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BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
AUTHOR OF “THE GOLD BRICK,” “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE OLD HOMESTEAD,” “THE REJECTED WIFE,” “THE HEIRESS,” “WIFE’S SECRET,” “SILENT STRUGGLES.”
Philadelphia:
T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Southern District of New York.
God help the poor who have ever known the refinements
of comfort! God help that little family, for it
had been driven first from comfortable apartments,
where many a tasteful object had rendered home cheerful,
to the garret rooms of a poor house in one of the
most neglected streets of Philadelphia. Upward, from
story to story, those helpless ones had been forced by
that hard task master poverty, till they found shelter at
last under the very roof. Their attic had only one
window, a small dormer one, which looked out upon
stacks of chimneys, grouped like black sentinels huddled
over uneven roofs, and down upon yards full of broken
barrels, old fragments of sheet-iron, scraps of oil-cloth,
piles of brick and broken stoves, rusted lengths of refuse
pipe, and all the odds and ends which scores of poverty-stricken
families had cast forth from their dwellings.
Above these, from window to window, swinging high in
the wind, lines, heavy with wet clothes, were fluttering
dismally, giving forth a sudden rush of sound now
22and then like broken-winged birds making wild efforts
to fly.
This was the scene upon which that quiet old woman
looked, as she sat in a low chair close by the window.
Not a scrap of green—not a tree-bough broke the coarse
monotony when her eyes turned earthward. But it was
near sunset, and over the house-tops came a flood of
burning light, bronzing the chimneys and scattering
rich scintillations of gold on the roofs; and this poor
old woman smiled thoughtfully as she saw it, praising
God in her heart that he gave the glory of sunset and
of the dawn alike to the poor and the rich. She was a
plain, simple, pleasant-faced old woman, with a cap of
soft, white muslin, harmonizing sweetly with the hair
folded back from her forehead, white as snow, and soft
as floss silk. Her dress, an old brown merino, had been
darned and patched, and turned in all its breadths more
than once; but it was so neat and fitted her dainty old
figure so perfectly, that you could not help admiring it.
Over this she wore an old-fashioned kerchief, cut from
some linen garment, which lay in folds across her
bosom, like the marble drapery sculptured around a
statue.
The old woman had her spectacles on, and her withered
fingers were busy with a child’s shoe. They trembled
a good deal, and seemed scarcely able to force her
needle through the tough leather, which broke away
from her stitches with crisp obstinacy. Still she toiled
on, striving to close a great rent in the side of the shoe,
till a stronger pull at the thread tore the leather half
across the instep, and rendered her task utterly hopeless.
That good old creature dropped the shoe to her
23lap, sighed heavily, and, turning her eyes on the sunset,
softened into patient composure.
Just then two boys, the elder ten, the younger, perhaps,
seven years of age, came into the room very softly—for
those bare feet made no noise on the floor—each
carrying a quantity of freshly-opened oyster-shells in
his arms. The two children sat down in a corner of the
room, and began to sort over the shells with eager
haste.
“Here is one—here is one!” whispered the elder boy;
“not so very small either. Get me a knife.”
The little fellow went to a pine table close by, took a
broken case-knife from the drawer, and ran back with
it to his brother, who held a huge oyster-shell in his
hand, to which was attached a tolerably sized oyster
still unopened. The elder boy snatched at the knife,
beat the oyster open, and, pressing the shell back, lifted
it greedily toward his lips; but when he caught the
wistful look of his half-famished brother, the generous
child withdrew the morsel slowly from his mouth, and
gave it up to the two little, eager hands held forth to
receive it. The moment his fingers closed on the shell,
this little hero sprang away with it to his grandmother’s
side.
“Here, grandma, grandma! take it quick—take it
quick!” he cried, breathless, with a spirit of self-sacrifice
that might have honored a strong man.
The grandmother turned her mild, brown eyes on the
little, famished face uplifted so eagerly to hers, and,
understanding all the heroism expressed there, gently
shook her head, while a sweet, patient smile crept around
her lips.
24“Eat it yourself, Joseph,” she said, patting him on
the shoulder with her withered hand. “There is only a
mouthful, and you are the youngest.”
“No, no, grandma! It is for you—for you.”
“Hollo, I have found another, two, three—one apiece;
and another left for Anna, when she comes in. Eat
away, grandma, there is enough for all. That man who
keeps the stand at the corner is a famous fellow; he
threw them in, I’ll be bound.”
Little Joseph thrust the open oyster into his grandmother’s
hand, cut a caper with his bare feet, and rushed
back to the pile of shells in hot haste.
“Save the biggest for Anna,” he shouted; “don’t
touch that.”
With that the two children huddled themselves down
among the shells; and Robert, the elder, opened the
two oysters that fell to their portion with great ostentation,
as if he delighted in prolonging his pleasure by
anticipation.
“Now,” he said, “eat slow and get the whole taste.
It isn’t every day that we get a treat like this.”
