A HUNGRY HEART.
It was the last day of the Burns family in that tenement-house. The
landlady was breaking her heart over their departure. She felt as if she
had driven them from beneath her roof, with unjust suspicions, and
lamented her fault with noisy grief, that distressed that dear old lady,
and brought the kindest assurance from Anna, who came out of her own
sorrows to comfort her old friend.
“I wouldn’t care about the rent, Mrs. Burns,” protested the good woman.
“You know as well as I do that I could have got more money for the
rooms, and can now; but it was like home having you about me. It was
respectable; and them children, maybe I ain’t made as much on ’em as I
oughter; but it’ll be so lonesome not hearing ’em going up and down
stairs, especially Joseph. I don’t say it to praise myself, but I never
saw a big, red apple in the market that I didn’t buy it for that boy;
and I’d have given you any thing, when the tough times came on you, if
I’d only known how.”
“You were kind to us—very kind; we shall never forget it,” said old Mrs.
Burns. “The children love you dearly.”
“And will be agin, if you’ll let me. If these silk-gown friends of yours
should ever get tired of being kind, I’m on hand here, just as good as
ever. This steel thimble ain’t more faithful to my finger than I will be
to you and yours.”
Here the good woman fairly broke down, and burying her face in the
sailor’s jacket she was making, sobbed violently.
“I wont let the rooms yet, though I am back in the rent. Who knows what
may happen?” she said, at last, wiping the tears from her eyes. “This
ain’t the last time you’ll be under my roof. As for Joseph——Well, I
ain’t got words to express my feelings for him!”
“He will never forget you,” said the old lady, reaching out her hand,
which shook a little—for that hard-faced woman had been a friend to her
when she had no other. “And I shall never think of you without a warmer
feeling at the heart. But it is not far off. We will come and see you
often, and—and——”
Here the old lady found herself clasped in the landlady’s arms, and lost
her breath in that sudden embrace.
“And I’ll come to see you. I hope it’s a palace you’re going to; and
then it wouldn’t be good enough.”
Mrs. Burns left that commonplace-room with tears in her eyes. She did
not know how dear it had been to her. Anna, too, was very sad. She had
heard nothing from old Mr. Gould; and her life was so far removed from
that of Savage that he might have been dead, and she ignorant of it.
Georgiana Halstead was the only human link between her and her lover;
but that young lady never even mentioned his name. She was just as kind
as ever; came to see them, and took a deep interest in every thing about
their little household; but the name which Anna Burns so longed to hear
never passed her lips.
So the last night had come; all their little effects were packed up
ready for moving. The boys had gone over to the new house, which they
had not yet seen. Joseph had walked by the house with a bundle of
newspapers under his arm, and came home that night in wonderful spirits,
leaping up the stairs two steps at a time. When Robert asked him what it
was all about, he answered,
“Balconies, vines, garden, and snow-balls, with something like a house
back of it. Stupendous!”
So Robert had gone with his brother that evening, with a candle, and box
of matches, to see what was behind the snow-balls and vines, leaving
those two females alone in the rooms.
“Grandmother,” said Anna, sitting down by the old lady, “you have been
crying.”
“Yes, child. She was so kind, and so sorry, I could not help it.”
“Grandmother?”
“Well, darling?”
“Do you think we shall ever be happy again? That is, happy as we were
before this prosperity came upon us?”
“Are you so very miserable, my darling?”
“Yes, so miserable, so dreadfully miserable. Oh, grandma, grandma! my
heart is breaking.”
“My child! Anna Burns! There, there, lay your head on my bosom. I
thought it was hard to see you hungry, dear; but this is worse, a
thousand times worse.”
“Oh, grandmother! my heart is hungry, now.”
“I know it; God help us, I know it!”
“Oh! what can I do? What can I do?”
“Have patience, child.”
“I have tried to have patience; but it is killing me.”
“Pray to God, child—pray to God; he alone can feed a hungry heart.”
“I have prayed, but he will not hear me,” cried Anna, giving way to a
passion of grief.
“Yes, Anna, he heard me when I cried out to him in the depths of a
sorrow deep as yours.”
