concern for the poor child.
"My feet hurt me so that I can hardly walk," replied Henry, whose
tongue at last obeyed his efforts to speak.
"And what ails your feet?" asked Doctor R----.
"They've been frosted, sir."
"Frosted, indeed! poor child! Well, what have you done for them?"
"Nothing--only I greased them sometimes at night; and to-day my master
made me stand in the snow."
"The cruel wretch!" muttered Doctor R---- between his teeth. "But can't
you walk up as far as the drug store at the corner, and let me see your
feet?" continued the doctor.
"Yes, sir," replied the child, though he felt that to take another step
was almost impossible.
"You'll come right up, will you?" urged the doctor.
"Yes, sir," returned Henry, in a low voice.
"Then I'll wait for you. But come along as quickly as you can;" and
so saying, the doctor drove off. But he could not help glancing back,
after he had gone on about the distance of half a square, for his heart
misgave him for not having taken the little fellow into his carriage.
He soon caught a glimpse of him on the sidewalk, slowly and laboriously
endeavoring to work his way along, but evidently with extreme
suffering. He at once gave directions to the driver to turn back; and
taking Henry into the carriage, hurried on to the office. The child,
when lifted in, sank back upon the seat, pale and exhausted. Doctor
R---- asked him no question; and when the carriage stopped, directed
the driver to carry him in. He then, with his own hands, carefully
removed his shoes and stockings.
"My poor, poor child!" said he, in pity and astonishment, on beholding
the condition of Henry's feet. The harsh remedy prescribed by Sharp,
if the subsequent treatment had been tender and judicious, might have
been salutary; but, after it, to confine the boy's feet in hard, tight
new shoes, and to send him out upon the street, was to induce a high
state of inflammation, and, in the advanced state of the chilblains,
to endanger mortification. Several of the large ulcerous cracks, which
were bleeding freely, the doctor dressed, and then, cutting a number a
short strips of adhesive plaster, he applied them to the skin over the
heel and foot, in various directions, so as almost completely to cover
every portion of the surface.
"How does that feel?" he asked, looking into Henry's face with an air
of relief and satisfaction, after he had finished the first foot.
"It feels a good deal better," replied the child, his voice and the
expression of his countenance both indicating that he no longer
suffered so excruciatingly as he had but a short time previously.
The other foot was soon dressed in the same way. Doctor R---- then went
back into the house and got a loose pair of stockings and a light pair
of shoes, belonging to one of the apothecary's children, from their
mother. These fitted Henry comfortably, and when he stood down upon his
feet he did not experience any pain.
"That feels a good deal better, don't it?" said the doctor, smiling.
"Yes, indeed it does," and Henry looked his gratitude; and yet, blended
with that look, was an expression that seemed to the doctor an appeal
for protection.
"You're afraid to go back now, ain't you, since you've stayed so long?"
he asked, in a tone meant to encourage the child's confidence.
"Indeed I am. Mr. Sharp will be almost sure to beat me."
"What a very devil incarnate the man must be!" muttered Doctor R---- to
himself, taking three or four strides across the floor. "I shall have
to take the little fellow home, and brow-beat his master, I suppose,"
he continued. Then addressing Henry, he said, aloud--
"Well, I'll take you home to him in my carriage, and settle all that
for you, my little man; so don't be frightened."
Acting upon this resolution, Doctor R---- soon drove up before the
hatter's shop, and, lifting out Henry himself, led him into the
presence of his astonished master.
"What's the matter now?" asked the latter, roughly, and with a
forbidding aspect of countenance.
"The matter is simply this, sir," responded Doctor R----, firmly. "I
found this little boy of yours on the street absolutely unable to get
along a step farther; and on taking him into the drug store above, and
examining his feet, I found them in a most shocking condition! Why,
sir, in twelve hours mortification would have commenced, when nothing
could have saved his life but the amputation of both limbs." The sober
earnestness of Doctor R---- caused Sharp to feel some alarm, and he
said--
"I had no idea, doctor, that he was as bad as that."
"Well, he is, I can assure you, and it is a fortunate thing that I
happened to come across him. Why, I haven't seen so bad a case of
chilblains these ten years."
"What ought I to do for him, doctor?" asked Sharp, in real concern.
