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FASHION AND FAMINE.
BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
There is no sorrow for the earnest soul
That looketh up to God in perfect faith.
TWENTY-FIFTH THOUSAND.
New York:
BUNCE & BROTHER, PUBLISHERS, 134 NASSAU STREET.
MDCCCLIV.
ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court,
for the Southern District of New York.
Republished in London by RICHARD BENTLEY, through special arrangement
with the Author
W. H. TINSON,
STEREOTYPER,
24 Beckman Street.
TAWS, RUSSELL & CO., Printers,
26 Beekman and 18 Spruce St., N. Y.
To
MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY,
OF HARTFORD, CONN.,
THE MOST VALUED FRIEND THAT I HAVE,
AND ONE OF THE BEST WOMEN I EVER KNEW, THIS BOOK
Is Most Respectfully Dedicated.
ANN S. STEPHENS.
Preface.
What shall I say in this Preface to my book? Shall I make the usual
half-sincere, half-affected apology of haste and inexperience, with
hints of improvement in future efforts? Indeed I cannot, for though this
volume really is the first novel ever printed in book form under my
name, its imperfections, whatever they are, arise from no inexperience
or undue haste, but from absolute lack of power to accomplish that which
I have undertaken. Nor is it probable that the points in which I have
failed here, would be very greatly improved were the same book to be
written again.
I have endeavored to make this book a good one. If I have failed it is
because the power has not been granted to me by the Source of all power,
and for deficiency like this, the only admissible apology would be for
having written at all. But excuses are out of place here. The book, with
all its faults, is frankly surrendered to the public judgment, asking
neither favoritism or forbearance, save that favoritism which deals
gently with unintentional error, and that forbearance which no American
ever withholds from a woman. Shall I say that this volume is launched on
the world with fear and trembling? That would express an ungrateful want
of faith in a class of readers who have generously sustained me through
years of literary toil, and have nobly supported not only Peterson's
Ladies' National Magazine now under my charge, but every periodical with
which I have been connected. It would be ungrateful to the press that,
without a single respectable exception, has always dealt generously by
me, and would betray a weakness of character which I am not willing to
acknowledge, for I have lived long enough to tremble at nothing which
results from an honest intention, and to fear nothing but deserved
disgrace--the death of beloved objects--or change in those affections
that no literary fame or misfortune can ever reach.
But it is not without emotions that I present this book to the public,
grateful and sweet emotions that liberal minds must respect more than a
thousand insincere apologies. The thoughts of an author are the perfume
of her own soul going forth on the winds of heaven to awaken other souls
and renew itself in their kindred sympathies. I am more anxious for the
effect which these thoughts, so long a portion of my own being, will
have upon others, than for the return they may bring to myself. The
American people are, in the mass, just and intelligent judges; always
generous and perhaps over-indulgent to their authors. In writing this
book I have endeavored to deserve their approbation and to cast no
discredit upon a profession that I honor more than any other upon the
broad earth. If I have succeeded, no human being can be more grateful
than I shall be for the public opinion that assures me of it; but, to
satisfy even my humble ambition, it must be an opinion honestly earned
and frankly given. Popularity won without merit, and lost without blame,
would be valueless to me, even while it lasted.
New York, May 22, 1854.
