply, looking me tenderly
in the face.

"'And do you love me as truly as I love you, Eugenia?' I asked.

"'Have you ever doubted it?' was her quiet response to this, also.

"From that moment I was bewilderingly happy. My family was one of
wealth and standing; and I immediately wrote to Mr. Ballantine, who,
after sufficient time to make inquiry in regard to the character and
position of his daughter's lover, returned a cordial assent to my
proposal for her hand. Thus far every thing had gone on as smoothly
as a summer sea. We smiled sometimes together at the carping adage,
'The course of true love never did run smooth,' and referred to our
own case as a signal instance of its falsity.

"During the summer succeeding our engagement, Mr. Ballantine did not
come on to the North. In the ensuing spring, Eugenia's term of
instruction closed at the seminary, after having been in Troy nearly
live years. She was a tall, beautiful woman, with a mind highly
cultivated, and externally accomplished in every respect. I was
proud of her beauty and acquirements, at the same time that I loved
her with fervent devotion. Spring passed away and summer came; with
the advancing season her father arrived from the South. He had not
seen his child for two years, during which time she had grown up
into a mature and lovely woman. I could forgive the jealous pride
with which he would look into her face, and the constant tenderness
of his allusions to her when she was away from his side.

"'I do not think, Mr. Perkins,' he would say to me, sometimes, 'that
I can let you have my Eugenia, unless you will go South. I am sure I
cannot part with her again.'

"'Why not come North, Mr. Ballantine?' I would suggest.

"But he would shake his head as he made some disparaging remark in
regard to the North, and playfully insist that I must go with him to
the sunny South. It was about the first of September that I asked
that our marriage might take place at an early day. But the father
shook his head.

"'Be content that the flower is to be yours. Do not become too eager
to pluck it from its parent stem, I must have my dear girl with me
for at least one winter. In the spring she shall be yours.'

"'Oh, no! Mr. Ballantine,' I said in alarm. 'You are not going to
rob me of her for so long a time?' I spoke with warmth.

"'Rob you of her!' ejaculated the father, in seeming half
indignation. 'You are unreasonable and very selfish, my dear boy!
Here you have had her for five years, and after a little while are
to have her for life, and yet are unwilling to give me even the boon
of a few short months with my own child. You are not generous!'

"I felt the rebuke, and confessed that I had been moved by too
selfish feelings.

"'If you think the time long,' he added, 'all you have to do is to
take a packet and come round--we shall welcome you with joy.'

"'That I shall no doubt be compelled to do, for I will not be able
to exist for five or six long months away from Eugenia.'

"'So I should suppose. Well, come along; and after I get you there,
I will see if I can't inoculate you with a love of southern people,
southern habits, and southern manners. I am sanguine that you will
like us.'

"'Well, perhaps so,' I said. 'But we will see.'

"The time for the departure of Mr. Ballantine and his daughter was
set for the first of October. The few remaining days passed on fleet
wings, and then, after completing the necessary arrangements,
Eugenia left Troy with her father for New York, thence to go by sea
to her native city. I accompanied them down the river, and spent two
days with them in the city, previous to the sailing of the ship
Empress, in which they were to embark. Our parting was tender, yet
full of hope for a speedy meeting. I had already made up my mind to
visit New Orleans about January, and remain there during the winter.
Our marriage was then to be solemnized.

"After the sailing of the Empress, I returned to Troy, to await the
news of her safe arrival at New Orleans. I felt gloomy and desolate,
and for my uncompanionable humor received sundry playful jibes or
open-rebukes from my friends. In about a week I began to examine the
shipping lists of the New York papers, in the hope of seeing some
notice of the good ship that contained my heart's best treasure. But
no record of her having been spoken at sea met my eyes as I scanned
the newspapers day after day with an eager and increasing hope,
until four, five, and six weeks had passed away. So much troubled
had I now become, that I went down to New York to see the owners of
the ship.

"'Has the Empress arrived out yet?' I asked, on entering the
counting-room.

"'Not at the latest dates,' was the reply, made in a voice
expressive of concern.

"'Is not her passage a very long one?'

"'We should have had news of her arrival ten days ago.'

"'Has she been spoken on the passage?'

"'Never but once, and that after she was three days out.'

"'Is she a good ship?' I next inquired.

"'None better out of this port,' was the prompt answer.

"For ten days I remained in New York, eagerly examining each morning
the shipping lists, and referring to all the southern papers to
which I could get access. I met during that time but one reference
to the Empress, and that was contained in a paragraph alluding to
her long passage, and expressing great fears for her safety. This
thrilled my heart with a more palpable and terrible fear. On the
next day but one, I met in a New Orleans paper a further allusion to
her, coupled with the remark that a suspicious-looking vessel,
clipper-built, with a black hull, had been seen several times during
the past few weeks cruising in the Gulf, and expressing a fear lest
she had come across the Empress. I thought this would have driven me
beside myself. But why prolong this painful narration by attempting
to describe my feelings, as day after day, week after week, and
month after month passed, and no tidings came of the missing ship?
From the day I parted with Eugenia, I have neither seen her nor
heard from her. The noble vessel that bore her proudly away neither
reached her destination, nor returned back with her precious
freight. All--all found a grave in the dark depths of the ocean.

