Books: Lizzy Glenn

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"As soon as this idea had become fully formed in my mind, I sold off
all our little stock of furniture, and with the meager supply of
clothing to which I had limited myself, ventured once more to try
the perils of the sea. After a quick passage, we arrived in Boston.
My father I at once had placed in the asylum, after having invested
nearly every dollar I had in bank stock, the dividends from which
were guaranteed to the institution for his support, so long as he
remained one of its inmates. This was early in the last fall. I had
then but a few dollars left, and no income. I was in a strange city,
dependent entirely upon my own resources. And what were they? 'What
am I to do? Where am I to go for employment?' were questions I found
hard indeed to answer. Twenty dollars were all I possessed in the
world; and this sum, at a hotel, would not last me, I knew, over two
or three weeks. I therefore sought out a private boarding-house,
where, under an assumed name, I got a room and my board for two
dollars a week. The woman who kept the boarding-house, and to whom I
communicated my wish to get sewing, gave me half a dozen plain
shirts to make for her husband, for which I received fifty cents
each. This was all the work I obtained during the first two weeks I
was in the house, and it yielded me only three dollars, when my
boarding cost me four. I felt a good deal discouraged after that. I
knew no one to whom I could go for work--and the woman with whom I
boarded could not recommend me to any place, except to the
clothing-stores: but they, she said, paid so badly that she would
not advise me to go there, for I could not earn much over half what
it would cost me for my board. Still, she added, 'half a loaf is
better than no bread.' I felt that there was truth in this last
remark, and, therefore, after getting the direction of a
clothing-store, I went there and got a few pairs of coarse trowsers.
This kind of work was new to me. In my ignorance, I made some
portion of them wrong, for which I received abuse from the owner of
the shop, and no money. He was not going, he said, to pay me for
having his work spoiled.

"Dreadfully disheartened, I returned to my lodgings, and set myself
to ponder over some other means of support. I had been, while at
school, one of the best French and Spanish scholars in the seminary.
I had also given great attention to music, and could have taught it
as skillfully as our musical professor. But five years had passed
since I touched the keys of a piano or harp, and I had not, during
that time, spoken a dozen words in any language except my native
tongue. And, even if I had retained all my former skill and
proficiency, my appearance was not such as to guarantee me, as a
perfect stranger, any favorable reception either from private
families or schools. So anxious had I been to make the remnant of my
father's property, which a kind Providence had spared to us, meet
our extreme need, that I denied myself every thing that I could
possibly do without. Having no occasion to go into society, for no
one would recognize me as Eugenia Ballantine, I had paid little
regard to my external appearance, so far as elegant and fashionable
apparel was concerned. I bought sparingly, and chose only plain and
cheap articles. My clothes were, therefore, not of a kind, as you
may yourself see, to give me, so far as they were concerned, a
passport to consideration.

"As two dollars a week would, I knew, in a very short time, exhaust
my little stock of money, I determined to try and rent a room
somewhere, at the lowest possible rate, and buy my own food. I eat
but a little, and felt sure that, by making this arrangement, I
could subsist on one dollar a week instead of two, and this much it
seemed as if I must be able to earn at something or other. On the
day after I formed this resolution I met, in my walks about the city
for the purpose, with the room where you found me, for which I paid
seventy-five cents a week. There I removed, and managed to live on
about one dollar and a quarter a week, which sum, or, at the worst,
seventy-five cents or a dollar a week, I have since earned at making
fine shirts for Mr. Berlaps at twenty-five cents each. I could have
done better than that, but every day I visit my father, and this
occupies from two to three hours."

"And how is your father?" asked Mrs. Gaston, wiping her tearful
eyes, as Eugenia paused, on ending her narrative.

"He seems calmer, and much more serious and apparently thoughtful
since he has been in this institution," Eugenia replied, with
something of cheerfulness in her tone. "He does not greet my coming,
as he did at first, with childish pleasure, but looks at me gravely,
yet with tenderness, when I enter; and, when I go away, he always
asks if I will 'come again to-morrow.' He did not do this at first."

"But have you not written to Mr. Perkins since your return?" asked
Mrs. Gaston.

Eugenia became instantly pale and agitated. But recovering herself
with an effort, she simply replied--

"How could I? To him I had, years before, been lost in the sea. I
could not exist in his mind, except as one in the world of spirits.
And how did when I came back, or how do I know now, that he has not
found another to fill that place in his heart which I once occupied?
On this subject I dared make no inquiry. And, even if this were not
the case, I am not as I was. I had fortune and social standing when
he wooed and won me. Now I am in comparative indigence, and branded
as an impostor in my native city. If none recognized and received us
in our own home, how could I expect him to do so? And to have been
spurned as a mere pretender by him would have broken my heart at
once."

