The Lost One Found.
On the day succeeding the events described in our last chapter, Mr. Walters
called upon Mr. Balch, for the purpose of making the necessary preparations
for the interment of Mr. and Mrs. Garie.
"I think," said Mr. Balch, "we had better bury them in the Ash-grove
cemetery; it's a lovely spot--all my people are buried there."
"The place is fine enough, I acknowledge," rejoined Mr. Walters; "but I
much doubt if you can procure the necessary ground."
"Oh, yes, you can!" said Mr. Balch; "there are a number of lots still
unappropriated."
"That may very likely be so; but are you sure we can get one if we apply?"
"Of course we can--what is to prevent?" asked Mr. Balch.
"You forget," replied Mr. Walters, "that Mrs. Garie was a coloured woman."
"If it wasn't such a solemn subject I really should be obliged to laugh at
you, Walters," rejoined Mr. Balch, with a smile--"you talk ridiculously.
What can her complexion have to do with her being buried there, I should
like to know?"
"It has everything to do with it! Can it be possible you are not aware that
they won't even permit a coloured person to walk through the ground, much
less to be buried there!"
"You astonish me, Walters! Are you sure of it?"
"I give you my word of honour it is so! But why should you be astonished at
such treatment of the dead, when you see how they conduct themselves
towards the living? I have a friend," continued Mr. Walters, "who
purchased a pew for himself and family in a white-church, and the deacons
actually removed the floor from under it, to prevent his sitting there.
They refuse us permission to kneel by the side of the white communicants at
the Lord's Supper, and give us separate pews in obscure corners of their
churches. All this you know--why, then, be surprised that they carry their
prejudices into their graveyards?--the conduct is all of a piece."
"Well, Walters, I know the way things are conducted in our churches is
exceedingly reprehensible; but I really did not know they stretched their
prejudices to such an extent."
"I assure you they do, then," resumed Mr. Walters; "and in this very matter
you'll find I'm correct. Ask Stormley, the undertaker, and hear what he'll
tell you. Oh! a case in point.--About six months ago, one of our wealthiest
citizens lost by death an old family servant, a coloured woman, a sort of
half-housekeeper--half-friend. She resembled him so much, that it was
generally believed she was his sister. Well, he tried to have her laid in
their family vault, and it was refused; the directors thought it would be
creating a bad precedent--they said, as they would not sell lots to
coloured persons, they couldn't consistently permit them to be buried in
those of the whites."
"Then Ash-grove must be abandoned; and in lieu of that what can you
propose?" asked Mr. Balch.
"I should say we can't do better than lay them in the graveyard of the
coloured Episcopal church."
"Let it be there, then. You will see to the arrangements, Walters. I shall
have enough on my hands for the present, searching for that will: I have
already offered a large reward for it--I trust it may turn up yet."
"Perhaps it may," rejoined Mr. Walters; "we must hope so, at least. I've
brought the children to my house, where they are under the care of a young
lady who was a great friend of their mother's; though it seems like putting
too much upon the poor young creature, to throw them upon her for
consolation, when she is almost distracted with her own griefs. I think I
mentioned to you yesterday, that her father is missing; and, to add to
their anxieties, their property has been all destroyed by the rioters. They
have a home with me for the present, and may remain there as long as they
please."
"Oh! I remember you told me something of them yesterday; and now I come to
think of it, I saw in the Journal this morning, that a coloured man was
lying at the hospital very much injured, whose name they could not
ascertain. Can it be possible that he is the man you are in search of?"
"Let me see the article," asked Mr. Walters. Mr. Balch handed him the
paper, and pointed out the paragraph in question.
"I'll go immediately to the hospital," said he, as he finished reading,
"and see if it is my poor friend; I have great fears that it is. You'll
excuse my leaving so abruptly--I must be off immediately."
On hastening to the hospital, Mr. Walters arrived just in time to be
admitted to the wards; and on being shown the person whose name they had
been unable to discover, he immediately recognized his friend.