"I have done all that is necessary at present," replied the doctor.
"But he must be suffered to have rest; and, as you value his limbs,
don't let him be exposed to the wet or cold until his feet are healed,
and the tenderness and soreness are both gone."
"I shall attend to your direction, most certainly," said Sharp, his
manner greatly changed from what it was when the doctor came in. "But,
really, doctor," he continued, "I had no idea that there was any danger
in getting the feet a little frosted."
"The chilblains are not only extremely painful," replied Doctor R----,
"but there is great danger, where the feet are exposed to wet and
cold, as Henry's must have been to get in the condition they are, of
mortification supervening. That little boy will require great care, or
he will stand a chance of being crippled for life. Good-morning!"
Poor Henry! How eagerly had he hung upon the doctor's words! how almost
agonizing had been his desire for even the slightest intimation that he
was remembered by the physician, to whose mistaken kind offices he was
indebted for the place he held in the family of Sharp! But all was in
vain. A dozen times he was on the eve of asking for his mother; but,
as often, weak timidity held him back. In the presence of his master,
fear kept him dumb. It seemed to him as if life would go out when he
saw Doctor R---- turn away from the shop and enter his carriage. A deep
darkness fell upon his spirit.
As Doctor R---- rode off in his carriage, he could not help
congratulating himself on the good deed he had performed. Still he
did not feel altogether satisfied about the boy. He had been so
much concerned for his distressed situation, that he had failed to
make any inquiries of him in regard to his friends; and for this
he blamed himself, because it was clear that, if the child had
friends, they ought to know his condition. He blamed himself for this
thoughtlessness, and a consciousness of having performed but half of
his duty to the poor boy caused a shade of concern to steal over him,
which he could not shake off.
And Henry, as he stood frightened in the shop, felt, as the
carriage-wheels rattled away, the hope that had awakened, faint and
trembling in his heart, sinking into the gloom of despair. One who
could have told him of his mother; one who, if he had only taken the
courage to have mentioned his name, could have taken tidings of his
condition to her, or perhaps would have carried him home, had been
beside him for half an hour, and he had not spoken out. And now he was
gone. He felt so sick and weak that he could hardly stand.
From his sad, waking dreams he was roughly startled by the loud, sharp
voice of his mistress, who, attracted by the strong expressions of
Doctor R----, now entered the shop, exclaiming--
"What's all this? What's that little wretch been doing now, ha?"
"I wish I'd never seen him!" muttered Sharp, but in a tone that left no
doubt on the mind of his wife that something more than usually annoying
had occurred.
"What's the matter? What's he been doing? Not stealing, I hope; though
I shouldn't wonder."
"He's sick, and you've got to take care of him," was the dogged answer
of Sharp.
"Sick! He looks sick, don't he?" The tones of the virago were full of
contempt.
Any eye but hers would have seen sickness, sorrow, suffering, and want
in the pale, frightened face of the poor boy, as he stood trembling
beside the counter, and actually clinging to it for support.
"Who was that in here, just now?" she added.
"Doctor R----, of Boston," replied the hatter, who knew the doctor by
sight very well.
"What did he want?"
"He picked Henry up in the street and took him over to the drug store
at the corner. Then he brought him home in his carriage. He says that
he must be taken care of, or he will become a cripple; that it's the
worst case of chilblains he ever saw; and that his feet are in danger
of mortification."
"I don't believe a word of it. Here! you go off up stairs," speaking
sharply, and with a threatening look, to the child. "I'd like to know
what business he has to come here, meddling in affairs that don't
concern him."
Henry, thus spoken to, let go of the counter, by which he was
sustaining himself, and attempted to move towards the door. As he did
so, his face grew deadly pale. He staggered across the shop, fell
against the wall, and then sank down upon the floor. Mrs. Sharp sprang
towards him, not with any humane intention, we are sorry to say; but,
ere she had grasped the boy's arm, and given him the purposed jerk,
the sight of his ashen, lifeless face prevented the outrage. Exhausted
nature could bear nothing more, and protected herself in a temporary
suspension of her power. Henry had fainted, and it was well that it was
so. The fact was a stronger argument in his favor than any external
exhibition of suffering that could have been given.
