Lizzy Glenn; Or, The Trials of a Seamstress

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?"

"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 VI

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."