“Deep as mine! Oh, grandmother! tell me what it was. _Have_ you ever
suffered so?”
“I will tell you, Anna; God forbid that I should keep back even my own
sorrow, if the telling will help you to bear that which is upon you. I
was older than you, dear, some two or three years, when I was married to
your grandfather. How dearly I loved him no human being will ever guess,
Anna, dear. It was wicked to love any one as I worshipped your
grandfather; as I worship him yet; for such feelings live through old
age.”
“Do they—do they? When love becomes a pain, does it ache on through the
whole life?” cried Anna, trembling with agitation. “Does nothing even
quiet it?”
“Yes, darling; God can turn pain into resignation.”
“But must I wait to be old for that, grandmother?” cried Anna, bursting
into tears.
“Hush, darling, hush! I did not say that.”
“Go on, grandmother,” said Anna, drawing a deep breath, “I will not
interrupt you again. You were telling about grandfather?”
“Yes, dear. We had a son, your father. We were not rich; but had enough,
and were very, very happy. I know he loved me, then, and I tried to be a
good wife and a kind mother.”
“The best mother that ever lived; my father always said that,” cried
Anna.
Mrs. Burns kissed her cheek and went on.
“But your grandfather was ambitious. He had great business talent, which
was cramped and of little avail in the old country, so he resolved to
come to America and build up a fortune here. My husband was afraid to
make his first venture burdened with a family. None but very
enterprising men left home for this new country in those days; and few
of them ever took their families—it was considered too hazardous.
“I and the boy were left behind. It was a great struggle, for he loved
us dearly. I know he loved us with all his heart—nothing will ever
convince me that he did not. He divided his property, leaving us enough
to live on for some years; the rest he took with him as capital to aid
in any new enterprise that might present itself. I was very lonely after
he went. The parting from my husband took away half my life. But for the
boy, Anna, I think that I should have died.”
Mrs. Burns was interrupted by two trembling lips upon her cheek, and a
broken voice murmured, “Poor, poor grandfather!”
“He wrote me by every vessel during the first year. ‘New York had not
answered his speculations,’ he said, but there was an opening for fur
dealers in the West, and he was thinking of that very seriously.’
“He went to that great indefinite place called the West, and then his
letters came less frequently—not month by month, but yearly, and
sometimes not then. Seven years went by, Anna. I had heard nothing of my
husband during thirteen months, when a man came to the town where we
lived, and told me that he had seen my husband in Philadelphia, where he
had established a lucrative business, and was prospering beyond all his
expectations. My husband had told him that he had written to England for
his wife and child, but had received no answer to his letter. Anna, I
had been more than seven years separated from the man I loved better
than my own life when this news came. He was waiting for me, he had
written, and I had never received his letter. In less than two weeks I
had sold out every thing, and was on my way to Liverpool. In two months
I landed in New York, after a wretched voyage, which, it seemed to me,
would last forever. From New York I went to Philadelphia, and found my
husband’s warehouse without trouble. I went in quietly and inquired for
him; they told me that he had gone West, and would not be back for
months. While I stood, sick at heart, wondering what I should do next, a
lady entered the store—one of the handsomest women I ever saw—she was
richly dressed, and swept by me like a queen.
“‘No letters, yet?’ she said, addressing the clerk. ‘He promised to
write from every station.’
“Yes, madam, here is a letter—two, in fact. Those western mails are so
uncertain.”
“She fairly snatched at the letters, tore one open, and then the other.
I saw the handwriting. It was my husband’s.
“‘Madam,’ I said, in a low voice, for my throat was husky, ‘who are
those letters from? I, too, have friends in the West.’”
She lifted her eyes from the letters, for both were in her hand at once,
and turned them on my face.
“‘Poor lady! I was anxious as you are half an hour ago. Who is this
letter from? My own husband. He is safe—he is well. I hope you will have
good news also. But excuse, me, I must go. These letters will not be
half mine till I read them alone. Good-morning!’
“‘Who is that lady?’ I inquired of the clerk, breathless with strange
apprehension.
