Books: Lizzy Glenn
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T.S. Arthur >> Lizzy Glenn
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"What is your name?" Doctor R--asked.
"Henry Gaston," replied the child.
"Then jump in here, Henry, and I will take you to see your mother."
The boy took two or three quick steps toward the doctor, and then
stopped suddenly and looked back at the load which had just fallen
from his shoulders.
"Never mind that. Let Mr. Sharp look after it," said Doctor R--.
"But he will--," and Henry hesitated.
"Jump in, quick, my little fellow; and say good-bye in your heart to
Mr. Sharp! You shall never go back there again."
The child sprang eagerly forward at this, and clambered into Doctor
R--'s sleigh. A word to the horses, and away they were bounding
toward Boston. When Doctor R--arrived there, his mind was made up,
as it had been, indeed, before he started, not to take Henry home to
his mother that day. He saw that it would be too cruel to present
the child to her in the condition he was; and, besides, he felt
that, after having procured for him the situation, he could not look
the mother in the face with her abused child in all the deformity of
his condition before them. He, therefore, took Henry to his own
home; had him well washed, and dressed in a suit of comfortable
clothing. The change produced in him was wonderful. The
repulsive-looking object became an interesting boy; though with a
pale, thin face, and a subdued, fearful look. He was very anxious to
see his mother; but Doctor R--, desirous of making as great a change
in the child's appearance and manner as possible, kept him at his
house all night, and until the afternoon of the next day. Then he
took him to his eagerly expectant mother.
Mrs. Gaston had waited and waited with all the patience and
fortitude she could summon, hour after hour, (sic) antil the
afternoon had advanced far toward evening. So anxious and restless
had she now become, that she could no longer sit at her work. She
had been standing at the window looking out and watching each
approaching vehicle for some time, until she felt sick from
constantly awakening hope subsiding in disappointment, when she
turned away, and, seating herself by the bed, buried her face
despondingly in the pillow. She had been sitting thus only a minute
or two, when a slight noise at the door caused her to lift her head
and turn in that direction. There stood a boy, with his eyes fixed
upon her. For an instant she did not know him. Suffering, and
privation, and cruel treatment had so changed him, even after all
the doctor's efforts to eradicate their sad effects, that the mother
did not at first recognize her own child, until his plaintive voice,
uttering her name, fell upon her ear. A moment more, and he was in
her arms, and held tightly to her bosom. Her feelings we will not
attempt to describe, when he related in his own artless and pathetic
manner, all and more than the reader knows in regard to his
treatment at Mr. Sharp's, too sadly confirmed by the change im the
whole expression of his face.
While her mind was yet excited with mingled feelings of joy and
pain, Eugenia came in from her regular visit to her father. Her step
was quicker, her countenance more cheerful and full of hope.
"Oh, Mrs. Gaston!" she said, clasping her hands together, "my father
is so much better to-day, and they begin to give me great hopes of
his full restoration. But who is this? Not your little Henry?"
"Yes, this is my poor, dear boy, whom I have gotten back once more,"
Mrs. Gaston said, the tears glistening upon her eyelids.
After a few words to, and in relation to Henry, the thoughts of
Eugenia went off again to her father, and she spoke many things in
regard to him, all of which bore a highly encouraging aspect. For
the three or four days succeeding this, Mr. Ballantine showed
stronger and stronger indications of returning reason; his daughter
was almost beside herself with hope and joy.
Earlier than usual, one day about the second week in February, she
went over to the asylum to pay her accustomed visit. She was moving
on, after having entered the building, in the direction of the
apartment occupied by her father, when an attendant stepped up, and
touching her arm in a respectful manner, said--
"This direction, if you please."
There was something in the manner of the attendant that seemed to
Eugenia a little mysterious, but she followed as he led the way. He
soon paused at the door of an apartment, and half whispering in her
ear said--
"Your father is in this room."
Eugenia entered alone. Her father was standing near the fire in an
attitude of deep thought. He lifted his eyes as she entered, and
looked her inquiringly in the face for some moments. She saw in an
instant that he was greatly changed--that reason had, in fact, again
assumed her sway over the empire of his mind.
"My dear, dear father!" she instantly exclaimed, springing toward
him.
