"Well, I suppose I must give you that for it, as it pleases me."'
And she took out her purse, and paid the price that Mrs.--had
asked. She still stood musing by the side of the counter, when the
young woman who had awakened her interest a short time before,
re-entered, and came up to Mrs.--, who was near her.
"I have a favour to ask, Mrs.--," she overheard her say, in a half
tremulous, and evidently reluctant tone.
"Well, what is it?" Mrs.--coldly asked.
"I want six dollars more than I have got, for a very particular
purpose. Won't you advance me the price of three capes, and I will
bring you in one a week, until I have made it up."
"No, miss," was the prompt and decisive answer--"I never pay any one
for work not done. Pay beforehand, and never pay, are the two worst
kinds of pay!"
All this was distinctly heard by Mrs. Harwood, and her very heart
ached, as she saw the poor girl turn, with a disappointed air, away,
and walk slowly out of the store.
"That's just the way with these people," ejaculated Mrs.--, in
affected indignation, meant to mislead Mrs. Harwood, who, she
feared, had overheard what the young woman had said. "They're always
trying in some way or other, to get the advantage of you."
"How so?" asked Mrs. Harwood, wishing to learn all she could about
the stranger who had interested her feelings.
"Why, you see, I pay that girl a good price for doing a certain kind
of work for me, and the money is always ready for her, the moment
her work is done. But, not satisfied with that, she wanted me, just
now, to advance her the price of three weeks' work. If I had been
foolish enough to have done it, it would have been the last I ever
should have seen of either money, work, or seamstress."
"Perhaps not," Mrs. Harwood ventured to remark.
"You don't know these kind of people as well as I do, Mrs. Harwood.
I've been tricked too often in my time."
"Of course not," was the quiet reply. Then after a pause,
"What kind of sewing did she do for you, Mrs.--?"
"Nothing very particular; only a little fine work. I employ her,
more out of charity, than anything else."
"Do you know anything about her?"
"She's old Graham's daughter, I believe. I'm told he died in the
Alms-house, a few weeks ago."
"What old Graham?" Mrs. Harwood asked, in a quick voice.
"Why, old Graham, the rich merchant that was, a few years ago. Quite
a tumble-down their pride has had, I reckon! Why, I remember when
nothing in my store was good enough for them. But they are glad
enough now to work for me at any price I choose to pay them."
For a few moments, Mrs. Harwood was so shocked that she could not
reply. At length she asked--
"Which of the girls was it that I saw here, just now?"
"That was Mary."
"Do you know anything of Anna?"
"Yes. She stands in a store in Second-street."
"And Ellen?"
"Married to a drunken, worthless fellow, who abuses and half starves
her. But that's the way; pride must have a fall!"
"Where do they live?" pursued Mrs. Harwood.
"Indeed, and that's more than I know," Mrs.--replied, tossing her
head.
Unable to gain any further information, Mrs. Harwood left the store,
well convinced that the richly-wrought cape, for which she had paid
Mrs.--fifteen dollars, had been worked by the hands of Mary
Graham, for which she received but a mere pittance.
Poor Mary returned home disappointed and deeply troubled in mind.
She had about three dollars in money, besides the two which
Mrs.--had paid her. If the six she had asked for had only been
advanced, as she fondly hoped would be the case, the aggregate sum,
eleven dollars, added to three which Anna had saved, would have
enabled them to purchase a coat and hat for their brother, who would
be ready in a few days to go out. They were anxious to do, this,
under the hope, that by providing him with clothes of a more
respectable appearance than he had been used to wearing, he would be
led to think more of himself, seek better company, and thus be
further removed from danger. At her first interview with Mrs.--,
Mary's heart had failed her--and it was only after she had left the
store and walked some squares homeward, that she could rally herself
sufficiently to return and make her request. It was refused, as has
been seen.
"Did Mrs.--grant your request?" was almost the first question that
Anna asked of her sister that evening, when she returned from the
store.
"No, Anna, I was positively refused," Mary replied, the tears rising
and almost gushing over her cheeks.
"Then we will only have to do the best we can with what little we
have. We shall not be able to get him a new coat; but we can have
his old one done up, with a new collar and buttons,--I priced a pair
of pantaloons at one of the clothing-stores, in Market-street, as I
came up this evening, and the man said three dollars and a half.