“‘That? Oh! she is Burns’s wife; lately married; an English lady with
whom he was in love years ago. She followed him over, I believe—that is,
he sent for her. Splendid woman! Don’t you think so?’
“I did not answer. Every thing turned dark around me, and I went out of
the store like a blind woman. What was I to do? How could I act? My
husband! my husband! Oh, Anna! my heart is sore now, when I think of the
anguish which seized upon it then. He was away, or I should have sought
him out and demanded why he had dealt with me so treacherously. What had
I done that his love and his honor should be taken from me? I knew that
both he and that proud lady were in my power. But what was vengeance to
a woman who was seeking for love? ‘No,’ I said, in the depths of my
desolation; ‘though he gave her up and came back to me to-morrow,
through force or fear, it would not be the same man, or the old love. He
may have wronged this lady as he has wronged me. She looked too bright
and loyal for a guilty woman. Then why should I wound her as I have been
wounded? His child she cannot take from me. God help us both!’”
“No wonder you are crying, Anna—I could not cry. But now, now I am
getting old, and the very memory of those days makes a child of me.
Don’t cry, Anna—don’t cry.”
The old lady’s voice died off into sobs, and her tears came down like
rain.
“Oh, grandmother! how sorry I am. But we love you—love you better than
all the world.”
“I know it—I know it. You see how much love can spring out of a desert.
I could not stay in the same city with that woman. I left Philadelphia.
My son was ten years old. He had been delighted with the thoughts of
seeing his father; and we had talked our happiness over so often that he
seemed a part of my own being. I would have kept the truth from him had
that been possible; but it was not—so I told him the truth. His young
spirit was terribly aroused, a feeling of sharp resentment possessed
him. He could not understand all the legal injustice that had been done
us; but he felt for me as no man could have felt. ‘Leave him, mother,’
he said. ‘I am only a little boy, but I will take his place, love you,
work for you, worship you. Indeed, indeed I will.’”
Anna was sobbing as if her heart would break. She remembered her
father’s parting with his mother when he went to the wars to die. The
old lady held her close.
“Hush, darling! He is in heaven!”
“Oh! if we were only with him, all of us—all of us!” Anna cried out.
“In God’s own time, dear. He knows best.”
After a few moments of quiet weeping Mrs. Burns went on.
“We went back to New York. I had a little money, and opened a small
store with the name of Burns on the sign. We would not use his name—he
had taken it from us.”
“Did not the name of Burns belong to you, grandmother?”
“It was my own mother’s maiden name.”
“Then my——This, I mean your husband, has another name?”
“Yes; he has another name.”
“Do not tell it me, grandmother. I do not want to hate him, or know him.
My father did not wish it, or he would have told us.”
“No, your father wished that name buried—and it was. We never mentioned
it, but lived for each other. My business supported us and occupied my
mind. My boy had a good education, you know that; and a better man than
he never breathed. He had the talent of an artist, and, as the most
direct way of earning money, learned wood-engraving. Then he married
your mother. She was an orphan, pretty and good. I loved her dearly; and
when she died, her little children became mine. We all lived together; I
gave up my little store, for your father earned money enough to support
us. We were content. Indeed, we were happy, in a way; living so close
together, loving each other so dearly—how could we help it? Anna, dear,
God always brings contentment to the patient worker.”
“Grandmother, I understand; you mean this for me!”
The old lady’s feeble arms tightened around the girl, and she went on.
“Before your father went to the army, here the living was cheaper; and,
perhaps, he had some other reason. It was his wish, and I made no
opposition. We had a hard life, darling; sometimes we were hungry and
cold, too. It came with cruel force on you children; I tried to save
you—tried to be all that your father was; but a poor old woman has but
little power. Still, still, look back, child, and see how the good Lord
has helped us; so many friends—such bright, bright prospects; the boys
doing so well. Hark! they are coming. Wipe your eyes, dear, they must
not think we have been crying. Here they come, so happy.”
The old woman wiped her tears away and looked toward the door, smiling.
Anna caught the sweet infection, and she too looked bright and hopeful
when the boys came in clamorous with praises of their new home.