"Eugenia! Eugenia!" he ejaculated, in turn, as he held her from him
for a moment or two. "Can this be my own Eugenia? Surely we are both
dreaming! But it is! It is!" and he drew her to his bosom, and held
her there in a long-strained embrace.
"But what does all this mean, my dear child? Why are we here? What
place is it? Why am I so unlike myself that I doubt my own identity?
Why am I so changed? Surely! surely! I am not Hubert Ballantine!"
"Be composed, dear father!" said Eugenia, with an instinctive
feeling of concern. "We will go from here at once, and then we will
talk over all that seems strange to you now."
As she said this, Eugenia pulled a bell, and requested the attendant
who answered to call the principal of the institution. He came
immediately, and she had a brief interview with him in regard to the
propriety of removing her father instantly. He acquiesced, and
ordered a carriage to be brought to the door. In this she entered
with him, and directed the driver to take them to the Tremont House
in Boston. There handsome rooms were ordered, and every effort was
made by her to cause external circumstances to assume a character
similar to what he had been accustomed to in former years. But her
own appearance--her plain, worn, meagre garments, and above all, her
changed face, so pale, so thin, so careworn, so marred by years of
intense suffering--sadly perplexed him. Still he had a faint glimpse
of the truth, and as his mind's eye turned intently toward the point
from whence light seemed to come, he more than suspected the real
facts in the case--at least the leading fact, that he had been out
of his mind for a long time. He could remember distinctly the
burning of the vessel at sea, and also the days and nights of
suffering which were spent in open boats after leaving the vessel.
But all from that time was dim and incoherent, like the vagaries of
a dream.
After satisfying her father's mind, as far as she dared do so at
once, in regard to the real position in which he suddenly found
himself placed, she left him, and going to the proper representative
of the asylum, procured a transfer of the stock held for the support
of Mr. Ballantine, and then placed the certificates in the hands of
an agent for sale, procuring from him at the same time an advance of
one hundred dollars for immediate use. This was all accomplished in
the course of a couple of hours. After this arrangement, she paid
Mrs. Gaston a hurried visit--explained the happy change in her
father's state of mind, and promising to see her again in a little
while; had her trunk sent to the hotel, to which she herself
returned, after having purchased various articles of clothing. When
she next saw her father, her external appearance was greatly
changed. This seemed to afford him real pleasure.
The next two or three days she spent in gradually unfolding to him
the whole history of the past five years. At every step of her
progress in this she trembled for the result--like one traversing a
narrow, unknown, and dangerous passage in the dark. But on the third
day, after nearly every thing had been told, she began to feel
confidence that all would be well. The agitation and strong
indignation exhibited when she related the treatment she had
received in New Orleans, especially from Mr. Paralette, alarmed her
greatly. But this gave way to a calm and rational consideration of
the right course to be pursued to prove his identity and claim his
property, to do which he was well aware would not be attended with
any real difficulty, especially as with the return of reason had
come back a distinct recollection of every particular connected with
his business and property in New Orleans.
In the mean time, Mrs. Gaston was looked after, and temporary
arrangements made for her comfort. As soon as Mr. Ballantine fully
understood the position of things in New Orleans, he insisted upon
an immediate return to that city, which Eugenia did not oppose.
Preparations were therefore made for their early departure, and
completed in a very short time.
It was nearly four o'clock on the afternoon of the day fixed for
their departure, and when they were about leaving for the cars, that
a servant came to the door of their parlor and said that a gentleman
wished to see Mr. Ballantine. The servant was requested to ask him
to walk up. Eugenia was in the parlor, and could not but feel
surprised that any one in Boston should wish to see her father. She
waited, therefore, to see who the individual was. He soon made his
appearance--entering without speaking, and advancing toward her with
his eyes fixed intently upon her face.
"William!" she ejaculated, in a quick, low, astonished voice, and
sank instantly upon a chair, pale as ashes, and trembling in every
limb.
"Eugenia! Can this be, indeed, my own long-lost Eugenia?" said
Perkins, for it was he, springing eagerly forward and taking the
half-fainting girl in his arms.