They looked pretty well. There was a vest, too, for a dollar. I
heard one of the young men in the store say, two or three days ago,
that he had sold his old hat, which was a very good one, to the
hatter, from whom he had bought a new one--or rather, that the
hatter had taken the old one on account, valued at a dollar. I asked
him a question or two, and learned that many hatters do this, and
sell the old hats at the same that they have allowed for them. One
of these I will try to get,--even if a good deal worn; it will look
far better than the one he has at present."
"In that case, then," Mary said, brightening up, "we can still get
him fitted up respectably. O, how glad I shall be! Don't you think,
sister, that we have good reason to hope for him?"
"I try to think so, Mary. But my heart often trembles with fearful
apprehensions when I think of his going out among his old associates
again. It will be little less than a miracle if he should not fall."
"Don't give way to desponding thoughts, sister. Let us hope so
strongly for the best, that our very hope shall compass its own
fruition. He cannot, he must not, go back!"
Anna did not reply. Her own feelings were inclined to droop and
despond, but she did not wish to have her sister's droop and despond
likewise. One reason for her saddened feelings arose from the fact,
that she had a painful consciousness that she should not long be
able to retain her present situation. Her health was sinking so
rapidly, that it was only by the aid of strong resolutions, which
lifted her mind up and sustained her in spite of bodily weakness,
that she was at all enabled to get through with her duties. This she
was conscious could not last long.
On the next morning, when she attempted to rise from her bed, she
became so faint and sick that she was compelled to lie down again.
The feeling of alarm that instantly thrilled through her bosom, lest
she should no longer be able to minister to the wants of her mother,
and especially of her brother at this important crisis in his life,
acted as a stimulant to exhausted nature, and endowed her with a
degree of artificial strength that enabled her to make another and
more successful effort to resume her wearying toil.
But so weak did she feel, even after she had forced herself to take
a few mouthfuls of food at breakfast time, that she lingered for
nearly half an hour longer than her usual time of starting in order
to allow her system to get a little braced up, so that she could
stand the long walk she had to take.
"Good by, brother," she said in a cheerful tone, coming up to the
bed upon which Alfred lay, and stooping down and kissing him. "You
must try and sit up as much as you can to-day."
"Good by, Anna. I wish you didn't have to go away and stay so long."
To this, Anna could not trust herself to reply. She only pressed
tightly the hand she held in her own, and then turned quickly away.
It was nearly three quarters of an hour later than the time the
different clerks were required to be at the store, when Anna came
in, her side and head both paining her badly, in consequence of
having walked too fast.
"It's three quarters of an hour behind the time," the storekeeper
said, with a look and tone of displeasure, as he drew out his watch.
"I can't have such irregularity in my store, Miss Graham. This is
the third time within a few days, that you have come late."
A reply instantly rose to Anna's tongue, but she felt that it would
be useless--and would, perhaps, provoke remarks deeply wounding to
her feelings. She paused, therefore, only a moment, with a bowed
head, to receive her rebuke, and then passed quickly, and with a
meek, subdued air, to her station behind the counter. There were
some of her fellow-clerks who felt for and pitied Anna--there were
others who experienced a pleasure in hearing her reproved.
All through that day, with only the respite of some ten or fifteen
minutes, when she retired to eat alone the frugal repast of bread
and cold meat that she had brought with her for her dinner, did Anna
stand behind the shop-man's counter, attending to his customers with
a cheerful air and often a smiling countenance. She spoke to no one
of the pain in her breast, back, and side; and none of those around
her dreamed that, from extreme lassitude, she could scarcely stand
beside the counter.
To her, suffering as she did, the hours passed slowly and heavily
away. It seemed as if evening would never come--as if she would have
to yield the struggle, much as she strove to keep up for the sake of
those she loved.
But even to the weary, the heavy laden, and the prisoner, the slow
lingering hours at length pass on, and the moment of respite comes.