The hatter and his wife were both alarmed at an event so unexpected
by either of them. Henry was quickly removed to a chamber, and every
effort made to restore him. It was not a very long time before the
machinery of life was again in motion; its action, however, was
feeble, as even his oppressors could see. Self-interest, and fear of
consequences, if not humanity, prompted more consideration for the boy,
and secured for him a few days' respite. After that, the oppressed and
his oppressors assumed their old relations.
* * * * *
CHAPTER IX.
"I DON'T think I've seen anything of Lizzy Glenn for a week,"
remarked Berlaps to his man Michael one day during the latter part of
December. "Has she anything out?"
"Yes. She has four of our finest shirts."
"How long since she took them away?"
"It's over a week--nearly ten days."
"Indeed! Then she ought to be looked after. It certainly hasn't taken
her all this time to make four shirts."
"Well, I don't know. She gets along, somehow, poorly enough," replied
Michael. "She's often been a whole week making four of them."
While this conversation was going on, the subject of it entered. She
came in with a slow, feeble step, and leaned against the counter
as she laid down the bundle of work she had brought with her. Her
half-withdrawn veil showed her face to be very pale, and her eyes much
sunken. A deep, jarring cough convulsed her frame for a moment or two,
causing her to place her hand almost involuntarily upon her breast, as
if she suffered pain there.
"It's a good while since you took these shirts out, Lizzy," said
Berlaps, in a tone meant to reprove her for the slowness with which she
worked.
"Yes, it is," she replied, in a low, sad tone. "I can't get along very
fast. I have a constant pain in my side. And there are other reasons."
The last sentence was spoken only half aloud, but sufficiently distinct
for Berlaps to hear it.
"I don't expect my workwomen," he said, a little sharply, "to have any
reasons for not finishing my work in good season, and bringing it in
promptly. Ten days to four shirts is unpardonable. You can't earn your
salt at that."
The young woman made no reply to this, but stood with her eyes drooping
to the floor, and her hands leaning hard upon the counter to support
herself.
Berlaps then commenced examining the shirts. The result of this
examination seemed to soften him a little. No wonder; they were made
fully equal to those for which regular shirt-makers receive from
seventy-five cents to a dollar a piece.
"Don't you think you can make five such as these in a week--or even
six?" he asked, in a somewhat changed tone.
"I'm afraid not," was the reply. "There's a good day's work on each one
of them, and I cannot possibly sit longer than a few hours at a time.
And, besides, there are two or three hours of every day that I must
attend to other duties."
"Well, if you can't, I suppose you can't," said the tailor, in a
disappointed, half-offended tone, and turned away from the counter and
walked back to his desk, from which he called out to his salesman,
after he had stood there for about a minute--
"Pay her for them, Michael, and if you have any more ready give her
another lot."
Since the sharp rebuke given by Mr. Perkins, Michael had treated Lizzy
with less vulgar assurance. Sometimes he would endeavor to sport a
light word with her, but she never replied, nor seemed to notice his
freedom in the least. This uniform, dignified reserve, so different
from the demeanor of most of the girls who worked for them, coupled
with the manner of Perkins's interference for her, inspired in his mind
a feeling of respect for the stranger, which became her protection
from his impertinences. On this occasion, he merely asked her how many
she would have, and on receiving her answer, handed her the number of
shirts she desired.
As she turned to go out, Mrs. Gaston, who had just entered, stood near,
with her eyes fixed upon her. She started as she looked into her face.
Indeed, both looked surprised, excited, then confused, and let their
eyes fall to the floor. They seemed for a moment to have identified
each other, and then to have become instantly conscious that they were
nothing but strangers--that such an identification was impossible. An
audible sigh escaped Lizzy Glenn, as she passed slowly out and left the
store. As she reached the pavement, she turned and looked back at Mrs.
Gaston. Their eyes again met for an instant.
"Who is that young woman?" asked Mrs. Gaston.
"Her name is Lizzy Glenn," replied Michael.
"Do you know anything about her?"
"Nothing--only that she's a proud, stiff kind of a creature; though
what she has to be proud of, is more than I can tell."
"How long has she been working for you?"
"A couple of months or so, if I recollect rightly."
"Where does she live?" was Mrs. Gaston's next question.
Michael gave her the direction, and then their intercourse had entire
reference to business.
