A Blighted Life.
Amongst the many orthodox business men of Montreal, none were more
highly esteemed than Mr. Rogers, Manager of the ---- Bank. He was what
is generally considered a shrewd business man, methodical and precise in
all his relations, whether commercial, domestic or ecclesiastical. I say
ecclesiastical, because the worthy gentleman was one of the pillars
of the church, having held the office of Elder for several years. Mr.
Rogers had several children, most of whom he trained in the way in which
they should go, but Jack, his eldest son, was incorrigible, and resisted
all attempts to keep him under control. On Sunday mornings the family
were usually marshalled in the dining-room, and marched off to church,
but Master Jack frequently put in an excuse,--he had a bad cold, or a
sprained ankle, or some other ailment which precluded the possibility
of his attending. No sooner were the family outside the garden gate,
however, than the poor boy with the sprained ankle would perform a _pas
seul_ on the hearthrug, or, in spite of a cold which prevented his going
out of doors, would shout “The old log cabin” with an excellent tone and
remarkable vigor of lung; then, returning to his room, he would take
a French novel from its hiding place under his pillow, and, lighting
a fragrant Havana, would devote the morning to “the improvement of his
mind,” as he called it.
Mrs. Rogers employed three servants besides a coachman: a cook,
a housemaid, and a tablemaid. The latter was a young and
attractive-looking girl from Glengarry, Ontario, named Ellen MacNee, who
was about seventeen years old, and had never before been in service. For
this damsel Jack Rogers conceived an attachment, and although at
first the girl withstood his attentions, ere long she gave way to
his importunities, and for months they lived on terms of the closest
intimacy. Jack of course promised (as all men do) to marry her, and
to do him justice I must say that he fully intended to do so, but his
income as a bank clerk was only twenty dollars a month, and he knew he
had no hope of receiving any assistance from his father. So things went
on till Ellen felt she could keep her secret no longer from those around
her, and she told her mistress she was going home to visit a sick aunt,
and did not know whether she would return or not. Mrs. Rogers was very
sorry indeed to part with her (for she had ingratiated herself with all
the family, although not to the same extent), and told her if she would
undertake to return she would only fill her place temporarily with
another girl. With this understanding Ellen left her place and entered
the Female Home, where shortly afterwards her baby (a girl) was born;
she had the child baptized almost immediately, calling it Beatrice,
after her young mistress, to whom she had been much attached, although
it is doubtful if the young lady in question would, had she known it
have appreciated the honor conferred upon her.
Ellen was scarcely recovered from her illness when her brother, a
country farmer, who had by some means got wind of the state of affairs,
came to Montreal, and had his misgivings confirmed. When he learnt
the truth he was furious, and would, he vowed, shoot both her and her
betrayer; but fraternal affection was so strong within him that he
gradually became more calm, and exerted himself to make the best he
could of a bad business. He requested me to take the child and place it
in a nunnery in spite of the earnest protestations of its mother, and
persuaded the latter to return to her home in Glengarry, promising to
hide her shame from her mother and friends if she would bid farewell
forever to the child and her betrayer. He persistently refused even to
look at the baby, but, rough and uncultivated as he was, I could see a
tear glisten in his eye as his manly heart quivered with emotion.
Home the poor broken-hearted girl went, and the baby was left in my
keeping till the morrow, when, according to agreement, I was to hand it
over to the good sisters. It was destined to be otherwise, however. That
evening a gentleman called at my house; he was a bachelor, well to do in
the world, and hearing the story, which it was necessary to tell him,
in order to explain the child’s presence, he asked me with pardonable
curiosity to let him see the baby. When he took her in his arms she
smiled so sweetly upon him, and crowed so joyously, that his heart was
touched, and he could not bear to think that the poor helpless babe
should be made to suffer for the sins of its parents; he asked me to let
_him_ have the child, promising that he would adopt her, and do for her
as if she were his own.
I suggested to him the scandal such a measure would give rise to, and
urged him not to place himself in such an unenviable position, but he
insisted that he was willing to let society have its fling, and that
if I would consent to the child’s adoption, he would take the
responsibility attached to it.