Eugenia was greatly moved by this allusion to her former lover and
affianced husband. The subject was one upon which she had never
allowed herself to thinks except compulsorily, and but for a few
moments at a time. She could not bear it. After a silence of some
moments, Mrs. Gaston said--

"I have not met with or heard of Mr. Perkins for some years. He
remained in Troy about six months after you went away, and, during
that period, I saw him very frequently. Your loss seemed, for a
time, as if it would destroy his reason. I never saw any one suffer
such keen mental distress as he did. The fearful uncertainty that
hung around your fate racked his mind with the intensest anguish. At
the end of the time I have mentioned, he went to New York, and, I
was told, left that city a year afterward; but, whether it is so or
not, I never learned. Indeed, I am entirely ignorant as to whether
he is now alive or dead. For years I have neither heard of him nor
seen him."

Eugenia wept bitterly when Mrs. Gaston ceased speaking. She did not
reply, but sat for a long time with her hand partly concealing her
face, her whole body trembling nervously, and the tears falling fast
from her eyes. From this excitement and agitation, consequent upon a
reference to the past, she gradually recovered, and then Mrs. Gaston
related, in turn, her trials and afflictions since their separation
so many years before. These we will not now record for the reader,
but hurry on to the conclusion of our narrative.

By a union of their efforts, Mrs. Gaston and Eugenia were enabled,
though to do so required them to toil with unremitting diligence, to
secure more comforts--to say nothing of the mutual strength and
consolation they received from each other--than either could have
possibly obtained alone. The rent of a room, and the expense of an
extra light, were saved, and this was important where every cent had
to be laid out with the most thoughtful economy. Eugenia no longer
went out, except to visit her father. Mrs. Gaston brought home as
much work from the shop as both of them could do, and received the
money for it when it was done, which all went into a common fund.
Thus the time wore on, Eugenia feeling happier than she had felt for
many weary years. Mrs. Gaston had been a mother to her while she
lived in Troy, and Eugenia entertained for her a deep affection.
Their changed lot, hard and painful though it was, drew them closer
together, and united them in a bond of mutual tenderness.

New Year's day at last came, and the mother, who had looked forward
so anxiously for its arrival, that she might see her boy once more,
felt happier in the prospect of meeting him than she had been for a
long time. Since his departure, she had not heard a single word from
him, which caused her to feel painfully anxious. But this day was to
put an end to her mind's prolonged and painful suspense, in regard
to him. From about nine o'clock in the morning, she began to look
momently for his arrival. But the time slowly wore on, and yet he
did not come. Ten, eleven twelve, one o'clock came and went, and the
boy was still absent from his mother, whose heart yearned to see his
fair face, and to hear his voice, so pleasant to her ear, with
unutterable longings. But still the hours went by--two, three, four,
and then the dusky twilight began to fall, bringing with it the
heart-aching assurance that her boy would not come home. The tears,
which she had restrained all day, now flowed freely, and her
over-excited feelings gave way to a gush of bitter grief. The next
day came and went, and the next, and the next--but there was no word
from Henry. And thus the days followed each other, until the severe
month of January passed away. So anxious and excited did the poor
mother now become, that she could remain passive no longer. She must
see or hear from her child. Doctor R--had obtained him his place,
and to him she repaired.

"But haven't you seen your little boy since he went to Lexington?"
the doctor asked, in some surprise.

"Indeed, I have not; and Mr. Sharp promised to bring him home on New
Year's day," replied the mother.

"Mr. Sharp! Mr. Sharp!" ejaculated the doctor, thoughtfully. "Is
that the name of the man who has your son?"

"Yes, sir. That is his name."

Doctor R--arose and took two or three turns across the floor at
this, and, then resuming his seat, said--

"You shall see your son to-morrow, Mrs. Gaston. I will myself go to
Lexington and bring him home. I had no idea that the man had not
kept his promise with you. And, as I got Henry the place, I must see
that his master is as good as his word in regard to him."

With this assurance, Mrs. Gaston returned home, and with a lighter
heart.

CHAPTER XI.

PERKINS ANXIOUSLY SEEKS LIZZY GLENN.