It needed no words of explanation from either--no renewal of early
vows--no new pledges of affection--for "Love hath wordless language
all its own, Heard in the heart---"
"My dear children!" said the father, coming forward, as soon as he
could recall his bewildered senses, and taking both in his arms,
"the long night has at last broken, and the blessed sun has thrown
his first bright beams upon us. Let us look up to HIM who chasteneth
his children for good, and bless him not only for the present joy,
but for past sorrow--it was not sent in anger, but in mercy."
The departure of Mr. Ballantine and Eugenia was deferred for some
days, during which time, at the urgent solicitation of Mr. Perkins,
the nuptial ceremonies, so long delayed, were celebrated. He then
accompanied them to New Orleans, where a summary proceeding restored
to Mr. Ballantine all his property. He did not resume business, but
returned to the North to reside with his daughter and her husband.
Nothing more remains to be said, except that Mrs. Gaston was never
after compelled to work for the slop-shop men. Mr. Perkins and his
lovely wife cared well for her.
THE FATHER'S DREAM.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
WHEN Mr. William Bancroft, after much reflection, determined upon
matrimony, he was receiving, as a clerk, the moderate salary of four
hundred dollars, and there was no immediate prospect of any
increase. He had already waited over three years, in the hope that
one or two hundred dollars per annum would be added to his light
income. But, as this much-desired improvement in his condition did
not take place, and both he and his lady-love grew impatient of
delay, it was settled between them, that, by using strict economy in
their expenses, they could get along very well on four hundred
dollars a year.
"If there should be no increase of family," was the mental exception
that forced itself upon Mr. Bancroft, but this he hardly felt at
liberty to suggest; and as it was the only reason he could urge
against the step that was so favorably spoken of by his bride to be,
he could do no less than resolve, with a kind of pleasant
desperation, to take it and let the worst come, if it must come.
Single blessedness had become intolerable. Three years of patient
waiting had made even patience, itself, no longer a virtue.
So the marriage took place. Two comfortable rooms in a very
comfortable house, occupied by a very agreeable family, with the use
of the kitchen, were rented for eighty dollars a year, and, in this
modest style, housekeeping was commenced. Mrs. Bancroft did all her
own work, with the exception of the washing. This was not a very
serious labor--indeed, it was more a pleasure than a toil, for she
was working for the comfort of one she loved.
"Would I not rather do this than live as I have lived for the past
three years?" she would sometimes say to herself, from the very
satisfaction of mind she felt. "Yes, a hundred times!"
A year passed away without any additional income. No! we forget
there has been an income, and a very important one; it consists in
the dearest little babe that ever a mother held tenderly to her
loving breast, or ever a father bent over and looked upon with
pride. Before the appearance of this little stranger, and while his
coming was anxiously looked for, there was a due portion of anxiety
felt by Mr. Bancroft, as to how the additional expense that must
come, would be met. He did not see his way clear. After the babe was
born, and he saw and felt what a treasure he had obtained, he was
perfectly satisfied to make the best of what he had, and try to lop
off some little self-indulgences, for the sake of meeting the new
demands that were to be made upon his purse.
At first, as Mrs. Bancroft had now to have some assistance, and they
had but two rooms, a parlor and chamber adjoining, it was thought
best to look out for a small house; the objection to this was the
additional rent to be paid. After debating the matter, and looking
at it on all sides, for some time, they were relieved from their
difficulty by the offer of the family from which they rented, to let
their girl sleep in one of the garret-rooms, where their own
domestic slept. This met the case exactly. The only increased
expense for the present, on account of the babe, was a dollar a week
to a stout girl of fourteen, and the cost of her boarding, no very
serious matter, and more than met from little curtailments that were
easily made. So the babe was stowed snugly into the little family,
without any necessity for an enlargement of its border. It fit in so
nicely that it seemed as if the place it occupied had just been made
for it.
And now Mr. Bancroft felt the home-attraction increasing. His steps
were more briskly taken when he left his desk and turned his back,
in the quiet eventide, upon ledgers and account books.
At the end of another year, Mr. Bancroft found that his expenses and
his salary had just balanced each other. There was no preponderance
any way. Like the manna that fell in the wilderness from heaven, the
supply was equal to the demand. This, however, did not satisfy him.
He had a great desire to get a little ahead. In the three years
preceding his marriage, he had saved enough to buy the furniture
with which they were enabled to go to housekeeping, in a small way;
but, since then, it took every dollar to meet their wants.