What was I to do? The man was well off, and had conceived a fancy for
the child. As for the world’s sneers, if he could afford to laugh at
them why should I refuse him the gratification of performing a noble
action? I handed the child over to his care, having first procured from
him written papers of adoption, and little Beatrice was installed in her
new home. A nurse was procured for her, and everything that money could
procure was provided for her comfort. The gossips sneered and wagged
their heads as they spoke of the “adopted” child, insinuating that there
were stronger ties than those of mere philanthropy to bind Mr. Richards
and the child together, but he, quite unconcerned, paid no attention to
their hints and innuendoes, and tried so far as lay in his power to make
the child comfortable and happy. When she attained the age of five years
he procured a governess for her, and had her instructed thoroughly in
all that go to make up a modern education as she grew older.
But a cloud soon appeared on the horizon of the child’s career. Mr.
Richards became ill, and was ordered by his medical adviser to a
Southerly climate. He was obliged to sell his estate and place little
Beatrice in Mrs. Thompson’s boarding school, where she continued for a
few years till the return of her adopted father. He came, it is true,
but the seeds of a fatal disease had been implanted in his system, and
had taken a deadly hold; in a few months he was no more, and as nearly
all his money had been eaten up in paying travelling and medical
expenses, poor Beatrice was left once more not only without a friend
but without a penny in the world. Mr. Richards had paid her school fees
annually in advance, and as at the time of his demise several months
of the term paid for were unexpired, Beatrice had a comfortable home
secured for her at least during that period; for the future she would
either have to perform menial services at the school, or go out in the
cold world without a friend or protector. The former was considered
by the poor girl preferable to going she knew not where, and so she
accepted the offer of a situation as housemaid, kindly proffered to her
by Mrs. Thompson _out of pure charity_ at two dollars per month less
than the previous occupant of the situation.
Poor Beatrice had a hard time of it as housemaid. Her former companions
took a fiendish delight in ordering her about till her life became
perfectly unbearable. She had but one friend to whom she could
unreservedly pour forth her troubles, her Sunday-School teacher, Miss
Flint. To this lady she gave an account of her history, so far as she
was able, and asked her for advice and assistance. Miss Flint, being
both sensible and charitably disposed, advised her to leave her present
position, having first procured a suitable one elsewhere, and she
promised to exert herself to this end.
Among the numerous acquaintances of Miss Flint was Mrs. De Beaumont, a
Southern lady of means, whose husband held a high official position in
New Orleans. Mrs. De Beaumont had, in order to avoid the yellow fever
epidemic, taken up her residence temporarily in Montreal, and was
now with her two daughters about to return to her Southern home. The
education of the latter young ladies had been somewhat neglected, and
Mrs. De Beaumont was anxious to procure as governess and travelling
companion a young lady of moderate means and unlimited ability.
Here, then, was an opening for Beatrice. On the recommendation of Miss
Flint, coupled with certificates from the various professors at Mrs.
Thompson’s school, the poor girl was duly installed in an easy and, to
her, lucrative position. She was not long settled in her new home when
Mr. Hartley, brother of Mrs. De Beaumont, fell violently in love with
her, and, contrary to the wishes of his relations, insisted on paying
her open attention. The poor girl had been so long accustomed to being
buffeted and slighted in every way that her heart fairly gave way before
his passionate wooing, and, although Mrs. De Beaumont frowned on her
angrily, and the rest of the family snubbed her grievously, yet Beatrice
felt so happy in having some one in whom she could confide that she
bore all their petty annoyances with the utmost forbearance, and refused
steadily to take the slightest notice of them.
Mr. Hartley was a planter of considerable wealth. He had long lived
a bachelor’s life; so long, indeed, that his friends never thought he
would marry, and each one often unconsciously counted how much of the
property would eventually become his. Mrs. De Beaumont was particularly
displeased when she heard his open avowal of his attachment for her
governess, for, though Hartley was not an old man, he being at that
time only about forty-six years old, yet she had hoped that her daughter
would have inherited a portion of his vast wealth, which was now about
to be transferred to a stranger, without friends, fortune or name. In
spite of this secret antipathy to the match, Mrs. De Beaumont openly
pretended the greatest friendship for Beatrice, for, being a woman of
the world, she saw clearly how matters would stand in a few years, and
she could not afford to break either with her brother or his intended
wife.