After the subject of this brief conversation between Mrs. Gaston
and Michael left the store of Mr. Berlaps, she walked slowly in
the direction of her temporary home, which was, as has before been
mentioned, in an obscure street at the north end. It consisted of a
small room, in an old brick house, which had been made by running a
rough partition through the centre of the front room in the second
story, and then intersecting this partition on one side by another
partition, so as to make three small rooms out of one large one. These
partitions did not reach more than two-thirds of the distance to the
ceiling, thus leaving a free circulation of air in the upper and
unobstructed portion of the room. As the house stood upon a corner,
and contained windows both in front and on the end, each room had a
window. The whole were heated by one large stove. For the little room
that Lizzy Glenn occupied, including fire, she paid seventy-five cents
a week. But, as the house was old, the windows open, and the room that
had been cut up into smaller ones a large one; and, moreover, as the
person who let them and supplied fuel for the stove took good care
to see that an undue quantity of this fuel was not burned, she rarely
found the temperature of her apartment high enough to be comfortable.
Those who occupied the other two rooms, in each of which, like her own,
was a bed, a couple of chairs, and a table, with a small looking-glass,
were seamstresses, who were compelled, as she was, to earn a scanty
subsistence by working for the slop-shops. But they could work many
more hours than she could, and consequently earned more money than she
was able to do. Her food--the small portion she consumed--she provided
herself, and prepared it at the stove, which was common property.
On returning from the tailor's, as has been seen, she laid her bundle
of work upon the bed, and seated herself with a thoughtful air, resting
her head upon her hand. The more she thought, the more she seemed
disturbed; and finally arose, and commenced walking the floor slowly.
Suddenly pausing, at length, she sighed heavily, and went to the bed
upon which lay her work, took it up, unrolled the bundle, and seating
herself by the table, entered once more upon her daily toil. But her
mind was too much disturbed, from some cause, to permit her to pursue
her work steadily. In a little while she laid aside the garment upon
which she had begun to sew, and, leaning forward, rested her head upon
the table, sighing heavily as she did so, and pressing one hand hard
against her side, as if to relieve pain. A tap at the door aroused her
from this state of abstraction. As she turned, the door was quietly
opened, and the woman she had seen at the tailor's, a short time
before, entered. She started to her feet at this unexpected apparition,
and gazed, with a look of surprise, inquiry, and hope, upon her visitor.
"Can it be Mrs. Gaston? But no! no!" and the young creature shook her
head mournfully.
"Eugenia!" exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, springing forward, and instantly
the two were locked in each other's arms, and clinging together with
convulsive eagerness.
"But no, no! It cannot be my own Eugenia," said Mrs. Gaston, slowly
disengaging herself, and holding the young woman from her, while she
read over every feature of her pale, thin face. "Surely I am in a
strange dream!"
"Yes, I am your own Eugenia Ballantine! my more than mother! Or, the
wreck of her, which a wave of life's ever restless ocean has heaved
upon the shore."
"Eugenia Ballantine! How can it be! Lost years ago at sea, how can she
be in this room, and in this condition! It is impossible! And yet you
are, you must be, my own dear Eugenia."
"I am! I am!" sobbed the maiden, leaning her head upon the bosom of
Mrs. Gaston, and weeping until the tears fell in large drops upon the
floor.
"But the sea gives not up its dead," said Mrs. Gaston in a doubting,
bewildered tone.
"True--but the sea never claimed me as a victim."
"And your father?"
The maiden's face flushed a moment, while a shade of anguish passed
over it.
"At another time, I will tell you all. My mind is now too much agitated
and confused. But why do I find you here? And more than all, why as a
poor seamstress, toiling for little more than a crust of bread and a
cup of water? Where is your husband? Where are your children?"
"Three years ago," replied Mrs. Gaston, "we removed to this city.
My husband entered into business, and was unsuccessful. He lost
everything, and about a year ago, died, leaving me destitute. I have
struggled on, since then, the best I could, but to little purpose. The
pittance I have been able to earn at the miserable prices we are paid
by the tailors has scarcely sufficed to keep my children from starving.