Contents.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Strawberry Girl and Market Woman 9
II. The Old Couple in the Back Basement 26
III. The Lone Mansion and its Mistress 43
IV. The Astor House--the Ride--the Attic Room 54
V. Mistress and Servant in Consultation 72
VI. The Tempter and the Tempted--the young heart yields 81
VII. The Old Homestead and Home Memories 89
VIII. The City Cottage and its Strange Inmate 110
IX. Mrs. Gray's Thanksgiving Dinner--Julia and Robert 126
X. The Brother's Return--Questions and Answers 141
XI. The Mother's Letter and the Son's Commentary 158
XII. Strife for an Earl--Mrs. Sykes and Mrs. Nash 163
XIII. The Morning Lesson--Doubt--Sympathy--Misery 179
XIV. A Wedding Foreshadowed--Sunshine of the Heart 187
XV. The Mother's Appeal--the Son's Falsehood 194
XVI. The Bridal Wreath--Roses and Cypress 211
XVII. An Hour before the Ball--Strides of Destiny 222
XVIII. The Forged Check--Uncle and Nephew 228
XIX. Night and Morning--Wild Heart Strife 234
XX. The Last Interview--Parting--Death 251
XXI. The City Prison--Examination for Murder 266
XXII. The Imprisoned Witness in the Female Ward 282
XXIII. The Three Old Women in Fulton Market 299
XXIV. The First Night in Prison--Prayers--Tears--Dreams 311
XXV. Little Georgie--his Mother and Julia Warren 319
XXVI. Mrs. Gray and the Prison Woman 330
XXVII. Struggles and Revels--Unquenched Anguish 338
XXVIII. Ada Leicester and Jacob Strong 344
XXIX. Ada's Solitary Breakfast--Desolation of Heart 350
XXX. The Prison Woman in Ada's Dressing-Room 354
XXXI. The Tombs Lawyer and his Client Mrs. Gray 366
XXXII. The Lawyer's Visit to his Client 372
XXXIII. The Trial for Murder--Opening Scenes 380
XXXIV. The Two Witnesses--Recognition too Late 388
XXXV. The Verdict--Stillness--Death-Shadows 399
XXXVI. The Parents, the Child and Grandchild 405
XXXVII. The Dawning of Light--Angelic Missions 412
XXXVIII. Gathering for the Execution 414
XXXIX. Hearts and Consciences at Rest 422
FASHION AND FAMINE.
CHAPTER I.
THE STRAWBERRY GIRL.
Like wild flowers on the mountain side,
Goodness may be of any soil;
Yet intellect, in all its pride,
And energy, with pain and toil,
Hath never wrought a holier thing
Than Charity in humble birth.
God's brightest angel stoops his wing,
To meet so much of Heaven on earth.
The morning had not fully dawned on New York, yet its approach was
visible everywhere amid the fine scenery around the city. The dim
shadows piled above Weehawken, were warming up with purple, streaked
here and there with threads of rosy gold. The waters of the Hudson
heaved and rippled to the glow of yellow and crimson light, that came
and went in flashes on each idle curl of the waves. Long Island lay in
the near distance like a thick, purplish cloud, through which the dim
outline of house, tree, mast and spire loomed mistily, like half-formed
objects on a camera obscura.
Silence--that strange, dead silence that broods over a scene crowded
with slumbering life--lay upon the city, broken only by the rumble of
vegetable carts and the jar of milk-cans, as they rolled up from the
different ferries; or the half-smothered roar of some steamboat putting
into its dock, freighted with sleeping passengers.
After a little, symptoms of aroused life became visible about the
wharves. Grocers, carmen, and huckster-women began to swarm around the
provision boats. The markets nearest the water were opened, and soon
became theatres of active bustle.
The first market opened that day was in Fulton street. As the morning
deepened, piles of vegetables, loads of beef, hampers of fruit, heaps of
luscious butter, cages of poultry, canary birds swarming in their wiry
prisons, forests of green-house plants, horse-radish grinders with their
reeking machines, venders of hot coffee, root beer and dough nuts, all
with men, women and children swarming in, over and among them, like so
many ants, hard at work, filled the spacious arena, but late a range of
silent, naked and gloomy looking stalls. Then carts, laden and groaning
beneath a weight of food, came rolling up to this great mart, crowding
each avenue with fresh supplies. All was life and eagerness. Stout men
and bright-faced women moved through the verdant chaos, arranging,
working, chatting, all full of life and enterprise, while the rattling
of carts outside, and the gradual accumulation of sounds everywhere,
bespoke a great city aroused, like a giant refreshed, from slumber.
Slowly there arose out of this cheerful confusion, forms of homely
beauty, that an artist or a thinking man might have loved to look upon.
The butchers' stalls, but late a desolate range of gloomy beams, were
reddening with fresh joints, many of them festooned with fragrant
branches and gorgeous garden flowers. The butchers standing, each by his
stall, with snow-white apron, and an eager, joyous look of traffic on
his face, formed a display of comfort and plenty, both picturesque and
pleasant to contemplate.
The fruit and vegetable stands were now loaded with damp, green
vegetables, each humble root having its own peculiar tint, often
arranged with a singular taste for color, unconsciously possessed by the
woman who exercised no little skill in setting off her stand to
advantage.