The wedding came off with all the aristocratic splendor of an F. F.
V. ceremonial. The dusky coachmen and footmen were resplendent with
gorgeous liveries and wedding favors, their white teeth glistening in
the sun as they grinned from ear to ear, perfectly happy and contented.
After the ceremony the newly-married pair went for a brief tour through
the Eastern States and Canada, returning to Mr. Hartley’s plantation,
where Mrs. Hartley was called upon by all the leading families in the
vicinity, and took her place with as much grace as though she had
been “to the manner born.” Mrs. De Beaumont greeted her sister-in-law
affectionately (at least to all outward appearances), and invited her to
visit her old home frequently; in fact all those who were aware (and who
was not) that Mr. Hartley had settled every penny of his fortune on his
wife and her prospective offspring were lavish of their attentions to
their beautiful, and now immensely wealthy, neighbor.
When her first baby, a little girl, was born, Mrs. Hartley wept bitterly
and refused (like Rachel) to be comforted. Her husband could not
understand it at all, and was greatly grieved that she should be so
down-hearted when they had both every reason, to be happy. Beatrice
besought him to forgive her weakness, and explained that it was only now
that she was a mother that she fully realized the anguish her own mother
must have suffered at parting with her, and she implored him as he loved
her to exert himself to find her mother and make her happy. Had his wife
told him to lie down whilst she drove a carriage-wheel across his neck,
Mr. Hartley would have unhesitatingly obeyed her; how readily, then,
he set about finding what most men are so glad to be without, viz., a
mother-in-law, can easily be imagined. He promised his wife that so soon
as business permitted him he would take steps to discover her mother’s
whereabouts, but that night he was awakened out of a deep sleep by cries
of terror from his wife; she had had a dream, she said, that her mother
hung over a precipice, looking up to her for help, which, while she
hastened to give, she saw her mother sink into the yawning abyss,
uttering shrieks of agony. Hartley was beside himself with fright;
he thought his wife would lose her reason, and so he quieted her by
assuring her that he would write the next day to get information, acting
on which he would set out immediately on his search. In the morning he
despatched a letter to Mr. F---- in Montreal, instructing him to obtain
what information he could respecting a girl called Ellen MacNee who had
lived in former years with Mrs. Rogers; in reply he was informed that
the girl left the city, no trace being procurable. He then inserted
advertisements in several Canadian newspapers, informing the public
that if Ellen MacNee would correspond with X. Y. Z. she would hear of
something to her advantage. But in vain did the fond husband seek the
mother of his blue-eyed darling, now grown pale with deferred hope and
anxious care, and when the latter proposed that they should personally
go to Montreal in search of their missing relative he readily
acquiesced, feeling assured that, even if they were unsuccessful, the
excitement of travel and occupation would restore the bloom to his
wife’s cheeks and preserve that health which, was now apparently on the
wane.
In a few days they had made preparations for an extended tour, and ere
a week had passed they were snugly quartered in the St. Lawrence Hall,
Montreal. The day after their arrival they called on me to know if I
could assist them in their search, bidding me spare no expense in order
to effect the desired object. I promised them every assistance in my
power, and at once placed myself in communication with all those whom
I had known to have any dealings with Beatrice’s unfortunate mother. It
was truly painful to see the anxious face of the young woman as she came
daily to me to enquire if I had heard any news, and when I showed her
a letter from Mr. MacNee, her mother’s eldest brother, stating that
his sister had gone to New York as nurse, she immediately persuaded her
husband to give chase. Their efforts were in vain, however. The girl, it
was true, had taken service in New York, but had subsequently left there
for her home in Glengarry, and had never been seen since either there or
in New York. Detectives having again been employed to assist in tracing
her movements, it was discovered that she had returned by rail to
Montreal _en route_ to Glengarry, but here all traces vanished, and the
supposition was either that she had committed suicide, or met with some
accidental death. Beatrice would have it, however, that she was still
alive, and would leave no stone unturned to find her. It was suggested
that New York should again be visited, as the probability was that she
returned there after her trip to Montreal; various other plans were
thought of, and some of them, doubtless, would have been acted upon, had
not a new light shone in upon the scene.
