A SAD STORY.
Ernestine was getting better, and how could she help it, with everything
heart could wish, perfect peace and quiet, and six devoted hearts and
pairs of hands, ready to obey her slightest command. She did not issue
many, for one of the changes that had come to her, was asking for
little, complaining of nothing, even her own suffering, but lying still,
patient, contented, unselfish and quiet. She seemed grateful and pleased
at the least little act of kindness, a thing she would have accepted
before as a matter-of-course, and complained at not receiving; and after
she grew stronger, and the girls resumed their gayeties, she never
seemed to regret for a moment, that she was removed from all such, and
must lie still, day after day; when before, it was intolerable to pass a
single day without something to pass away her gleeful spirits with
Canfield, with its promising circle of girls, budding into young
ladyhood, was beginning to put on quite a number of social airs, in the
way of little dances, nutting parties, one or two literary clubs, and a
card club; which acted upon the little place, like a fresh spring
breeze, blowing in upon a pile of peaceful autumn leaves. The Dering
girls were popular, and partook largely in all these innocent
festivities, bringing gay accounts of them to Ernestine, to which she
listened, with a quiet smile, but with never a wish to be in them.
Nothing seemed to interest her so much, as the new experience and
dignity that had fallen upon Beatrice; and for hours they would chat
together of the new plans, and tender little fancies, which Bea had not
the courage to confess to others, and Ernestine, bolstered up with
pillows, would listen, and now and then, do a little of the pretty work
that was going on to the bridal garments.
After a while, when she grew strong enough to talk more, and cough less,
she told them of her life, while they had been separated, and the girls
never forgot the day on which they listened to it. She was partly
sitting up in bed, as colorless as the snowy ruffled linen about her,
with her beautiful golden hair in the old-time waves, and curly ends;
her lovely eyes, with their liquid brown lights and heavy lashes, and
the dainty ruffles to her snowy night-dress, fastened at the throat with
a fragile bit of coral, that seemed to throw a shade of its exquisite
coloring into her stainless face.
It was a lovely home-scene, for the girls were sewing in their low
rocking-chairs, Olive was sketching at the window, Mrs. Dering sat at
the bedside holding Ernestine's hand, and over them all the autumn
sunshine fell, warm and sweet, as with a touch of loving benediction;
and the trill of Jeanie's canary down stairs, was the only sound, save
Ernestine's low voice, sad and sweet, in its feebleness.
"I went on the midnight train, you know," she was saying. "It seemed
terrible, and with all the people around, I felt as if I was the only
person out in the night. Oh, it is too horrible to feel so alone and as
though no one knew, or cared where you were going, or what terrible
trouble you might be in. Nearly everybody in the car was asleep, and
there was only one lady; so I sat down behind her, and for a long time I
was so miserable myself that I didn't notice her; then her baby woke up,
and began to cry, so did her little girl, and I saw that she was sick or
something; so in a little bit, I spoke to her, and asked if I could do
anything. She said no, at first, but afterwards said if I would take the
baby a moment, as she felt so sick and faint; so I did, and he seemed so
astonished that he stopped crying, and then the little girl wanted to
come over in my seat, and I helped her over, and told the lady to lie
down, as she looked very pale. I knew she was astonished at my being
alone, and thought that she might ask my name, and after thinking about
it a while, I decided to take my very own name, my--mother's," with a
little choke over the name. "She did ask me in a little while, said I
looked so young, and why was I travelling alone; and I told her that I
was an orphan, that my name was Florence Clare, and that I was on my way
to New York; and then she looked so kind and interested that I burst
right out crying. I couldn't help it. She didn't ask me any more then,
but when we got to New York, no one met her, and she was terribly
worried. She asked me where I was going, and I was afraid she would
think something was wrong if I told her I didn't know where; so I just
gave any street and number, but I said that if she wanted me to go and
help her, I could just as well as not, as no one was expecting me
anywhere. She seemed very glad, so I carried the children out, and after
a policeman had called a hack for her, we went to the St. Nicholas; she
was very sick after we got there, and after I put the children to sleep,
I sat up with her nearly all night. She was a widow, she said, and had
written to a friend in New York to meet her on that train, but that,
probably, he had not received the letter; and that she wanted to go
right on to Boston, next morning, if she was able. I asked her then if
she did not want me to go with her, to take care of the children, that I
was all alone in the world, and obliged to work some way and somewhere,
and after asking me a great many questions, she said she would think
about it. She seemed like a very good, kind lady, and I was afraid she
would think there was something strange about me, so I made my story
sound just as good as possible. I said I was coming to the city because
I thought I could find work better than in a small place, and that I had
no near relatives in the world, and would like to go with her, because
she looked kind, and I would just as soon take care of children as
anything else. She looked at my clothes, but they were my very plainest;
and then she asked me what baggage I had, and I showed her my satchel,
with nothing but some clothes in it, and then she said that I looked
truthful, and too young and pretty to be alone in the city, and that I
should go on with her in the morning. I don't know what I would have
done if it hadn't been for her, for when I was on the train, I had no
idea where I would go or what I would do. Before I left home, I tried to
feel right, to forget who I was, but I couldn't; my head kept aching,
and I thought every day that it ached harder, and that pretty soon I
would be crazy; and then I thought of going away where I could never be
found, and die somewhere, and something made me go. It seemed as if I
was being pulled away, and every time I heard any of the girls say
'mama,' it came to me that you wasn't my mama, that the girls were not
my sisters, then my head ached harder than ever and I couldn't cry. I
thought God must surely feel sorry for me, and that he sent the lady on
purpose--" and as Ernestine paused to cough and get breath, several
tears were smuggled out of sight by her listeners, and Mrs. Dering's
voice trembled, as she kissed the speaker, and said:
"He did, dear; believe it, I asked Him to care for and watch over you,
wherever you might be, and I knew that He would."