The shadows of evening at last began to fall dimly around, and Anna
retired from her position of painful labour, and took her way
homeward. But not even the anticipation of speedily joining those
she loved, had power so to buoy up her spirits, that her body could
rise above its depressed and weakened condition. Her weary steps
were slowly taken, and it seemed to her that she should never be
able to reach home. Many, very many depressing thoughts passed
through her mind as she proceeded slowly on her homeward way. The
condition of her sister Ellen troubled her exceedingly. About
one-third of her own and Mary's earnings were required to keep her
and her little ones from absolute suffering; and Mary, like herself,
she too plainly perceived to be rapidly sinking under her burdens.
"What is to be done when we fail, heaven only knows!" she murmured,
as a vivid consciousness of approaching extremity arose in her mind.
As she said this, the idea of her brother presented itself, with the
hope that he would now exert for them a sustaining and supporting
energy--that he would be to them at last a brother. But this
thought, that made her heart leap in her bosom, she put aside with
an audible--
"No,--no,--Do not rest on such a feeble hope!"
At last her hand was upon the latch, and she lifted it and entered.
"I am glad to see you home again, Anna," Alfred said, with an
expression of real pleasure and affection; as she came in.
"And I am glad to see you sitting up and looking so well, brother,"
Anna replied, her gloomy thoughts at once vanishing. "How do you
feel now?"
"O, I feel much better, sister. In a few days I hope I shall be able
to go out. But how are you? It seems to me that you do not look
well."
"I do feel very much fatigued, Alfred," Anna said, while her tone,
in spite of her effort to make it appear cheerful, became sad. "We
are not permitted in our store to sit down for a moment, and I get
so tired by night that I can hardly keep up."
"But surely, Anna, you do not stand up all day long."
"Yes. Since I left this morning, I have been standing every moment,
with the exception of the brief period I took to eat my dinner."
This simple statement smote upon the heart of the young man, and
made him silent and thoughtful. He felt that, but for his neglect of
duty--but for his abandonment of himself to sensual and besotting
pleasures, this suffering, this self-devotion need not be.
Anna saw that what she had said was paining the mind of her brother,
and she grieved that she had been betrayed into making any allusion
to herself. To restore again the pleased expression to Alfred's
countenance, she dexterously changed the subject to a more cheerful
one, and was rewarded for her effort by seeing his eye again
brighten and the smile again playing about his lips.
Instead of sitting down after tea and assisting Mary with her
embroidery, as she usually did, Anna took a book and read aloud for
the instruction and amusement of all; but most for the sake of
Alfred-that he might feel with them a reciprocal pleasure, and thus
be enabled to perceive that there was something substantial to fall
back upon, if he would only consent to abandon the bewildering and
insane delights to which he had given himself up for years. The
effect she so much desired was produced upon the mind of her
brother. He did, indeed, feel, springing up within him, a new-born
pleasure,--and wondered to himself how he could so long have strayed
away from such springs of delight, to seek bitter waters in a
tangled and gloomy wilderness.
When the tender good-night was at last said, and Mary stretched her
wearied limbs in silent thoughtfulness beside her sister, there was
a feeble hope glimmering in the dark and gloomy abyss of doubt and
despondency that had settled upon her mind--a hope that her brother
would go forth from his sick chamber a changed man. On this hope,
fancy conjured up scenes and images of delight, upon which her mind
dwelt in pleased and dreamy abstraction, until sleep stole upon her,
and locked up her senses.
When she awoke, it was with the same sinking sensation that she had
experienced on the morning previous, and, indeed, on every morning
for many months past. The remembrance of the rebuke she had received
on the day before for being late at her place of business, acted as
a kind of stimulant to arouse her to exertion, so as to be able to
get off in time. It was, however, a few minutes past the hour when
she entered the store, the owner of which looked at his watch,
significantly, as she did so.
This day passed, as the previous one had, in pain and extreme
weariness--and so did the next, and the next, the poor girl's
strength failing her too perceptibly. During this time, Alfred's
coat had been repaired, a pair of pantaloons and a vest bought for
him, and also a second-hand hat of very respectable appearance--all
ready so soon as he should be strong enough to venture out. How
anxiously, and yet in fear and trembling, did the sisters look
forward to that period, which was to strengthen their feeble hopes,
or scatter them to the winds!