"Ellis, my poor fellow," he exclaimed, springing forward.
"Stop, stop," cried the attendant, laying his hand upon Mr. Walters's
shoulder; "he is hovering between life and death, the least agitation might
be fatal to him. The doctor says, if he survives the night, he may probably
get better; but he has small chance of life. I hardly think he will last
twelve hours more, he's been dreadfully beaten; there are two or three
gashes on his head, his leg is broken, and his hands have been so much cut,
that the surgeon thinks they'll never be of any use to him, even if he
recovers."
"What awful intelligence for his family," said Mr. Walters; "they are
already half distracted about him."
Mr. Ellis lay perfectly unconscious of what was passing around him, and his
moans were deeply affecting to hear, unable to move but one limb--he was
the picture of helplessness and misery.
"It's time to close; we don't permit visitors to remain after this hour,"
said the attendant; "come to-morrow, you can see your friend, and remain
longer with him;" and bidding Mr. Walters good morning, he ushered him from
the ward.
"How shall I ever find means to break this to the girls and their mother?"
said he, as he left the gates of the hospital; "it will almost kill them;
really I don't know what I shall say to them."
He walked homeward with hesitating steps, and on arriving at his house, he
paused awhile before the door, mustering up courage to enter; at last he
opened it with the air of a man who had a disagreeable duty to perform, and
had made up his mind to go through with it. "Tell Miss Ellis to come to the
drawing-room," said he to the servant; "merely say she's wanted--don't say
I've returned."
He waited but a few moments before Esther made her appearance, looking sad
and anxious. "Oh, it's you," she said, with some surprise. "You have news
of father?"
"Yes, Esther, I have news; but I am sorry to say not of a pleasant
character."
"Oh, Mr. Walters, nothing serious I hope has happened to him?" she asked,
in an agitated tone.
"I'm sorry to say there has, Esther; he has met with an accident--a sad and
severe one--he's been badly wounded." Esther turned deadly pale at this
announcement, and leaned upon the table for support.
"I sent for you, Esther," continued Mr. Walters, "in preference to your
mother, because I knew you to be courageous in danger, and I trusted you
would be equally so in misfortune. Your father's case is a very critical
one--very. It appears that after leaving here, he fell into the hands of
the rioters, by whom he was shockingly beaten. He was taken to the
hospital, where he now remains."
"Oh, let me go to him at once, do, Mr. Walters!
"My dear child, it is impossible for you to see him to-day, it is long past
the visiting hour; moreover, I don't think him in a state that would permit
the least agitation. To-morrow you can go with me." Esther did not weep,
her heart was too full for tears. With a pale face, and trembling lips, she
said to Mr. Walters, "God give us strength to bear up under these
misfortunes; we are homeless--almost beggars--our friends have been
murdered, and my father is now trembling on the brink of the grave; such
troubles as these," said she, sinking into a chair, "are enough to crush
any one."
"I know it, Esther; I know it, my child. I sympathize with you deeply. All
that I have is at your disposal. You may command me in anything. Give
yourself no uneasiness respecting the future of your mother and family, let
the result to your father be what it may: always bear in mind that, next to
God, I am your best friend. I speak thus frankly to you, Esther, because I
would not have you cherish any hopes of your father's recovery; from his
appearance, I should say there is but little, if any. I leave to you, my
good girl, the task of breaking this sad news to your mother and sister; I
would tell them, but I must confess, Esther, I'm not equal to it, the
events of the last day or two have almost overpowered me."
Esther's lips quivered again, as she repeated the words, "Little hope; did
the doctor say that?" she asked.
"I did not see the doctor," replied he; "perhaps there may be a favourable
change during the night. I'd have you prepare for the worst, whilst you
hope for the best. Go now and try to break it as gently as possible to your
mother."