There was one vegetable stand to which we would draw the reader's
particular attention; not exactly as a type of the others, for there was
something so unlike all the rest, both in this stall and its occupant,
that it would have drawn the attention of any person possessed of the
slightest artistical taste. It was like the arrangement of a picture,
that long table heaped with fruit, the freshest vegetables, and the
brightest flowers, ready for the day's traffic. Rich scarlet radishes
glowing up through their foliage of tender green, were contrasted with
young onions swelling out from their long emerald stalks, snowy and
transparent as so many great pearls. Turnips, scarcely larger than a
hen's egg, and nearly as white, just taken fresh and fragrant from the
soil, lay against heads of lettuce, tinged with crisp and greenish gold,
piled against the deep blackish green of spinach and water-cresses, all
moist with dew, or wet with bright water-drops that had supplied its
place, and taking a deeper tint from the golden contrast. These with the
red glow of strawberries in their luscious prime, piled together in
masses, and shaded with fresh grape leaves; bouquets of roses,
hyacinths, violets, and other fragrant blossoms, lent their perfume and
the glow of their rich colors to the coarser children of the soil, and
would have been an object pleasant to look upon, independent of the fine
old woman who sat complacently on her little stool, at one end of the
table, in tranquil expectation of customers that were sure to drop in as
the morning deepened.
And now the traffic of the day commenced in earnest. Servants,
housekeepers and grocers swarmed into the market. The clink of
money--the sound of sharp, eager banter--the dull noise of the butcher's
cleaver, were heard on every hand. It was a pleasant scene, for every
face looked smiling and happy. The soft morning air seemed to have
brightened all things into cheerfulness.
With the earliest group that entered Fulton market that morning was a
girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, but tiny in her form, and
appearing far more juvenile than that. A pretty quilted hood, of
rose-colored calico, was turned back from her face, which seemed
naturally delicate and pale; but the fresh air, and perhaps a shadowy
reflection from her hood, gave the glow of a rose-bud to her cheeks.
Still there was anxiety upon her young face. Her eyes of a dark violet
blue, drooped heavily beneath their black and curling lashes, if any one
from the numerous stalls addressed her; for a small splint basket on her
arm, new and perfectly empty, was a sure indication that the child had
been sent to make purchase; while her timid air--the blush that came and
went on her face--bespoke as plainly that she was altogether
unaccustomed to the scene, and had no regular place at which to make her
humble bargains. The child seemed a waif cast upon the market; and she
was so beautiful, notwithstanding her humble dress of faded and darned
calico, that at almost every stand she was challenged pleasantly to
pause and fill her basket. But she only cast down her eyes and blushed
more deeply, as with her little bare feet she hurried on through the
labyrinth of stalls, toward that portion of the market occupied by the
huckster-women. Here she began to slacken her pace, and to look about
her with no inconsiderable anxiety.
"What do you want, little girl; anything in my way?" was repeated to her
once or twice, as she moved forward. At each of these challenges she
would pause, look earnestly into the face of the speaker, and then pass
on with a faint wave of the head, that expressed something of sad and
timid disappointment.
At length the child--for she seemed scarcely more than that--was growing
pale, and her eyes turned with a sort of sharp anxiety from one face to
another, when suddenly they fell upon the buxom old huckster-woman,
whose stall we have described. There was something in the good dame's
appearance that brought an eager and satisfied look to that pale face.
She drew close to the stand, and stood for some seconds, gazing timidly
on the old woman. It was a pleasant face, and a comfortable, portly form
enough, that the timid girl gazed upon. Smooth and comely were the full
and rounded cheeks, with their rich autumn color, dimpled like an
over-ripe apple. Fat and good humored enough to defy wrinkles, the face
looked far too rosy for the thick, gray hair that was shaded, not
concealed, by a cap of clear white muslin, with a broad, deep border,
and tabs that met like a snowy girth to support the firm, double chin.
Never did your eyes dwell upon a chin so full of health and good humor
as that. It sloped with a sleek, smiling grace down from the plump
mouth, and rolled with a soft, white wave into the neck, scarcely
leaving an outline, or the want of one, before it was lost in the white
of that muslin kerchief, folded so neatly beneath the ample bosom of her
gown. Then the broad linen apron of blue and white check, girding her
waist, and flowing over the smooth rotundity of person, was a living
proof of the ripeness and wholesome state of her merchandise.--I tell
you, reader, that woman, take her for all in all, was one to draw the
attention, aye, and the love of a child, who had come forth barefooted
and alone in search of kindness.