But one of them"--and the mother's voice trembled--"my sweet Ella! was
not permitted to remain with me, when I could no longer provide things
comfortable for my little ones. A few short weeks ago, she was taken
away to a better world. It was a hard trial, but I would not have her
back again. And Henry, the dear boy, you remember--I have been forced
to let him go from my side out into the world. I have neither seen nor
heard from him since I parted with him. Emma alone remains."
Mrs. Gaston's feelings so overcame her at this relation, that she wept
and sobbed for some time.
"But, my dear Eugenia!--my child that I loved so tenderly, and have
so long mourned as lost," she said, at length, drawing her arm
affectionately around Miss Ballantine, "in better and happier times,
we made one household for more than five pleasant years. Let us not
be separated now, when there are clouds over our heads, and sorrow on
our paths. Together we shall be able to bear up better and longer than
when separated. I have a room, into which I moved a week since, that is
pleasanter than this. One room, one bed, one fire, and one light, will
do for two as well as one. We shall be better able to contend with our
lot together. Will you come with me, Eugenia?"
"Will I not, Mrs. Gaston? Oh! to be once more with you! To have one
who can love me as you will love me! One to whom I can unburden my
heart--Oh, I shall be too happy!"
And the poor creature hung upon the neck of her maternal friend, and
wept aloud.
"Then come at once," said Mrs. Gaston. "You have nothing to keep you
here?"
"No, nothing," replied Eugenia.
"I will get some one to take your trunk." And Mrs. Gaston turned away
and left the room. In a little while, she came back with a man, who
removed the trunk to her humble dwelling-place. Thence we will follow
them.
"And now, my dear Eugenia," said Mrs. Gaston, after they had become
settled down, and their minds had assumed a more even flow, "clear up
to me this strange mystery. Why are you here, and in this destitute
condition? How did you escape death? Tell me all, or I shall still
think myself only in the bewildering mazes of a dream."
(To be continued.)
* * * * *
SILENT THOUGHT.
BY WILLIE EDGAR TABOR.
SOMETIMES there steals across the heart
A quietness of flow,
Where gentle memories form a part,
And bid in mythic tableaux start
The scenes of long ago--
Too holy and too heavenly
For open utterance or fear.
Across the mirror of the soul,
A gorgeous, a transcendent whole,
They pass--a train of silent thought,
With spirit, bliss, and pleasure fraught.
Then shut we out the world from view,
And all its mundane care;
Our hearts baptized with fresh'ning dew,
Which we from seraph regions drew;
Our minds with ambient air.
We love to linger very long
(As on some ancient harper's song,
Floating through corridors of time,
In all the majesty of rhyme),
And silent thought alone express
The acme of our happiness.
These whispers language cannot tell:
E'en imagery bows low
Before the task; its gentle spell
(Like zephyrs in some elfin dell)
Will o'er the spirit flow.
And moments pass unheeded by
As visions to the spirit's eye
Open their prospects, and lay plain
Their tracery of joy or pain.
With bliss or wo forever fraught,
Within the halls of SILENT THOUGHT.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: Entered according to Act of Congress, by T. B.
PETERSON, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the
Eastern District of Pennsylvania.]
THE MOTHER'S LESSON.
A STORY FROM A GERMAN BALLAD.
BY ELMA SOUTH.
'TWAS night, the star-gemmed and glittering, when a bereaved
mother lay tossing on her bed in all the feverish restlessness of
unsanctified sorrow. Sleep had fled far from her weary eye-lids; and
her grief-burdened heart refused to send up from its troubled fountains
the refreshing stream of prayer.
The deep stillness that rested on the hushed earth was broken by those
saddest of all sounds, the bitter wailings of a mother weeping for her
children, and "refusing to be comforted because they are not."
"Oh, woe, woe is me!" was the piteous cry of that breaking heart, and
the piercing sound went up to the still heavens; but they looked calmly
down in their starry beauty and seemed to hear it not.
And thus slowly passed the long, weary hours of the night, and naught
was heard save the solemn chiming of the clock, telling, with iron
tongue, that man was drawing hourly nearer to the quiet grave.
And as the mourner lay listening to Time's slow, measured strokes,
Memory was busy with the images of the loved and lost. Again they were
before her in all their youthful beauty; she heard their gleeful voices
and felt their fond caresses. The night wind swept coolingly into the
casement, and, as it touched her throbbing brow, it seemed like the
soft kisses of her loving children.