Esther left the room with heavy step, and walked to the chamber where her
mother was sitting. Caddy also was there, rocking backwards and forwards in
a chair, in an earnest endeavour to soothe to sleep little Em, who was
sitting in her lap.
"Who was it, Esther?" asked, her mother.
"Mr. Walters," she hesitatingly answered.
"Was it? Well, has he heard anything of your father?" she asked, anxiously.
Esther turned away her head, and remained silent.
"Why don't you answer?" asked her mother, with an alarmed look; "if you
know anything of him, for God's sake tell me. Whatever it may be, it can't
be worse than I expect; is he dead?" she asked.
"No--no, mother, he's not dead; but he's sick, very sick, mother. Mr.
Walters found him in the hospital."
"In the hospital! how came he there? Don't deceive me, Esther, there's
something behind all this; are you telling me the truth? is he still
alive?"
"Mother, believe me, he is still alive, but how long he may remain so, God
only knows." Mrs. Ellis, at this communication, leant her head upon the
table, and wept uncontrollably. Caddy put down her little charge, and stood
beside her mother, endeavouring to soothe her, whilst unable to restrain
her own grief.
"Let us go to him, Esther," said her mother, rising; "I must see him--let
us go at once."
"We can't, mother; Mr. Walters says it's impossible for us to see him
to-day; they don't admit visitors after a certain hour in the morning."
"They _must_ admit me: I'll tell them I'm his wife; when they know that,
they _can't_ refuse me." Quickly dressing themselves, Esther, Caddy, and
their mother were about to start for the hospital, when Mr. Walters
entered.
"Where are you all going?" he asked.
"To the hospital," answered Mrs. Ellis; "I must see my husband."
"I have just sent there, Ellen, to make arrangements to hear of him every
hour. You will only have the grief of being refused admission if you go;
they're exceedingly strict--no one is admitted to visit a patient after a
certain hour; try and compose yourselves; sit down, I want to talk to you
for a little while."
Mrs. Ellis mechanically obeyed; and on sitting down, little Em crept into
her lap, and nestled in her arms.
"Ellen," said Mr. Walters, taking a seat by her; "it's useless to disguise
the fact that Ellis is in a precarious situation--how long he may be sick
it is impossible to say; as soon as it is practicable, should he get
better, we will bring him here. You remember, Ellen, that years ago, when I
was young and poor, Ellis often befriended me--now 'tis my turn. You must
all make up your minds to remain with me--for ever, if you like--for the
present, whether you like it or not. I'm going to be dreadfully obstinate,
and have my own way completely about the matter. Here I've a large house,
furnished from top to bottom with every comfort. Often I've wandered
through it, and thought myself a selfish old fellow to be surrounded with
so much luxury, and keep it entirely to myself. God has blessed me with
abundance, and to what better use can it be appropriated than the relief of
my friends? Now, Ellen, you shall superintend the whole of the
establishment, Esther shall nurse her father, Caddy shall stir up the
servants, and I'll look on and find my happiness in seeing you all happy.
Now, what objection can you urge against that arrangement?" concluded he,
triumphantly.
"Why, we shall put you to great inconvenience, and place ourselves under an
obligation we can never repay," answered Mrs. Ellis.
"Don't despair of that--never mind the obligation; try and be as cheerful
as you can; to-morrow we shall see Ellis, and perhaps find him better; let
us at least hope for the best."
Esther looked with grateful admiration at Mr. Walters, as he left the room.
"What a good heart he has, mother," said she, as he closed the door behind
him; "just such a great tender heart as one should expect to find in so
fine a form."
Mrs. Ellis and her daughters were the first who were found next day, at the
office of the doorkeeper of the hospital waiting an opportunity to see
their sick friends.
"You're early, ma'am," said a little bald-headed official, who sat at his
desk fronting the door; "take a chair near the fire--it's dreadful cold
this morning."
"Very cold," replied Esther, taking a seat beside her mother; "how long
will it be before we can go in?"