"I went on to Boston with her," continued Ernestine, after a moment's
rest. "I knew you would never find me there, and I didn't want to know
that you ever looked for me; I knew you would, but I didn't want to hear
about it. For awhile the lady watched me very closely, and I knew she
was a little distrustful, but the children liked me, and though the work
nearly killed me, I kept up. I was with the children constantly, slept,
ate, and went out with them, washed, dressed and took care of them from
morning 'till night; and sometimes I wished I could die, I was so tired
and unhappy. I did not intend to stay with her, but meant to go on the
stage just as soon as possible, though I never saw the papers, and had
no chance of finding the names of companies. Once I asked to see the
papers, but she didn't like it; she was never unkind really, but she
always seemed a little suspicious, and when I asked for the paper, she
asked what I wanted it for? I had a good place, and no need of the
papers. I didn't want to tell her, for fear she would turn me off, so I
just waited. One day I was singing the baby to sleep; it was the first
time I had ever sung in her house, and she happened to hear me, and came
in and complimented my voice, said how beautiful it was, and why didn't
I use it, instead of wearing my life out nursing babies. I said right
away that I wanted to, and meant to go on the stage as soon as I could;
then she was angry, and threatened to find another girl if I did not at
once give up such a notion. I promised I would, but I didn't and a few
days later, I was out with the children, and saw an advertisement for
fifty girls wanted at a play, and as soon as I got back, I told her I
was going to leave. She was very angry, and kept that week's wages, but
I went, and the next day I answered the advertisement. It was for girls
to dance, and I said I could not, and would not, and was just going to
leave, when the manager came in, and stopped me. He began by making
foolish speeches about how beautiful I was, but when I started away, he
begged pardon, and said I was just what they wanted for a queen, who was
to come out of a flower, and did not have to dance, which would suit me,
since I was so over-particular. At first I thought I never could, and it
made me so ashamed, to think of being in such a crowd, that I felt like
hiding my face forever. But there I was, with no home and no money, and
what could I do? So I signed the contract for ten nights, at fifty cents
a night, and felt that I could never look you in the face again, or any
of the girls. It was not as bad as I expected, but oh, so different from
what I had always thought the stage was. We all had to dress in a little
room that was as cold as ice, and most of the girls were so loud and
coarse, and talked slang, and they all took a dislike to me because I
was queen. They called me "old prudy," and had all kinds of coarse jokes
that made me feel as though I would die of shame; I took cold the first
night, the stage was so windy, and our dresses as thin as wisps, and
then I was so mortified and miserable. I nearly starved while I was
there, the pay was so small, and I couldn't afford to have any fire in
my room at the small hotel, and took such a heavy cold that I thought I
would die coughing. Oh, how wretched I was! I wanted to die, for I
thought I had fallen so low that you would never care for me again, and
I never felt that I needed God as I did then. I don't think I ever
prayed honestly before, but it seemed as if that terrible feeling of
being alone, would kill me, so I began to go to God, as I would to you,
and it became such a comfort. I wanted to be good and honest, whatever I
did, so that I could feel that I still had a right to love and think of
you all. I stayed with that company the rest of the winter, at a salary
of two dollars a week, and did all manner of odds and ends. Sometimes go
on as a substitute, sometimes as a servant or some inferior character,
and often to dress the leading ladies, when they found that I could do
it nicely. The manager was a gruff, coarse man, but he had a kind heart,
and after a while, he seemed to take a sort of interest in me,
especially when my cough grew so bad. He brought me medicine twice, and
one night asked me if I had been used to such a life. I told him, no,
but would not answer any other questions. When the company broke up in
the spring, he found me a place as nurse-girl in a family that he knew,
and said, that in the fall, a friend of his was going to organize an
opera-troupe, and that he would try and get me in, for by that time, I
had sung for him, and said that opera was what I had rather be in.