Joseph did his best to obey, but the greed of protracted
hunger made short work with his morsel. Still
he smacked his lips and made motions with his mouth,
as if enjoying the treat long after it was devoured.
“Now,” said Robert, “let’s build a bridge across the
hearth; or a railroad, or something worth while.”
“A bridge—a pontoon bridge, such as Anna told us
of when father’s regiment crossed that river. Every
oyster-shell shall be a boat, and the hearth shall be a
river; and—and—but there comes Anna, walking so
tired, I know it by her step. Open that other oyster,
25Robert, for she hasn’t tasted a mouthful since yesterday;
be quick.”
Robert seized his knife, and was using it vigorously
when his sister Anna came in, pale, weary, and so dispirited,
that the heaviness of utter despair seemed upon
her.
“Oh, grandmother! she is not at home. I have not
been able to collect one cent. What shall we do?”
The young girl flung herself on a chair by the table,
and, covering her face, began to cry very noiselessly, but
in the deep bitterness of distress. “Not one cent, grandma,
and I worked so hard.”
The old lady arose from her place by the window,
where the sunset had kindled up her meek face like a
picture, and went quietly up to the weeping girl.
“Don’t cry, Anna,” she said, smoothing the hair back
from her granddaughter’s forehead. “We have all had
a little of something; and to-morrow will be a new day.
I suppose the lady is busy about the fair.”
“But I had depended on it so thoroughly,” sobbed
the girl, looking drearily at the oyster-shells scattered
on the hearth. “I had promised the boys such a supper,
and now all is emptiness; their poor, bare feet, how
cold they look!”
“But we are not cold, we rather like it,” cried
Robert, forcing a laugh through the tears that quivered
in his voice. “Arn’t we learning to be tough against
the time that drummer-boys will be wanted?”
Anna smiled so drearily that Robert had no heart to
go on. The old lady bent over her granddaughter and
asked, in a whisper, if any thing else had happened.
Anna was not a girl to give way like that for a single
26disappointment, dark as the hour was for them; and the
old woman knew it.
“There has been a battle. Extras are out, but I had
no money to buy one,” Anna replied, in a broken whisper.
“He may be dead!”
“No, no; don’t say that,” pleaded the old woman,
retreating to her chair. “God help us! We could not
bear it!”
Robert listened keenly; the knife dropped from his
hand; his very lips were white. He crept toward the
door and darted down stairs. Flight after flight he descended
at a sharp run, and then dashed into the street.
No newsboy ever hoped for custom in that neighborhood;
but around a far distant corner he saw one passing
with a bundle of papers under his arm. With the
speed of a deer Robert leaped along the pavement,
shouting after the newsboy as he went. His cry, so
shrill and desperate, arrested the lad, who paused for
his customer to come up.
“Oh I give me a paper!—give me a paper! My father
was in the battle!” cried Robert, shaking from head to
foot under the force of his anxiety.
“All right,” answered the sharp boy—“all right; ten
cents, and hurry up.”
“I haven’t got the money; but my father was in the
battle, and my sister is breaking her heart to know——”
“Hand over a five, then, and be quick.”
“I haven’t got a single cent; but my father is a
soldier.”
“Nary a red, ha! and keeping me like this. Oh! you
get out. Business is business, and sogers is sogers; a
fellow can’t let his heart wear holes in his jacket.”
27“But I want it so—I want it so.”
The boy tore himself away from Robert’s feeble grasp,
and went on shouting lustily for new customers, leaving
the soldier’s son shivering in the street, his eyes full of
tears, and his heart aching with pain. Robert stood a
moment looking wistfully at the newspapers flitting
away from him, and in his disappointment formed a new
resolution.
When his sister went out that morning, she had mentioned
the name and address of a lady, celebrated for
her energy in all charitable associations, and who was
now the leading spirit of a grand fair for the benefit of
the soldiers, which was soon to occupy fashionable
attention.
This lady might be at home. She owed his sister
money for fancy articles made up for this fair. He
would go and ask for enough to give them food; at any
rate, to get a paper, which might tell how bravely his
father’s regiment had fought.
Again the boy started off at a rapid run, and now his
course lay toward that part of the city which seems so
far lifted above all the cares and privations of life that
it is little wonder the poor are filled with envy when
they creep out of their alleys and garrets to behold its
splendor. They little know how many cares and heartaches
may be found even in this favored quarter; and
it is not remarkable that the outward contrast presented
to them should often engender bitter feelings, and even
intense hatred.
The boy had none of these thoughts. He was only
eager to get food for those he loved, and hear news that
might bring smiles back to the lovely face of his sister.
28He was naturally sensitive, and not long ago his father
had been among the most prosperous and respectable
of the working classes. At another time his naked feet
and worn cap, which but half concealed the bright waves
of his hair, might have checked his ardor, and sent him
cowering back to the concealment of his garret-home.