"Oh, you've good an hour to wait--the doctor hasn't come yet," replied the
door-keeper. "How is my husband?" tremblingly inquired Mrs. Ellis.
"Who is your husband?--you don't know his number, do you? Never know names
here--go by numbers."
"We don't know the number," rejoined Esther; "my father's name is Ellis; he
was brought here two or three nights since--he was beaten by the mob."
"Oh, yes; I know now who you mean--number sixty--bad case that, shocking
bad case--hands chopped--head smashed--leg broke; he'll have to cross over,
I guess--make a die of it, I'm afraid."
Mrs. Ellis shuddered, and turned pale, as the man coolly discussed her
husband's injuries, and their probable fatal termination. Caddy, observing
her agitation, said, "Please, sir, don't talk of it; mother can't bear it."
The man looked at them compassionately for a few moments--then continued:
"You mustn't think me hard-hearted--I see so much of these things, that I
can't feel them as others do. This is a dreadful thing to you, no doubt,
but it's an every-day song to me--people are always coming here mangled in
all sorts of ways--so, you see, I've got used to it--in fact, I'd rather
miss 'em now if they didn't come. I've sat in this seat every day for
almost twenty years;" and he looked on the girls and their mother as he
gave them this piece of information as if he thought they ought to regard
him henceforth with great reverence.
Not finding them disposed to converse, the doorkeeper resumed the newspaper
he was reading when they entered, and was soon deeply engrossed in a
horrible steam-boat accident.
The sound of wheels in the courtyard attracting his attention, he looked
up, and remarked: "Here's the doctor--as soon as he has walked the wards
you'll be admitted."
Mrs. Ellis and her daughters turned round as the door opened, and, to their
great joy, recognized Doctor Burdett.
"How d'ye do?" said he, extending his hand to Mrs. Ellis--"what's the
matter? Crying!" he continued, looking at their tearful faces; "what has
happened?"
"Oh, doctor," said Esther, "father's lying here, very much injured; and
they think he'll die," said she, giving way to a fresh burst of grief.
"Very much injured--die--how is this?--I knew nothing of it--I haven't been
here before this week."
Esther hereupon briefly related the misfortunes that had befallen her
father.
"Dear me--dear me," repeated the kind old doctor.
"There, my dear; don't fret--he'll get better, my child--I'll take him in
hand at once. My dear Mrs. Ellis, weeping won't do the least good, and only
make you sick yourself. Stop, do now--I'll go and see him immediately, and
as soon as possible you shall be admitted."
They had not long to wait before a message came from Doctor Burdett,
informing them that they could now be permitted to see the sufferer.
"You must control yourselves," said the doctor to the sobbing women, as he
met them at the door; "you mustn't do anything to agitate him--his
situation is extremely critical."
The girls and their mother followed him to the bedside of Mr. Ellis, who,
ghastly pale, lay before them, apparently unconscious.
Mrs. Ellis gave but one look at her husband, and, with a faint cry, sank
fainting upon the floor. The noise partially aroused him; he turned his
head, and, after an apparent effort, recognized his daughters standing
beside him: he made a feeble attempt to raise his mutilated hands, and
murmured faintly, "You've come at last!" then closing his eyes, he dropped
his arms, as if exhausted by the effort.
Esther knelt beside him, and pressed a kiss on his pale face.
"Father!--father!" said she, softly. He opened his eyes again, and a smile
of pleasure broke over his wan face, and lighted up his eyes, as he feebly
said, "God bless you, darlings! I thought you'd never come. Where's mother
and Caddy?"
"Here," answered Esther, "here, by me; your looks frightened her so, that
she's fainted." Doctor Burdett here interposed, and said: "You must all
go now; he's too weak to bear more at present."
"Let me stay with him a little longer," pleaded Esther.
"No, my child, it's impossible," he continued; "besides, your mother will
need your attention;" and, whilst he spoke, he led her into an adjoining
room, where the others had preceded her.