"It is a terrible thing, my friend, to be _thus_ reft of all you
hold dearest in life. If I had seen her touched by the hand of
disease, and watched the rose fading from her cheek, leaf after leaf
falling away, until death claimed at last his victim, I could have
borne the severe affliction with some degree of fortitude. Even if
she had been struck down suddenly at my side, there would have been
something for the bruised heart to rest upon. But to be taken from
me thus! Her fate shrouded in a most fearful mystery! Oh! it is
terrible!"

And the young man set his teeth firmly, and clenched his hands, in a
powerful struggle with his still o'ermastering feelings. At length
he resumed, a calmer voice--

"No matter what terrors or violence attended her death--no matter
how deep she lies in the unfathomable sea, her spirit is with the
blessed angels, for she was pure and good. This ought to be enough
for me. The agonies of a fearful departure are long since over. And
why should I recall them, and break up afresh the tender wounds that
bleed at the slightest touch? Henceforth I will strive to look away
from the past, and onward, in pleasing hope, to that future time
when we shall meet where there will be no more parting."

"She must have been a lovely creature indeed," said Milford, some
minutes after his friend had ceased, holding, as he spoke, the
miniature in his hand, and looking at it attentively.

"She was lovely as innocence itself," was the half abstracted reply.

"Although I never saw her, yet there is an expression in her face
that is familiar"--Milford went on to say--"very familiar; but it
awakens, I cannot tell why, a feeling of pain. This face is a happy
face; and yet t seems every moment as if it would change into a look
of sadness--yea, of deep sorrow and suffering."

"This may arise, and no doubt does, from the melancholy history
connected with her, that I have just related."

"Perhaps that is the reason," Milford returned, thoughtfully. "And
yet I know not how to account for the strangely familiar expression
of her face."

"Did you ever see a picture in your life that had not in it some
feature that was familiar?" asked Perkins.

"Perhaps not," the friend replied, and then sat in mental
abstraction for some moments. He was not satisfied with this
explanation, and was searching his memory for the original of that
peculiar expression which had struck him so forcibly. He was sure
that it did exist, and that he had looked upon it no very long time
before. But he tried in vain to fix it. The impression floated still
in his mind only as a vague idea.

"There! I have it!" he at length exclaimed, but with something of
disappointment in his tones. "I remember that the young seamstress
we were speaking of a few days ago, a single glimpse of whose face I
obtained, had that very look which strikes me as familiar in this
picture. I thought I had seen it somewhere else."

Perkins started, and looked surprised and agitated. But this was
only momentary.

"Now you speak of her," he said, calmly, "I remember that I always
thought of Eugenia when I saw her, which is no doubt the reason why
I have felt strongly interested for the young stranger, who has
doubtless seen better days. I related to you, I believe, the
adventure I had near the bridge, in which she was concerned?"

"You did. I wonder what in the world takes her over to Charlestown
so often? She goes, I believe, almost every day, and usually late in
the afternoon. Several persons have spoken of her to me; but none
seemed to know her errand there, or to have any knowledge of her
whatever."

"There is some mystery connected with her, certainly. This afternoon
I went in to make some inquiries in regard to her of Berlaps. I was
just in time to hear Michael, his salesman, give her some insulting
language, for which I rebuked the fellow sharply."

"Indeed! How did she take it?" said Milford.

"She did not seem to notice him, but glided quickly past, as he bent
over the counter toward her, and left the store."

"Did you see her face?"

"No. Her vail was closely drawn, as usual," answered Perkins.

"I don't know why it is, but there is something about this young
female that interests me very much. Have you yet learned her name?"

"It is Lizzy Glenn--so I was told at the clothing store for which
she works."

"Lizzy Glenn! An assumed name, in all probability."

"Very likely. It sounds as if it might be," said Perkins.

"If I were you," remarked the friend, "I would learn something
certain about this stranger; if for no other reason, on account of
the singular association of her, in your involuntary thought, with
Miss Ballantine. She may be a relative; and, if so, it would afford
a melancholy pleasure to relieve her from her present unhappy
condition, for the sake of the one in heaven."

"I have already tried to find her; but she was not at the number
where Michael said she resided."

"She may not have given him the right direction," said Milford.

"So he pretends to infer. But I would rather believe that Michael
has purposely deceived me than that she would be guilty of
falsehood."

"If I see her again," said Milford, "I will endeavor, by all means,
to discover her place of residence."

"Do, if you would oblige me. It is my purpose not to lose sight of
her at our next meeting, be it where it may. Our present
conversation has awakened a deeper interest, and stimulated a more
active curiosity. I am no blind believer in chance, Milford. I do
not regard this meeting with the stranger as something only
fortuitous. There is a Providence in all the events of life, and I
am now firmly assured that these encounters with the seamstress are
not merely accidental, as the world regards accidents, but events in
a chain of circumstances that, when complete, will result in
positive good. Of the nature of that good--as to who will be blessed
or benefitted--I do not pretend to divine. I only feel ready to act
my part in the drama of life. I must and will know more about this
stranger."

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