"I do really feel very ill," Anna said, sinking back upon her
pillow, after making an attempt to rise, one morning some four or
five days after that on which Mary has been represented as
endeavouring to get an advance from Mrs.--.
"What is the matter?" Mary inquired kindly.
"My head aches most violently--and grows confused so soon as I
attempt to rise."
"Then I would lie still, Anna."
"No, I must be up, and getting ready to go to the store."
"I wouldn't go down to the store, if I were you, Anna. You had
better rest for a day."
"I cannot afford to lose a day," Anna said, again rising in bed, and
sitting upright, until the swimming in her head, that commenced upon
the least motion, had subsided. Then she got out upon the floor, and
stood for a few moments, while her head seemed reeling, and she
every instant about to sink down. In a little while this dizziness
went off, but her head throbbed and ached with aggravated violence.
At breakfast, she forced herself to swallow a small portion of food,
although her stomach loathed it; and then, with trembling limbs and
a feeling of faintness, she went out into the open air, and took her
way to the store. The fresh breeze, as it fell coolingly on her
fevered forehead, revived her in a degree; but long ere she had
reached the store her limbs were sinking under her with excessive
fatigue.
"Late again, miss--" said her employer, as she came in, with a look
of stern reproof.
"I have not been very well, sir," Anna replied, lifting her pale,
languid face, and looking appealingly into the countenance of the
store-keeper.
"Then you should stay at home altogether, Miss," was is cold
response, as he turned away, leaving her to proceed to her
accustomed station at the counter.
The day happening to be one of unusual activity in business, Anna
was kept so constantly busy, that she could not find a moment in
which to relieve the fatigue she felt by even leaning on the
counter. Customer after customer came and went, and box after box
was taken from, and replaced again upon the shelves, in what seemed
to her an endless round. Sometimes her head ached so violently, that
it was with difficulty she could see to attend correctly to her
business. And sometimes she was compelled to steady herself by
holding to the counter to prevent sinking to the floor, from a
feeling of faintness, suddenly passing over her. Thus she held
bravely on, under the feeble hope that her indisposition, as she
tried mentally to term it, would wear off.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon that the fever which had
been very high all through the day, began to subside. This symptom
she noticed with an emotion of pleasure, as indicating a healthy
reaction in her system.
It was but half an hour after, that she sunk, fainting, to the
floor, at her place beside the counter. When the fever abated,
exhausted nature gave way.
For nearly an hour she remained insensible. And it was nearly two
hours before she had so far recovered as to be able to walk, when
she was suffered to go away unattended. It was seven o'clock, when,
with a face almost as white as ashes, and nearly sinking to the
ground with weakness, she arrived at home, and opening the door,
slowly entered.
"O, Anna! What ails you?" exclaimed her mother.
"I feel very sick," the poor girl replied, sinking into a chair.
"But where is Alfred?" she asked, in a quicker tone, in which was a
strong expression of anxiety, as she glanced her eye about the room,
in a vain search for him.
"He has walked out," Mary said.
"Has he!" ejaculated Anna. "How long has he been away?"
"It is now nearly four hours,'" Mary said, endeavouring to conceal
the distress she felt, in pity for her sister, who was evidently
quite ill.
"Four hours!" exclaimed Anna, her face blanching to still whiter
hue. "Four hours! And do you not know where he is?"
"Indeed we do not, Anna. He went out to take a short walk, and said
he would not be gone more than ten or twenty minutes."
Anna did not reply, but turned slowly away, and entering her
chamber, threw herself exhausted upon her bed, feeling so utterly
wretched, that she breathed an audible wish that she might die. In
about ten minutes a carriage stopped at the door; and in a moment
after, amid the rattling of departing wheels, Alfred entered,
looking better and happier than he had looked for a long, long time.
A single glance told the mother and sister that all was right.
"O, brother! How could you stay away so long?" Mary said, springing
to his side, and grasping tightly his arm.
"I did not expect, when I walked out, that it would be so long
before I returned, Mary," he replied, kissing her cheek
affectionately. "But I met with an old, though long estranged
friend, who seeing that I had been ill, and needed fresh air,
insisted on taking me out into the country in his carriage. I could
but consent. I was, however, so weak, as to be obliged to go to bed,
when about three miles from the city, and lie there for a couple of
hours. But I feel well, very well now; and have some good news to
tell you. But where is Anna?"