"In case of sickness and the running up of a large doctor's bill,
what should I do?" he would sometimes ask himself, anxiously; "or,
suppose I were thrown out of employment?"
These questions always made him feel serious. The prospect of a
still further increase in his family caused him to be really
troubled.
"It is just as much as I can now do to make both ends meet," he
would say, despondingly, and sometimes give utterance to such
expressions even in the presence of his wife. Mrs. Bancroft was not
a woman very deeply read in the prevailing philosophies of the day;
but she had a simple mode of reasoning, or rather of concluding, on
most subjects that came up for her special consideration. On this
matter, in particular, so perplexing to her husband, her very
satisfactory solution to the difficulty, was this--
"He that sends mouths, will be sure to send something to fill them."
There was, in this trite and homely mode of settling the matter,
something conclusive, for the time, even to Mr. Bancroft. But doubt,
distrust and fear, were his besetting sins, and in a little while,
would come back to disturb his mind, and throw a shadow even over
the sweet delights of home.
"If there was to be no more increase of family, we could do very
well," he would often say to himself; "but how we are to manage with
another baby, is more than I am able to see."
But all this trouble upon interest availed not. The baby came, and
was received with the delight such visits always produce, even where
there is already a house full of children. A crib for little Flora,
who was now two years old, and able to amuse herself, with
occasional aid from her mother and Nancy, the stout girl, who had in
two years, grown stouter and more useful, was all the change the
coming of the little stranger, already as warmly welcomed as the
oldest and dearest friend could be, produced in the household
arrangements of Mr. Bancroft. But sundry expenses attendant upon the
arrival and previous preparations therefor, drew rather heavier than
usual upon his income, and made the supply fall something short of
the demand. At this point in his affairs, a vacancy occurred in an
insurance office, and Mr. Bancroft applied for and obtained the
clerkship. The salary was seven hundred dollars a year. All was now
bright again. In the course of a few months, it was thought best for
them to rent the whole of a moderate-sized house, as they really
needed more room, for health, than they now had; besides, it would
be much pleasanter to live alone. For an annual rent of one hundred
and fifty dollars, they suited themselves very well. They waited,
until the additional salary gave them the means of increasing their
furniture in those particulars required, and then made the change.
The second comer was a boy, and they had him christened William. As
year after year was added to his young life, he grew into a gentle,
fair-haired, sweet-tempered child, whose place upon his father's
knee was never yielded even to his sister, on any occasion. His ear
was first to catch the sound of his father's approaching footsteps,
and his voice the first to herald his coming. This out-going of
affection toward him, caused Mr. Bancroft to feel for little
"Willy," as he was called, a peculiar tenderness, and gave to his
voice a tone of music more pleasant than sounds struck from the
sweetest instruments.
Year after year came and went, in ever varying succession, adding,
every now and then, another and another to the number of Mr.
Bancroft's household treasures. For these, he was not always as
thankful as he should have been; and more than once, in anticipation
of blessings in this line, was known to say something, in a
murmuring way, about being "blessed to death." And yet for Flora,
and William, and Mary, and Kate, and even Harry, the last and least,
he had a place in his heart, and all lay there without crowding or
jostling each other. The great trouble was, what he was to do with
them all. How are they to be supported and educated? True, his
salary had been increased until it was a thousand dollars, which was
as much as he could expect to receive. On this he was getting along
very well, that is, making both ends meet at the expiration of each
year. But the children were getting older all the time, and would
soon be more expense to him; and then there was no telling how many
more were still to come. They had been dropping in, one after
another, ever since his marriage, without so much as saying "By your
leave, sir!" and how long was this to continue, was a question much
more easily asked than answered. Sometimes he made light of the
subject, and jested with his wife about her "ten daughters;" but it
was rather an unrelishable jest, and never was given with a
heartiness that made it awaken more than a smile upon the gentle
face of his excellent partner.
We will let five or six years more pass, and then bring our friend,
Mr. Bancroft, again before the reader. Flora has grown into a tall
girl of fifteen, who is still going to school. William, now a youth
of thirteen, is a lad of great promise. His mind is rapidly opening,
and is evidently one of great natural force. His father has procured
for him the very best teachers, and is determined to give him all
the advantages in his power to bestow. Mary and Kate are two
sprightly girls, near the respective ages of eight and eleven; and
Harry, a quiet, innocent-minded, loving child, is in his sixth year.