At the outset of the proceedings I had communicated with the principals
of the various Houses of Refuge in this city, and, although the
authorities had done their utmost to facilitate our search, so far we
had failed to advance in any way. At this time, however, I received a
communication from the Bishop, informing me that he thought he could
help us, and when I called on him, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Hartley,
he told us that he had been visited by a hardened creature, whose name
did not concern us, and who, in anticipation of a reward which she had
heard was offered for the recovery of the recluse, disclosed the fact
that she had, under an assumed name, become a sister of charity, and
was at present an inmate in a convent in ---- street, where we would,
doubtless, be able to recognize her.
Beatrice became quite excited at the news, and insisted on rushing off
at once, but her strength failed her, and she fell fainting on a sofa.
By great persuasion she allowed us to drive her home on the promise
that she would be allowed to accompany us on the morrow. The next day
we entered a carriage and drove to the Convent; we agreed that Beatrice
should go alone to meet her mother while we remained downstairs. Running
into the room where her mother was, the poor girl fell on her neck and
covered her with kisses. But no responsive greeting met the impetuous
child, the woman stared at her with a wild hazy stare as if to inquire,
Who are you? What do you mean by these extravagant caresses?
But if she failed to recognize her child she did not fail to recognize
me, and by some strange association of ideas she seemed to wander in
thought back to her past life, and the hot blood mounted to her temples.
When she became calmer I explained to her how we had come there, and
the object of our visit. She was touched at the proofs of her daughter’s
affection, and the hot tears rolled rapidly down her furrowed cheek,
but she steadily refused to leave the institution. In vain the poor girl
pleaded, and Mr. Hartley and myself joined in our entreaties that she
would accompany her daughter and her husband. Finding all our arguments
of no avail I advised Mr. Hartley to let the poor creature have her way
till the reality of the situation had come home to her, recommending him
to allow his wife to call frequently at the Convent to see her mother.
This advice the indulgent husband acted upon, and day after day Beatrice
would go and sit for hours conversing with her parent, sometimes
obtaining permission to take her for a walk or a drive, and secretly
longing, though never expressing it in words, that her mother would
accompany her back to her home in the South.
So far the excitement had kept Mrs. Hartley up, but after a time a
reaction set in which culminated in a wasting fever, and prostrated the
poor creature on a bed of sickness. This, though apparently disastrous,
ended happily for all. Beatrice’s mother, so long as _she_ was the
object of pity, shrank from all communication with her rich relatives,
but now that her child was in need of assistance, she flew to her with a
mother’s impetuosity, and anxiously watched by her couch day and night,
while the poor thing tossed and raved in delirious paroxysms. Mr.
Hartley summoned Dr. Hickson to his wife’s bedside, but that astute
practitioner wisely foretold that the magnetic influence of her mother’s
presence would do more for his patient than any drugs or medicines, and,
accordingly, he contented himself by prescribing a sleeping-draught,
leaving other agencies to do their work.
In a couple of weeks Mrs. Hartley rallied, and ere long she became
convalescent, and even cheerful. She used to chat with her mother for
hours together, and the fourth week after the latter’s arrival she was
able to go out for a drive accompanied by her and the baby, who had
accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Hartley in all their travels. The little girl
and her grandmother soon became great friends, and when, Beatrice being
strong enough, her mother would have returned to her convent life,
the baby’s smiling face did what all persuasion had failed to do, and
bursting into tears, the aged penitent folded the darling to her breast
and declared that she would never part from it again. Beatrice’s joy
knew no bounds; and as for Mr. Hartley, he was perfectly satisfied to
know that his wife was happy. In a few days they made preparations for a
journey to the South, and ere long Mrs. Hartley had the satisfaction
of seeing her mother snugly ensconced at her own fireside, living as it
were over again, and enjoying in the care of her daughter’s child,
the maternal pleasure which had hitherto been denied her. Ere leaving
Montreal Mr. Hartley, at his wife’s request, erected a handsome monument
in Mount Royal Cemetery to the memory of the humane man, who, regardless
of the jeers and scoffing of gossiping scandal mongers, had braved
public opinion, and saved to the world a good wife, an affectionate
daughter and a loving and tenderhearted mother.