"She has just come in, and gone up to her chamber. I do not think
her at all well to-night," Mary said.
"Poor girl! She is sacrificing herself for the good of others,"
Alfred remarked, with tenderness and interest.
"Shall I call her down?" Mary asked.
"O, yes,--by all means."
Mary went up and found her sister lying across the bed, with her
face buried in a pillow.
"Anna! Anna!" she said, taking hold of her and shaking her gently.
Anna immediately arose, and looking wildly around her, muttered
something that her sister could not comprehend.
"Anna, brother's come home."
But she did not seem to comprehend her meaning.
The glaring brightness of Anna's eyes, and her flushed cheeks,
convinced Mary that all was not right. Stepping to the head of the
stairs, she called to Alfred, who instantly came up.
"Here is Alfred, Anna," she said, as she re-entered the chamber,
accompanied by her brother.
For a moment or two, Anna looked upon him with a vacant stare, and
then closing her eyes, sunk back upon the bed, murmuring
"It is all over--all over."
"What is all over, Anna?" her sister asked.
"What is all over?" the sick girl responded, in a sharp, quick tone,
rising suddenly, and staring at Mary with a fixed look. "Why, it's
all over with him! Havn't I drained my heart's blood for him? Havn't
I stood all day at the counter for his sake, when I felt that I was
dying? But it's all over now! He is lost, and I shall soon be out of
this troublesome world!"
And then the poor half-conscious girl, covered her face with her
hands and sobbed aloud.
"Don't do so, dear sister!" Alfred said, pressing up to the bedside,
and drawing his arm around her. "Don't give way so! You won't have
to stand at the counter any longer. I am Alfred--your brother--your
long lost, but restored brother, who will care for you and work for
you as you have so long cared for and worked for him. Take courage,
dear sister! There are better and happier days for you. Do not give
up now, at the very moment when relief is at hand."
Anna looked her brother in the face for a few moments, steadily, as
her bewildered senses gradually returned, and she began to
comprehend truly what he said, and that it was indeed her brother
who stood thus before her, and thus appealed to her with
affectionate earnestness.
"O, Alfred," the almost heart-broken creature, said--as she bent
forward, and leaned her head upon his bosom--"Heaven be praised, if
you are really and truly in earnest in what you say!"
"I am most solemnly in earnest, dear sister!" the young man said,
with fervency and emphasis. "Since I saw you this morning, I have
signed my name to the total abstinence pledge, and I will die before
that pledge shall be broken! And that is not all. I met Charles
Williams immediately after that act, and have had a long interview
with him. He confessed to me that he had often felt that he was much
to blame for having first introduced me into dissipated company, and
that he now desired to aid me in reforming and assisting my mother
and sisters, if I would only try and abandon my past evil courses. I
responded most gladly to his generous interest, and he then told me,
that if I would enter his and his father's store as a clerk, he
would make my salary at once a thousand dollars per annum. Of course
I assented to the arrangement with thankfulness. Dear mother! Dear
sisters! There is yet, I trust, a brighter day in store for you."
"May our Heavenly Father cause these good resolutions to abide for
ever, my son!" Mrs. Graham, who had followed her children up stairs,
said, with tearful earnestness.
"He will cause them to abide, mother, I know that he, will," Alfred
replied.
Just at that moment some one entered below--immediately after quick
feet ascended the stairs, and Ellen bounded into the room.
"O, I have such good news to tell!" she exclaimed, panting for
breath as she entered. "My husband has joined the reformers! I felt
so glad that I had to run over and let you know. O, aint it good
news, indeed!" And the poor creature clapped her hands together in
an ecstacy of delight.
"It is truly good news, my child," Mrs. Graham said, as she drew her
arm about the neck of Ellen. "And we too have glad tidings. Alfred
has joined them also, and has got a situation at a thousand dollars
a year."
Ellen, who had always loved her brother, tenderly, notwithstanding
his vile habit of life, turned quickly towards him, and flinging her
arms about his neck, said while the tears gushed from her eyes,
"Dear brother! I have never wholly despaired of this hour. Truly, my
cup of joy is full and running over!"