There is another still, a little giddy, dancing elf, named Lizzy,
whose voice, except during the brief periods of sleep, rings through
the house all day. And yet another, who has just come, that the home
of Mr. Bancroft may not be without earth's purest form of
innocence--a newborn babe.
To feed, clothe, educate, and find house-room for several children,
was more than the father could well do on a thousand dollars a year.
But this was not required. During the five or six years that have
elapsed, he has passed from the insurance office into a banking
institution as book-keeper, at a salary of twelve hundred dollars,
thence to the receiving teller's place, which he now holds at
fifteen hundred dollars a year. As his means have gradually
increased, his style of living has altered. From a house for which
he paid the annual rent of one hundred and fifty dollars, he now
resides in one much larger and more comfortable, for which three
hundred dollars are paid.
This was the aspect of affairs when the seventh child came in its
helpless innocence to ask his love.
One evening, after the mother was about again, Mr. Bancroft, as soon
as the children were in bed, and he was entirely alone with his
wife, gave way to a rather stronger expression than usual, of the
doubt, fear and anxiety with which he was too often beset.
"I really don't see how we are ever to get through with the
education of all these children, Mary," he remarked with a sigh,
"I'm sure it can't be done with my salary. It takes every cent of it
now, and in a little while it must cost us more than it does at
present."
"We've always got along very well, William," replied the wife. "As
our family has increased our means have increased, and I have no
doubt will continue to increase, if the wants of our children
require us to have a larger income than we enjoy at present."
"I don't know--I'm not sure of that. It was more by good fortune
than any thing else that I succeeded in obtaining better employment
than I had when we were married. Suppose my salary had continued to
be only four hundred dollars, what would we have done?"
"But it didn't continue at four hundred dollars, William."
"It might though--think of that. It was by the merest good luck in
the world that I got into the insurance office--there we're two or
three dozen applicants, and the gaining of the place by me was mere
chance work. If I hadn't been in the insurance office for so many
years, and by that means become acquainted with most of the
directors of the bank, I never would have attained my present
comfortable place. It makes me sick when I think of the miserable
plight we would now be in, if that piece of good fortune had not
accidentally befallen me."
"Don't say accidentally," returned the wife, in a gentle tone, "say
providentially. He who sent us children, sent with them the means
for their support. It isn't luck, dear, it is Providence."
"It may be, but I can't understand it," returned Mr. Bancroft,
doubtingly. "To me it is all luck."
After this remark, he was silent for some time. Then he said, with a
tone made cheerful by the thought he expressed,
"How pleasantly we would be getting along if our family were no
larger than it was when I had only four hundred dollars income. How
easy it would be to lay up a thousand dollars every year. Let me
see, we have been married over sixteen years. Just think what a
handsome little property we would have by this time--sixteen
thousand dollars. As it is, we haven't sixteen thousand cents, and
no likelihood of ever getting a farthing ahead. It is right down
discouraging."
The semi-cheerful tone in which Mr. Bancroft had commenced speaking,
died away in the last brief sentence.
"Two or three children are enough for any body to have," he resumed,
half fretfully; "and quite as many as can be well taken care of.
With two or even three, we might be as happy and comfortable as we
could desire. But with seven, and half as many more in prospect, O
dear! It is enough to dishearten any one."
Mrs. Bancroft did not reply, but drew her arm tighter around the
babe that lay asleep upon her breast. Her mind wandered over the
seven jewels that were to her so precious, and she asked herself
which of them she could part with; or if there was an earthly good
more to be desired than the love of these dear children.
Mr. Bancroft had very little more to say that evening, but his state
of mind did not improve. He was dissatisfied because his income, ten
years before, when his expenses were less, was not as good as it was
now, and looked ahead with, a troubled feeling at the prospect of a
still increasing family, and still increasing expenses, to meet
which he could see no possible way. In this unhappy mood he retired
at an earlier hour than usual, but could not sleep for a long
time--his thoughts were too unquiet. At last, however, he sunk into
a deep slumber.
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