At length the huckster-woman saw the child gazing upon her with a look
so earnest, that she was quite startled by it. She also caught a glance
at the empty basket, and her little brown eyes twinkled at the promise
of a new customer.
"Well, my dear, what do you want this morning?" she said, smoothing her
apron with a pair of plump, little hands, and casting a well satisfied
look over her stall, and then at the girl, who grew pale at her notice,
and began to tremble visibly--"all sorts of vegetables, you
see--flowers--strawberries--radishes--what will you have, child?"
The little girl crept round to where the woman stood, and speaking in a
low, frightened voice, said--
"Please, ma'm, I want you to trust me!"
"Trust you!" said the woman, with a soft laugh that shook her double
chin, and dimpled her cheeks. "Why, I don't know you, little one--what
on earth do you want trust for? Lost the market money, hey, and afraid
of a scolding--is that it?"
"No, no, I haven't lost any money," said the child eagerly; "please
ma'm, just stoop down one minute, while I tell you!"
The little girl in her earnestness took hold of the woman's apron, and
she, kind soul, sunk back to her stool: it was the most comfortable way
of listening.
"I--I live with grandfather and grandmother, ma'm; they are old and
poor--you don't know how poor; for he, grandpa, has been sick, and--it
seems strange--I eat as much as any of them. Well, ma'm, I tried to get
something to do, but you see how little I am; nobody will think me
strong enough, even to tend baby; so we have all been without anything
to eat, since day before yesterday."
"Poor thing!" muttered the huckster-woman, "poor thing!"
"Well, ma'm, I must do something. I can bear anything better than seeing
them hungry. I did not sleep a wink all last night, but kept thinking
what I should do. I never begged in my life; _they_ never did; and it
made me feel sick to think of it; but I could have done it rather than
see them sit and look at each other another day. Did you ever see an old
man cry for hunger, ma'm?"
"No, no, God forbid!" answered the dame, brushing a plump hand across
her eyes.
"I have," said the child, with a sob, "and it was this that made me
think that begging, after all, was not so very, very mean. So, this
morning, I asked them to let me go out; but grandpa said he might go
himself, if he were strong enough; but I never should--never--never!"
"Nice old man--nice old man!" said the huckster-woman.
"I did not ask again," resumed the child, "for an idea had come into my
head in the night. I have seen little girls, no older than I am, selling
radishes and strawberries, and things."
"Yes--yes, I understand!" said the old woman, and her eyes began to
twinkle the more brightly that they were wet before.
"But I had no strawberries to sell, nor a cent of money to buy them
with!"
"Well! well!"
"Not even a basket!"
"Poor thing!"
"But I was determined to do something. So I went to a grocery, where
grandpa used to buy things when he had money, and they trusted me with
this basket."
"That was very kind of them!"
"Wasn't it very kind?" said the child, her eyes brightening, "especially
as I told them it was all myself--that grandpa knew nothing about it.
See what a nice new basket it is--you can't think how much courage it
gave me. When I came into the market it seemed as if I shouldn't be
afraid to ask anybody about trusting me a little."
"And yet you came clear to this side without stopping to ask anybody?"
"I was looking into their faces to see if it would do," answered the
child, with meek simplicity, "but there was something in every face that
sent the words back into my throat again."
"So you stopped here because it was almost the last stand."
"No, no, I did not think of that," said the child eagerly. "I stopped
because something seemed to tell me that this was the place. I thought
if you would not trust me, you would, any way, be patient and listen."
The old huckster-woman laughed--a low, soft laugh--and the little girl
began to smile through her tears. There was something mellow and
comfortable in that chuckle, that warmed her to the heart.
"So you were sure that I would trust you--hey, quite sure?"
"I thought if you wouldn't, there was no chance for me anywhere else,"
replied the child, lifting her soft eyes to the face of the matron.
Again the old woman laughed.
"Well, well, let us see how many strawberries will set you up in
business for the day. Six, ten--a dozen baskets--your little arms will
break down with more than that. I will let you have them at cost, only
be sure to come back at night with the money. I would not for fifty
dollars have you fail."
"But I may not sell them all!" said the child, anxiously.
"I should not wonder, poor thing. That sweet voice of yours will hardly
make itself heard at first; but never mind, run down into the areas and
look through the windows--people can't help but look at your face, God
bless it!"