It was about eleven o'clock on the next day, as Mary and her mother
sat conversing by the side of the bed upon which lay Anna, now too
ill to sit up, that a knock was heard below. Mrs. Graham went down
and opened the door, when an elegantly dressed lady entered, calling
her by name as she did so, at the same time asking for Anna and
Mary.
She was shown up stairs by the mother, who did not recognise her,
although both voice and face seemed familiar. On entering the
chamber, Mary turned to her and exclaimed--
"Mary Williams! Is it possible!"
"And Mary Graham, is it indeed possible that I see you
thus!"--(kissing her)" And Anna--is that pale, worn face, the face of
my old friend and companion, Anna Graham?" And she bent down over
the bed and kissed the lips and cheek of the sick girl, tenderly,
while her eyes grew dim with tears. "How changed in a few short
years!" she added, as she took a proffered chair. "Who could have
dreamed, seven years ago, that we should ever meet thus!"
In a short time, as the first shock and surprise of meeting passed
off, Mary Williams, or rather Mrs. Harwood, entered into a serious
conversation with Mrs. Graham, and her daughters, in reference to
the past, the present, and the future. After learning all that she
could of their history since their father's failure, which was
detailed without disguise by Mary--Anna was too feeble to
converse--Mrs. Harwood turned to Mary and asked suddenly--
"Do you know this cape, Mary?" alluding to one she had on.
"O, yes--very well."
"You worked it, did you not?"
"Yes."
"For what price?"
"Two dollars."
"Is it possible! I bought it of Mrs.--for French, and paid her for
it fifteen dollars."
"Fifteen dollars!" ejaculated Mary, in surprise. "How shamefully
that woman has imposed upon me! During the last two years, I have
worked at least one hundred capes for her, each of which brought me
in only two dollars. No doubt she has regularly sold them for French
goods, at from ten to fifteen dollars apiece."
"No doubt of it. I, myself, have bought several from her during that
time at high prices, all of which may have been worked by you. I saw
you in her store a few days ago, but did not recognise you, although
your appearance, as it did several times here before, attracted my
attention. I had my suspicions, after I had learned from Mrs.--who
you were, that you had wrought this cape, and from having overheard
you ask her for an advance of six dollars, as the price of three
capes, was pretty well satisfied that two dollars was all you
received for it. I at once determined to seek you out, and try to
aid you in your severe struggle with the world. It was only last
evening that I learned from my brother where you lived--and I also
learned, what rejoiced my heart, that there was about occurring a
favourable change in your circumstances. If, however, your health
should permit, and your inclination prompt you to do so, I will take
care that you get a much better price for any capes that you may
hereafter work. They are richly worth ten and twelve dollars apiece,
and at that price, I have no doubt but that I can get sales for
many."
"Bless you, Mary! Bless you!" Anna said, smiling through gushing
tears, as she rose up in the bed, and bent over towards her old
friend and companion. "Your words have fallen upon my heart like a
healing balsam!"
Mrs. Harwood came forward, and received the head of Anna upon her
bosom, while she drew an arm round her waist, and bent down and
pressed her with tenderness and affection.
A better day had truly dawned upon this ruined and deeply afflicted
family. Mrs. Harwood and her brother continued to be their steady
friends. For a year Alfred remained in his new situation as an
efficient clerk, and at the end of that time had his salary
advanced. During that period, Mary, and Anna, whose health had
become measurably restored, employed all their spare time in
embroidery, which, at the excellent prices which, through the aid of
Mrs. Harwood, they were enabled to get for their really beautiful
work, brought in a handsome addition to their brother's earnings,
and this enabled them to live in independence, comfort and
respectability. As for Ellen, her husband had become truly a
reformed man, and provided for her comfortably.
It is now nearly two years since this happy change took place, and
there is every appearance that another and a still happier one is
about to occur in reference to Anna. Charles Williams is seen very
often, of late, riding out with her and attending her to public
places. The reader can easily guess the probable result. If there;
is not a wedding-party soon, then appearances, in this case at
least, are very deceptive.