During all this time, it may be asked, what had become of Jack Rogers,
one of the principals in my narrative?
Jack was fairly wild at the thought of his sweetheart going into an
institution. He would have married her on the spot and braved all his
father’s anger. But the girl showed equal self-denial, and was much more
sensible; she saw that, by consenting to marry a penniless gentleman,
she would certainly injure him, without in any way benefiting herself.
She knew his father sufficiently well to feel sure that, were he aware
of his son’s relations with her, not one but _both of them_, would be
ignominiously turned out of doors. So, consoling her paramour with this
questionable bit of comfort, she tore herself away, saying coolly that
he would soon forget and marry some one in his own station in life. But,
though she nerved herself to speak in this strain before him, when alone
she broke down entirely, and sobbed till her heart nearly broke, for the
poor girl loved him dearly, and, poor though he was, would have married
him and worked for him, if necessary. She saw, however, that his
prospects would be utterly blasted were he to disclose his position
to his father; and she unselfishly took on herself _the whole_ of the
punishment for a sin of which she was scarcely guilty, or, at any rate,
less highly culpable than he.
Jack would fain have put a pistol ball through his head, and doubtless
would have done so had the pistol been handy; but his pistols, like
everything else he possessed, were out of order, and were at the moment
in Mr. Costen’s hands, where they lay in a disintegrated condition till
the young gentleman’s blood had got some degrees cooler. Still, he could
not help thinking how his folly and thoughtlessness had ruined the hopes
of a poor innocent girl, and he longed for some opportunity for going
abroad, or participating in some excitement to enable him to muse less
moodily on the past.
The American civil war was at this time in full blast, and large
bounties were offered for volunteers. An American agent, meeting Jack
Rogers in a saloon, which the latter frequented, offered him two
hundred dollars and an outfit if he would go as a substitute for a young
gentleman in New York. This offer Jack readily accepted, and within
a short time found himself _en route_ to Richmond to join the Federal
Army. He was not long in the service when his superior intelligence
and daring exploits made him conspicuous among his fellows, and he was
promoted from one grade to another till he was placed in command of
his company. This was a position Jack was eminently fitted for, and his
reckless bravery was talked of far and wide throughout the army.
For a long time, in spite of his foolhardiness, Jack remained without a
scratch, save a slight wound from a rifle ball at Gettysburg, where
he made himself particularly conspicuous. Just before the close of the
great struggle, however, he was sent in command of a foraging party
consisting of about forty-five rank and file and the usual complement
of officers. Their path lay through a deed ravine in which high wooded
cliffs looked down on each side. These cliffs were in possession of a
Louisiana regiment, who were stationed there in the hope of cutting
off supplies from the Northerners, and, just as Captain Rogers with his
handful of men, entered the ravine a murderous fire was opened on them
from both sides. Rogers ordered his men to reply, but, as the ravine
afforded little or no cover, they were finally obliged to make their
way as quickly as possible to the end of the pass and fight their way
through. They found their way completely blocked by a force of two
or three hundred rebels, but, as to return would have proved equally
disastrous, there was nothing for it but to surrender, or cut a path
for themselves through, the enemy. Bracing themselves for a terrible
struggle, Rogers and his little band advanced to within a few yards of
the open, where their foes, with rifles loaded and bayonets fixed, stood
demanding their surrender. Captain Jack ordered his men to fire at a
given signal, and then to advance; and, firing his own pistols by way
of signal, he dashed through the smoke, followed by his daring band,
cutting and slashing right and left.