As the good woman spoke, she was busy selecting the best and most
tempting strawberries from the pile of little baskets that stood at her
elbow. These she arranged in the orphan's basket, first sprinkling a
layer of damp, fresh grass in the bottom, and interspersing the whole
with young grape leaves, intended both as an embellishment, and to keep
the fruit fresh and cool. When all was arranged to her satisfaction, she
laid a bouquet of white and crimson moss rose-buds at each end of the
basket, and interspersed little tufts of violets along the side, till
the crimson berries were wreathed in with flowers.
"There," said the old woman, lifting up the basket with a sigh of
satisfaction, "between the fruit and flowers you must make out. Sell the
berries for sixpence a basket, and the roses for all you can get. People
who love flowers well enough to buy them, never cavil about the price;
just let them pay what they like."
The little girl took the basket on her arm; her pretty mouth grew
tremulous and bright as the moss rose-bud that blushed against her hand;
her eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, ma'm, I want to thank you so much, only I don't know how," she
said, in a voice that went to the good woman's heart.
"There, there!--never mind--be punctual, that's a good girl. Now, my
dear, what is your name?"
"Julia--Julia Warren, ma'm!"
"A pretty name--very well--stop a moment, I had forgotten."
The child sat her basket down upon the stool which the huckster-woman
hastily vacated, and waited patiently while the good dame disappeared in
some unknown region of the market, eager to accomplish an object that
had just presented itself to her mind.
"Here," she said, coming back with her face all in a glow, a small tin
pail in one hand, and her apron gathered up in the other. "Just leave
the strawberries, and run home with these. It will be a long time for
the old folks to wait, and you will go about the day's work with a
lighter heart, when you know that they have had a breakfast, to say
nothing of yourself, poor thing! There, run along, and be back in no
time."
Julia took the little tin pail and the rolls that her kind friend
hastily twisted up in a sheet of brown paper.
"Oh! they will be _so_ glad," broke from her, and with a sob of joy she
sprang away with her precious burden.
"Well now, Mrs. Gray, you are a strange creature, trusting people like
that, and absolutely laying out money too; I only wonder how you ever
got along at all!" said a little, shrewish woman from a neighboring
stand, who had been watching this scene from behind a heap of
vegetables.
"Poh! it's my way; and I can afford it," answered the huckster-woman,
rubbing her plump palms together, and twinkling her eyelashes to
disperse the moisture that had gathered under them. "I haven't sat in
this market fourteen years for nothing. The child is a good child, I'll
stake my life on it!"
"I hope you may never see the pail again, that's all," was the terse
reply.
"Well, well, I may be wrong--maybe I am--we shall know soon. At any rate
I can afford to lose half a dozen pails, that's one comfort."
"Always chuckling over the money she has saved up," muttered the little
woman, with a sneer; "for my part I don't believe that she is half as
well off as she pretends to be."
The conversation was here cut short by several customers, who crowded up
to make their morning purchases. During the next half hour good Mrs.
Gray was so fully occupied, that she had no opportunity for thought of
her protégé; but just as she obtained a moment's breathing time, up came
the little girl panting for breath; her cheeks glowing like June roses;
and her eyes sparkling with delight.
"They have had their breakfast; I told them all about it!" she said, in
a panting whisper, drawing close up to the huckster-woman, and handing
back the empty pail. "I wish you could have seen grandpa when I took off
the cover, and let the hot coffee steam into the room. I only wish you
could have seen him!"
"And he liked it, did he?"
"Liked it! Oh! if you had been there to see!"
The child's eyes were brimful of tears, and yet they sparkled like
diamonds.
Mrs. Gray looked over her stall to see if there was anything else that
could be added to the basket. That pretty, grateful look expanded her
warm heart so pleasantly, that she felt quite like heaping everything at
hand upon the little girl. But the basket was already quite heavy enough
for that slender arm, and the addition of a single handful of fruit or
tuft of flowers, would have destroyed the symmetry of its arrangement.
So with a sigh, half of disappointment, half of that exquisite
satisfaction that follows a kind act, she patted little Julia on the
head, lifted the basket from the stool, and kindly bade her begone to
her day's work.
The child departed with a light tread and a lighter heart, smiling upon
every one she met, and looking back, as if she longed to point out her
benefactress to the whole world.