ONE Morning, a few days after the young man named Perkins had
related to his friend the history of his attachment to Miss
Ballantine and his subsequent bereavement, he opened a letter which
came by mail, among several relating to business, postmarked New
Orleans. It was from an old friend, who had settled there. Among
other matters, was this paragraph:--

"I heard something the other day that surprised me a good deal, and,
as it relates to a subject in which no one can feel a deeper
interest than yourself, I have thought it right to mention it. It is
said that, about a year and a half ago, a young woman and her father
suddenly made their appearance here, and claimed to be Mr. and Miss
Ballantine. Their story, or rather the story of the daughter (for
the father, it is, said, was out of his mind), was that the ship in
which they sailed from New York had been burned at sea, and that a
few of the passengers had been saved in a boat, which floated about
until all died but herself and father; that they were taken up
almost exhausted, by a Dutch East Indiaman, and that this vessel
when near the Cape of Good Hope, encountered a gale, and was blown
far off south, losing two of her masts; and that she was finally
wrecked upon an uninhabited island, and the few saved from her
compelled to remain there for nearly two years before being
discovered and taken off. This story was not believed. Mr.
Paralette, it is said, who has retained possession of all Mr.
Ballantine's property since his absence, was waited upon by the
young woman; but he repulsed her as an impostor, and refused to make
the least investigation into her case. He had his own reasons for
this, it is also said. Several of Mr. Ballantine's old friends
received notes from her; but none believed her story, especially as
the man she called her father bore little or no resemblance to Mr.
Ballantine. But it is now said, by many, that loss of reason and
great physical suffering had changed him, as these would change any
man. Discouraged, disheartened, and dismayed at the unexpected
repulse she met, it is supposed by some, who now begin to half
believe the story, that she died in despair. Others say that the
same young woman who called upon Mr. Paralette has occasionally been
seen here; And it is also said that two of our most eminent
physicians were engaged by a young woman, about whom there was to
them something singular and inexplicable, for nearly a year and a
half to attend her father, who was out of his mind, but that they
failed to give him any relief. These things are now causing a good
deal of talk here in private circles, and I have thought it best to
make you aware of the fact."

From that time until the cars left for New York, Perkins was in a
state of strong inward excitement. Hurriedly arranging his business
for an absence of some weeks, he started for the South late in the
afternoon, without communicating to any one the real cause of his
sudden movement. After an anxious journey of nearly two weeks, he
arrived in New Orleans, and called immediately upon Mr. Paralette,
and stated the rumor he had heard. That gentleman seemed greatly
surprised, and even startled at the earnestness of the young man,
and more particularly so when he learned precisely the relation in
which he stood to the daughter of Mr. Ballantine.

"I remember the fact," was his reply. "But then, the young woman
was, of course, a mere pretender."

"But how do you know?" urged Mr. Perkins. "Did you take any steps to
ascertain the truth of her story?"

"Of course not. Why should I? An old friend of her father's called
upon them at the hotel, and saw the man that was attempted to be put
off by an artful girl as Mr. Ballantine. But he said the man bore no
kind of resemblance to that person. He was old and white-headed. He
was in his dotage--a simple old fool--passive in the hands of a
designing woman."

"Did you see him?"

"No."

"Strange that you should not!" Perkins replied, looking the man
steadily in the face. "Bearing the relation that you did to Mr.
Ballantine, it might be supposed that you would have been the first
to see the man, and the most active to ascertain the truth or
falsity of the story."

"I do not permit any one to question me in regard to my conduct,"
Mr. Paralette said, in an offended tone, turning from the excited
young man.

Perkins saw that he had gone too far, and endeavored to modify and
apologize: but the merchant repulsed him, and refused to answer any
more questions, or to hold any further conversation with him on the
subject.

The next step taken by the young man was to seek out his friend, and
learn from him all the particular rumors on the subject, and who
would be most likely to put him in the way of tracing the
individuals he was in search of. But he found, when he got fairly
started on the business for which he had come to New Orleans, that
he met with but little encouragement. Some shrugged their shoulders,
some smiled in his face, and nearly every one treated the matter
with a degree of indifference. Many had heard that a person claiming
to be Miss Ballantine had sent notes to a few of Mr. Ballantine's
old friends about two years previous; but no one seemed to have the
least doubt of her being an impostor. A week passed in fruitless
efforts to awaken any interest, or to create the slightest
disposition to inquiry among Mr. B.'s old friends. The story told by
the young woman they considered as too improbable to bear upon its
face the least appearance of truth.

"Why," was the unanswerable argument of many, "has nothing been
heard of the matter since? If that girl had really been Miss
Ballantine, and that simple old man her father, do you think we
should have heard no more on the subject? The imposition was
immediately detected, and the whole matter quashed at once."

Failing to create any interest in the minds of those he had supposed
would have been most eager to prosecute inquiry, but led on by
desperate hope, Perkins had an advertisement inserted in all the
city papers, asking the individuals who had presented themselves
some eighteen months before as Mr. Ballantine and his daughter, to
call upon him at his rooms in the hotel. A week passed, but no one
responded to the call. He then tried to ascertain the names of the
physicians who, it was said, had attended an old man for imbecility
of mind, at the request of a daughter who seemed most deeply devoted
to him. In this he at length proved successful.