But courage will not enable men to do impossibilities. Out of the
handful who entered the ravine but three managed to cut their way
through the opposing forces, and these were all more or less injured by
rifle balls or sabre cuts. Poor Rogers fought like a lion; but, being
the centre of attraction on account of his uniform, he had his hands
more than full, and though he pistoled two men and knocked an officer
who would have seized him senseless with the butt-end of his empty
revolver, he was finally brought off his horse with a pistol shot, and
captured, more dead than alive, by the enemy.
The officer in charge was so struck with the bravery of the poor fellow
that he had endeavored to take him prisoner, and had stayed some of
his men who had essayed to run the fiery captain through with their
bayonets; his impetuous charge, however, led them in self defence to
disable him, and the young lieutenant who shot him had no alternative
except to be brained by a blow from Jack’s pistol. The excitement over,
however, the colonel of the victorious corps sent a detachment in search
of the wounded of both sides, and ordered a litter to be prepared for
Captain Rogers’ removal to his own quarters. Poor Jack was severely
injured. The ball had entered his left arm close to the shoulder, and
was not necessarily fatal; but his horse had fallen on him and bruised
him so that he could scarcely breathe. The march to the camp was about
two miles, and, although the men moved as gently as possible, yet
Captain Rogers suffered agony as he felt every motion. Arrived at
Colonel De Beaumont’s quarters (for the brave commander was the husband
of Mrs. De Beaumont) a surgeon was sent for and the invalid’s wounds
were attended to. Although a prisoner of war Captain Rogers’ received
every attention from Colonel De Beaumont and the officers under his
command, and when, the regiment being ordered to head-quarters, the
Colonel was obliged to send Rogers to prison with the rest of his
captured force, the parting was more like that of two brothers than that
of a victor and his fallen foe.
After the close of the war, which, event took place shortly after these
occurrences, Colonel De Beaumont, disgusted and sick at heart,
returned to New Orleans. He was obliged to bow to fortune, and to swear
allegiance once more to what he considered the oppressor. Almost his
first thought after his return was to enquire concerning the Federal
troops who had been captured by his men, especially the gallant Rogers,
for whom he had formed a more than passing attachment. He learned that
of those who had been placed in confinement, some had died of their
wounds, others, as soon as the proclamation of Northern supremacy gave
them their liberty, had returned to their homes, but that the Captain,
having contracted a dangerous fever, had been unable to accompany them.
De Beaumont lost no time in seeking out the poor soldier’s quarters, and
was grieved to find him barely alive, he having scarcely recovered from
the fever, besides suffering from partially healed and badly-dressed
wounds. The Colonel persuaded him, so soon as he could move, to
accompany him to his own house, where he would receive proper attention,
and, in a short time, the sufferer was installed in De Beaumont’s
comfortable house, the kind hostess doing all in her power to alleviate
his sufferings.
It was about this time that Mrs. Hartley, accompanied by her mother,
had returned to her husband’s residence, and one day as she was visiting
Mrs. De Beaumont she learnt the story concerning the wounded officer,
who, though in the service of the North, was compassionately treated
by the whole household, having made friends of them all by his cheerful
uncomplaining disposition, and his grateful acknowledgment of even the
slightest service. While recounting the story to her husband and mother
at dinner, the latter grasped the table convulsively with both her
hands, and breathlessly demanded of her daughter all the particulars;
with a wild exclamation of terror, she rushed up to her room, hastily
followed by her bewildered daughter. The latter found her mother in the
act of dressing hurriedly, and on enquiring for an explanation the poor
woman fell on her child’s neck, and with bitter tears explained that
it was _her own father_ who lay so near them at death’s door, and that,
whatever it might cost, she would rush to his side.
Poor Mrs. Hartley was sadly shaken at these tidings. She explained all
the circumstances to her devoted husband, and took his advice. Hartley
recommended his wife to let her mother have her own way, and promised
that presently he would accompany his wife to De Beaumont’s house to
visit the invalid.
The rest of the story is soon told. The sad meeting of poor Rogers
with the mother of his child, who stayed by his side night and day, the
bitter tears of Mrs. Hartley as she beheld her father for the first and
last time; the mutual expression of love and forgiveness ere the poor
invalid breathed his last, beloved and forgiven by those on whom he had
thoughtlessly entailed much sorrow and suffering.