"I found my second trial as nurse-girl, a great deal harder than the
first; for there were three children, all sick and cross, and when hot
weather came, I had a little room up under the roof to sleep in, and the
heat was frightful. I had to be up nearly every night with the children,
for two of them were very sick during the hottest weather, and I was
called upon for nearly every thing. Between the heat and working so
hard, I gave out, and fainted one night, while sitting up with the
little girl, and the doctor told my mistress that if I did not have a
rest, I would be sick, and probably die on her hands. So in a few days,
she sent me and her oldest girl out to her mother's, who lived in the
country. I was so glad and grateful for the rest, that I never can
forget her. The grandmother was a plain, good-hearted old lady, who
seemed very sorry for me, and she used to tell me every day, that I
would never live to see another year, especially after she found that my
mother had died of consumption. I didn't care how soon I died, and told
her so, and then she thought I was wicked, and began to preach long
sermons to me, and give me all kinds of queer drinks and medicines,
which did me much more good than the sermons, for after staying there
three weeks, I was much better, as was Nettie; so we went back to the
city, and I stayed with Mrs. Feathers until late in August.
"One day, Mr. Fox, the old manager, came and brought Mr. Hurst, the
friend who was going to organize the troupe, and I sang for him. He
liked my voice, but said he would not engage me until I had rehearsed
once or twice with the company, so that he could see what I amounted to,
and Mrs. Feathers said I might keep my place with her, until he had
decided. After one or two rehearsals, he engaged me, at four dollars a
week, and so I left Mrs. Feathers. She was so kind, gave me a new dress
and two dollars, and said if I broke down in health, that her mother had
taken a fancy to me, and would like to have me come out again and stay
awhile with her. I felt so grateful that I threw my arms around her neck
and cried, and she kissed me; I never shall forget how good it seemed to
really be kissed again by some one who was a mother, and whom I knew,
felt sorry for me.
"I had a very rough time in the new troupe. The manager was cross and
rude, and I had to study hard to catch up with the old members; we
rehearsed stiff and steadily, and started out in September, visiting
only small places first, and not making much money, so that our pay was
often behind. In a while I was promoted from chorus singing to
character, and I had no money to buy a wardrobe, so the manager paid me
fifteen dollars that he owed me, and advanced ten--"
Here Olive gave an indignant breath, but said nothing, on second
thought; and Ernestine went on, without noticing the interruption.
"I bought some stage clothes with part of it, and used the other to
redeem my ring, that you gave me, mama, that I had been obliged to pawn
for my board; but while I was working out the ten for him, I had to pawn
it again, and one of my dresses, as I hadn't a cent. We travelled south,
and were in Virginia a few nights before going to Staunton, and when I
heard that we were to go there, I felt as though I never could! I
didn't know whether Jean was there yet, and I didn't expect she would
come to an opera if she was; but to go there, and perhaps be so near
her, when I would have been glad to have died, just for the sake of
seeing, or hearing from one of you, in some way--oh, it was so hard! The
manager grew very much provoked and impatient because I coughed so much
and was so weak, and threatened to discharge me, as I was getting
useless; so I used to nearly strangle trying not to cough, and never
dared say I was tired again. The very evening we got to Staunton, Miss
Downs, one of the leading ladies, was taken quite sick, and the manager
told me I would have to take her part next evening, in 'The Bohemian
Girl,' so I sat up nearly all night to study, and sang all next day,
until I was ready to drop. When the time came to go to the theatre, I
was so faint I could not stand up and dress; I begged them not to tell
the manager, for I knew he would discharge me right there; but Madame
T---- heard of it, and sent her maid up with a hot whiskey-toddy, and to
help me dress, and that is the way I started out for the evening.
"You know the rest. From the time that I felt my voice leaving me, and
everything began growing dark, I did not know anything, until I opened
my eyes, and saw Olive! Oh, I thought I was in Heaven, surely; it
seemed too sweet to be true. I wonder I did not die, instead of faint,
with pure joy. Even after I had looked at her long, had heard her speak,
and felt her kisses, I could not believe it. I almost expected to wake
up and find that I had been dreaming between acts, on the cold, windy
stage, or that the manager was scolding me for falling to sleep, and
daring to dream of happiness and you. I don't think I would have lived
much longer, and perhaps when I found that I was really going to die, I
could not have left you without a little word of some kind, for my heart
used to nearly break with longing to know if you loved me yet, or would
ever want to see me again. I did not feel as though I ever had a right
to go back, but when I found that I was coming, that you wanted and
loved me, oh, mama! I thought then my heart would surely break, I was so
happy!"
At this point every one was crying. Mrs. Dering had laid her face down
in the pillows; the girls had, one by one, retired behind their work,
and Kat, with her head wrapped in the towel she had been hemming was
crying, while she vowed vengeance alike on saint and sinner.