"I did attend such a case," was at last replied to his oft-repeated
question.

"Then, my dear sir," said Perkins, in a deeply excited voice, "tell
me where they are."

"That, my young friend, is, really out of my power," returned the
physician. "It is some time since I visited them."

"What was their name?" asked the young man.

"Glenn, if I recollect rightly."

"Glenn! Glenn!" said Perkins, starting, and then pausing to think.
"Was the daughter a tall, pale, slender girl, with light brown
hair?"

"She was. And though living in the greatest seclusion was a woman of
refinement and education."

"You can direct me, of course, to the house where they live?"

"I can. But you will not, I presume, find them there. The daughter,
when I last saw her, said that she had resolved on taking her father
on to Boston, in order to try the effects of the discipline of the
Massachusetts Insane Hospital upon him, of which she had seen a very
favorable report. I encouraged her to go, and my impression is that
she is already at the North."

"Glenn! Glenn!" said Perkins, half aloud, and musingly, as the
doctor ceased. "Yes! it must be, it is the same! She was often seen
visiting Charlestown, and going in the direction of the hospitals.
Yes! yes! It must be she!"

Waiting only long enough in New Orleans to satisfy himself that the
persons alluded to by the physician had actually removed from the
place where they resided some months before, and with the declared
intention of going North, Perkins started home by the quickest route
from New Orleans to the North. It was about the middle of February
when he arrived in Boston. Among the first he met was Milford, to
whom he had written from New Orleans a full account of the reason of
his visiting that place so suddenly, and of his failure to discover
the persons of whom he was in search.

"My dear friend, I am glad to see you back!" said Milford,
earnestly, as he grasped the hand of Perkins. "I wrote you a week
ago, but, of course, that letter has not been received, and you are
doubtless in ignorance of what has come to my knowledge within the
last few days."

"Tell me, quickly, what you mean!" said Perkins, grasping the arm of
his friend.

"Be calm, and I will tell you," replied Milford. "About a week ago I
learned, by almost an accident, from the transfer clerk in the bank,
that the young woman whom we knew as Lizzy Glenn had, early in the
fall, come to the bank with certificates of stock, and had them
transferred to the Massachusetts Insane Hospital, to be held by that
institution so long as one Hubert Ballantine remained an inmate of
its walls."

"Well?" eagerly gasped Perkins.

"I know no more. It is for you to act in the matter; I could not."

Without a moment's delay, Perkins procured a vehicle, and in a
little while was at the door of the institution.

"Is there a Mr. Ballantine in the asylum?" he asked, in breathless
eagerness, of one of the attendants who answered his summons.

"No, sir," was the reply.

"But," said Perkins in a choking voice, "I have been told that there
was a man here by that name."

"So there was. But he left here about five days ago, perfectly
restored to reason."

Perkins leaned for a moment or two against the wall to support
himself. His knees bent under him. Then he asked in an agitated
voice--

"Is he in Boston?"

"I do not know. He was from the South, and his daughter has, in all
probability, taken him home."

"Where did they go when they left here?"

But the attendant could not tell. Nor did any one in the institution
know. The daughter had never told her place of residence.

Excited beyond measure, Perkins returned to Boston, and went to see
Berlaps. From him he could learn nothing. It was two months or so
since she had been there for work. Michael was then referred to; he
knew nothing, but he had a suspicion that Mrs. Gaston got work for
her.

"Mrs Gaston!" exclaimed Perkins, with a look of astonishment. "Who
is Mrs. Gaston?"

"She is one of our seamstresses," replied Berlaps.

"Where does she live?"

The direction was given, and the young man hurried to the place. But
the bird had flown. Five or six days before, she had gone away in a
carriage with a young lady who had been living with her, so it was
said, and no one could tell what had become of her or her children.

Confused, perplexed, anxious, and excited, Perkins turned away and
walked slowly home, to give himself time to reflect. His first fear
was that Eugenia and her father, for he had now no doubt of their
being the real actors in this drama, had really departed for New
Orleans. The name of Mrs. Gaston, as being in association with the
young woman calling herself Lizzy Glenn, expelled from his mind
every doubt. That was the name of the friend in Troy with whom
Eugenia had lived while there. It was some years since he had
visited or heard particularly from Troy, and therefore this was the
first intimation he had that Mrs. Gaston had removed form there, or
that her situation had become so desperate as the fact of her
working for Berlaps would indicate.

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.

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