Mrs. Gray followed her with moist and sunny eyes; then shaking the empty
pail at her cynical neighbor, in the good-humored triumph of her
benevolence, she carried it back to the coffee-stand whence it had been
borrowed.
"Strawberries!--strawberries!"
Julia Warren turned pale, and looked around like a frightened bird, when
this sweet cry first broke from her lips in the open street. Nobody
seemed to hear--that was one comfort; so she hurried round a corner, and
creeping into the shadow of a house, leaned, all in a tremor, against an
iron railing, quite confident, for the moment, that she should never
find courage to open her mouth again. But a little reflection gave her
strength. Mrs. Gray had told her that the morning was her harvest hour.
She could not stand there trembling beneath the weight of her basket.
The fruity scent--the fragrant breath of the violets that floated up
from it, seemed to reproach her.
"Strawberries!--strawberries!"
The sound rose from those red lips more cheerily now. There was ripeness
in the very tones that put you in mind of the fruit itself. The cry was
neither loud nor shrill, but somehow people were struck by it, and
turned unconsciously to look upon the girl. This gave her fresh courage,
for the glances were all kind, and as she became accustomed to her own
voice, the novelty of her position began to lose its terror. A woman
called to her from the area of a house, and purchased two baskets of the
strawberries, without asking any reduction in the price. Poor child, how
her heart leaped when the shilling was placed in her hand! How important
the whole transaction seemed to her; yet with what indifference the
woman paid for the strawberries, and turned to carry them into the
basement.
Julia looked through the railings and thanked this important customer.
She could not help it; her little heart was full. A muttered reply that
she was "welcome," came back; that was all. Notwithstanding the gruff
answer, Julia took up her basket with a radiant face.
"Strawberries!--strawberries!"
Now the words came forth from red and smiling lips--nay, once or twice
the little girl broke into a laugh, as she went along, for the bright
shilling lay in the bottom of her basket. She wandered on unacquainted
with the streets, but quite content; for though she found herself down
among warehouses only, and in narrow, crowded streets, the gentlemen who
hurried by would now and then turn for a bunch of violets, and she kept
on bewildered, but happy as a bird.
All at once the strawberry girl found herself among the shipping; and a
little terrified at the coarse and barren appearance of the wharves, she
paused close by the water, irresolute what direction to pursue. It was
now somewhat deep in the morning, and everything was life and bustle in
that commercial district; for the child was but a few streets above the
Battery, and could detect the cool wave of its trees through a vista in
the buildings. The harbor, glowing with sunshine and covered with every
species of water craft, lay spread before her gaze. Brooklyn Heights,
Jersey City, and the leafy shores of Hoboken, half veiled in the golden
haze of a bright June morning, rose before her like soft glimpses of the
fairy land she had loved to read about. Never in her life had she been
in that portion of the city before; and she forgot everything in the
strange beauty of the scene, which few ever looked upon unmoved. The
steamboats ploughing the silvery foam of the waters, curving around the
Battery, darting in and out from every angle of the shore; the fine
national vessels sleeping upon the waters, with their masts pencilled
against the sky, and their great, black hulls, so imposing in their
motionless strength; the ferry-boats, the pretty barges and smaller kind
of water craft shooting with arrowy speed across the waves--all these
things had a strange and absorbing effect on the girl.
As she stood gazing upon the scene, there came looming up in the distant
horizon, an ocean steamer, riding majestically on the waters, that
seemed to have suddenly heaved the monster up into the bright June
atmosphere. At first, the vast proportions of this sea monarch were lost
in the distance; but it came up with the force and swiftness of some
wild steed of the desert, and each moment its vast size became more
visible. Up it came, black, swift, and full of majestic strength,
ploughing the waters with a sort of haughty power, as if spurning the
element which had become its slave. Its great pipes poured forth a
whirlwind of black, fleecy smoke, now and then flaked and lurid with
fire, that whirled and whirled in the curling vapor, till all its glow
went out, rendering the thick volumes of smoke that streamed over the
water still more dense and murky.
At first the child gazed upon this imposing object with a sensation of
affright. Her large eyes dilated; her cheek grew pale with excitement;
she felt a disposition to snatch up her basket, and flee from the
water's edge. But curiosity, and something akin to superstitious dread
kept her motionless. She had heard of these great steamships, and knew
that this must be one; yet it seemed to her like some dangerous monster
tortured with black, fiery venom. She turned to an old sailor that stood
near, his countenance glowing with enthusiasm, and muttering eagerly to
himself--
"Oh! sir, it is only a ship--you are sure of that!" she said, for her
childish dread of strangers was lost in wonder at a sight so new and
majestic.
The man turned and gave one glance at the mild, blue eyes and earnest
face of the child.
"Why, bless your heart, what else should it be? A ship, to be sure it
is--or at any rate, a sort of one, going by wind and fire both together;
but arter all, a clean rigged taut merchantman for me--that's the sort
of craft for an old salt that's been brought up to study wind and water,
not fire and smoke! But take care of your traps, little one, she'll be
up to her berth in no time."
The child snatched up her basket and gave a hurried glance around,
seeking for some means of egress from the wharf; but while she was
occupied by the steamer, a crowd had gathered down to the water's edge,
and she shrunk from attempting a passage through the mass of carts,
carriages and people that blocked up her way to the city.
"Poh! there's nothing to be afeared of!" said the good-natured tar,
observing her terrified look; "only take care of your traps, and it's
worth while waiting."
By this time the steamer was opposite Governor's Island. She made a bold
curve around the Battery, and came up to her berth with a slow and
measured beat of the engine, blowing off steam at intervals, like a
racer drawing breath after sweeping his course.
The deck of the steamer was alive with passengers, an eager crowd full
of cheerfulness and expectation. Most of them were evidently from the
higher classes of society; for their rich attire and a certain air of
refined indifference was manifest, even in the excitement of an arrival.
Among the rest, Julia saw two persons that fascinated her attention in
a most singular degree, drawing it from the whole scene, till she heeded
nothing else.
One of these was a woman somewhat above the common size, and of superb
proportions, who leaned against the railing of the steamer with a heavy,
drooping bend, as if occupied with some deep and painful feeling. One
glove was off, and her eager grasp upon the black wood-work seemed to
start the blue veins up to the snowy surface of a hand, whose symmetry
was visible, even from the shore. Julia could not remove her eyes from
the strange and beautiful face of this woman. Deep, but subdued agony
was at work in every lineament. There was wildness in her very motion,
as she lifted her superb form from the railing, and drew the folds of a
cashmere shawl over her bosom, pressing her hand hard upon the rich
fabric, as if to relieve some painful feeling that it covered.
The steamer now lay close in her berth. A sort of movable staircase was
flung from the side of the wharf, and down this staircase came the
passengers, eager to touch the firm earth once more. Among the foremost
was the woman who had so riveted the attention of Julia Warren; and,
behind her, bearing a silver dressing-case and a small embroidered
satchel, came a tall and singular looking man. Though his form was
upright enough in itself, he bent forward in his walk; and his arms,
long and awkward, seemed like the members of some other body, that had,
by mistake, been given up to his ungainly use. His dress was fine in
material, but carelessly put on, ill-fitting and badly arranged in all
its tints. A hat of fine beaver and foreign make, seemed flung on the
back of his head, and settled tightly there by a blow on the crown; his
great hands were gloveless; and his boots appeared at least a size too
large for the feet they encased.
This man would now and then cast a glance from his small, gray eyes on
the superb woman who preceded him; and it was easy to see by his
countenance, that he observed, and after his fashion shared the anguish
visible in her features. His own face deepened in its expression of
awkward sadness with every glance; and he hugged the dressing case to
his side with unconscious violence, which threatened to crush the
delicate frost-work that enriched it.
With a wild and dry brightness in her large, blue eyes, the lady
descended to the wharf, a few paces from the spot occupied by the
strawberry girl. As her foot touched the earth, Julia saw that the white
hand dropped from its hold on the shawl, and the costly garment half
fell from her shoulders, trailing the dirty wharf with its embroidery.
In the whole crowd there was no object but this woman to the girl. With
a pale cheek and suspended breath she watched every look and motion.
There was something almost supernatural in the concentration of her
whole being on this one person. An intense desire to address the
stranger--to meet the glance of her eyes--to hear her voice, seized upon
the child. She sprang forward, obeying this strange impulse, and lifting
the soiled drapery of the shawl, held it up grasped in her trembling
hands.
"Lady, your shawl!"
The child could utter no more. Those large, blue eyes were bent upon her
face. Her own seemed fascinated by the gaze. Slowly, sadly they filled
with tears, drop by drop, and the eyes of that strange, beautiful woman
filled also. Still she gazed upon the child--her clean, poverty-stricken
dress--her meek face, and the basket of fruit and flowers upon her arm;
and as she gazed, a faint smile crept around her mouth.
"This sweet voice--the flowers--is it not a beautiful welcome?" she
said, glancing through her tears upon the man who stood close by her
side; but the uncouth friend, or servant, whatever he might be, did not
answer. His eyes were riveted on the child, and some strange feeling
seemed to possess him.
"Give me," said the lady, passing her hand over Julia's head with a
caressing motion--"give me some of these roses; it is a long time since
I have touched a flower grown in home soil!"
Julia selected her freshest bouquet and held it up. The lady's hand
trembled as she drew forth her purse, and dropping a bright coin into
the basket, received the flowers.
"Take a few of the strawberries, lady, they are so ripe and cool!" said
the little girl, lifting one of the baskets from its leafy nest.
Again the lady smiled through her tears, and taking the little basket,
poured a few of the strawberries into her ungloved hand.
"Would not he like some?" questioned the child, offering the basket with
its scarcely diminished contents to the man, who still kept his eyes
fixed on her face.
"No, not them--but give me a bunch of the blue flowers--they grew around
the rock-spring at the old homestead, thousands and thousands on 'em!"
cried the man, with a strong Down East pronunciation, and securing a
tuft of the violets he turned aside, as if ashamed of the emotion he had
betrayed.
The lady turned away. Something in his words seemed to have disturbed
her greatly. She gathered the shawl about her, and moved towards a
carriage that had drawn close up to the wharf.
Julia's heart beat quick; she could not bear to see that strange,
beautiful woman depart without speaking to her again.
"Lady, will you take this one little bunch?--some people love violets
better than anything!"
"No, no, I cannot--I----" The lady paused, tears seemed choking her. She
drew down the folds of a rich blonde veil over her face, and moved on.
Julia laid the violets back into her basket with a sigh. Feelings of
vague disappointment were saddening her heart. When she looked up again,
the lady had taken her seat in the carriage, and leaning out was
beckoning to her.
"I will take the violets!" she said, reaching forth her hand, that
trembled as the simple blossoms were placed in it.--"Heaven forbid that
I should cast the sweet omen from me. Thank you child--thank you."
The lady drew back into the carriage. Her face was clouded by the veil,
but tears trembled in her voice, and that voice lingered upon Julia
Warren's ear many a long month afterward. It had unlocked the deepest
well-spring of her life.
The strawberry girl stood upon the wharf motionless and lost in thought
minutes after the carriage drove away. She had forgotten the basket on
her arm, everything in the strange regret that lay upon her young heart.
Never, never would she meet that beautiful woman again. The thought
filled her soul with unutterable loneliness. She was unconscious that
another carriage had driven up, and that a Southern vessel, arrived that
morning, was pouring forth luggage and passengers on the opposite side
of the pier. She took no heed of anything that was passing around her,
till a sweet, low voice close by, exclaimed--
"Oh! see those flowers--those beautiful, beautiful moss rose-buds!"
Julia looked up. A young girl with soft, dark eyes, and lips dewy and
red as the buds she coveted, stood a few paces off, with her hand
grasped by a tall and stately looking man, approaching middle age, if
not a year or two on the other side, who seemed anxious to hurry his
companion into the carriage.
"Step in, Florence, the girl can come to us!" said the man, restraining
the eager girl, who had withdrawn her foot from the carriage steps.
"Come, come, lady-bird, this is no place for us: see, half the crowd are
looking this way."
The young lady blushed and entered the carriage, followed by her
impatient companion, who beckoned Julia towards him.
"Here," he said, tossing a silver coin into her basket, "give me those
buds, quick, and then get out of the way, or you will be trampled down."
Julia held up her basket, half terrified by the impatience that broke
from the dark eyes bent upon her.
"There, sweet one, these might have ripened on your own smile: kiss them
for my sake!" said the man, gently bending with his fragrant gift toward
his lovely companion.
His voice, soft, sweet and harmonious, fell upon the child's heart
also; and while the tones melted into her memory, she shuddered as the
flower may be supposed to shrink when a serpent creeps by.