Now he forgot the chill that penetrated his feet from
the cold pavement, and went on his way, resolute to save
his sister from the sorrow that had wounded him to the
heart.
“She hates to ask these grand people for her money,”
he thought. “I will do it for her. It is a man’s place
to take the brunt; and when father is fighting for his
country, I must try to be man enough to act as he did.”
With these thoughts, Robert mounted the marble steps
of a spacious white mansion, whose walls were like petrified
snow, and whose windows were each a broad sheet of
crystal limpid as water. Robert’s cold feet left their
tracks on the pure marble, as he mounted the steps, and
his little hand drew the silver knob with breathless terror
when he rang the bell.
A mulatto servant opened the door, saw the lad shivering
outside the vestibule, and drew back in a fit of
sublime indignation.
“How dare you? What brings you here?” he exclaimed,
eyeing the lad with august scorn. “This is no
place for vagrants or beggar-boys——”
“I—I am not a beggar-boy; and I don’t think I am
the other thing. If you please, I want to see the lady,”
said the boy, resolutely.
“The lady! What lady can you have any thing to
do with?” demanded the servant.
29“Mrs. Savage, I think that is her name.”
“Who told you that? What do you want of Mrs.
Savage?”
“I want some money.”
“Yes, I thought as much. Now tramp, I tell you;
and next time you come to a gentleman’s house, learn to
go to the back gate.”
“But no, no; pray don’t shut the door. My sister
has done work for the lady, and——”
“Very likely. Mrs. Savage is very likely to owe
money to any one. My young friend your story is getting
richer and richer. She owe you money, indeed!”
“Indeed—indeed she does.”
“There, there, get out of the way. Don’t you see the
young gentleman coming up the steps? Make off with
yourself!”
Robert turned, and saw a handsome young man spring
out of one of those light wagons sometimes used for
riding, in which was a pair of fiery young horses, black
as jet, and specked about the chest with flashes of foam.
He flung the reins to a groom as he stepped to the pavement
and mounted the steps, smiling cheerfully, as if
his drive had been a pleasant one.
“What is this? Stop a moment, my boy,” said the
young man, as Robert passed him on the steps with
angry shame burning in his face. “Did you want any
thing? Money to buy shoes with, perhaps; here—here.”
The young man took out his porte-monnaie, and selecting
a bank-note from its contents, handed it to the
boy.
30“No, sir—no, sir. I did not come to beg; though he
says I did,” cried the boy, with tears in his eyes.
“Then what did you come for, my boy?”
“The lady in yonder hired my sister to do some work
for a fair, and it is that I come about. We need the
money so much; and Anna is ashamed to ask for it.
She would rather go hungry.”
“What, my mother owes money to a working-girl,
who hesitates to ask for it!—that must be from mistake
or forgetfulness. Is Mrs. Savage at home, Jared?”
“No, sir,” answered the servant. “She is with the
committee, and will be till late.”
The young man turned to Robert again. The boy
was watching him with wistful attention. Tears stood
in those large blue eyes, and under its glow of new-born
hope the face was beautiful. No beggar-boy, immortalized
by Murillo, was ever more striking. Young Savage
had a kind heart, but his tastes were peculiarly fastidious;
and it is doubtful if a common boy, with bare feet
and poverty-stricken clothes, could have kept him so
long on those marble steps.
“Come,” he said, bending a kindly glance on the lad,
“if your home is not far from here, I will go with you
and settle this matter.”
The lad hesitated, and cast down his eyes. He was
ashamed to take this elegant gentleman into his home,
or that his beautiful sister should be found in that place.
Young Savage mistook this hesitation for a less worthy
feeling. “The boy is a little impostor,” he said to himself.
“He has seen my mother go out, and hopes to
obtain something by this ridiculous claim. I will unearth
the little fox!”
31“Come, come,” he said, laughing lightly, “show me
the way.”
Robert was a sharp lad, and read something of the
truth in that handsome face. He turned at once and
went down the steps. Savage followed him, interested
in spite of himself, and half amused at the idea of ferreting
out a deception. Robert did not speak, but
looked back, now and then, as he turned a corner, to be
sure that the gentleman was following him. The face
of young Savage grew more and more serious, as he
passed deeper into the neighborhood where low shanties,
and high, barren-looking tenement-houses were crowded
together. He passed whole families huddled together
in the entrance to some damp basement, cold as it was,
craving the fresh air that could not be found within.
Groups of reckless children, happy in spite of their visible
destitution, were playing in the twilight, which filled
the poverty of the street with a golden haze, such as
heaven alone lends to the poor. The sight pained him,
and he grew thoughtful.
“Here is the place, sir,” said Robert, pausing at the
door of a tall, bleak building, crowded full of windows
that turned coldly to the north. “If you please, I will
run up first and tell them you are coming.”
“No, no, that will never do,” answered Savage. “I
shall lose my way along this railway of stairs.”
Robert saw that he was still suspected, and began to
mount the stairs without a pretext. Up and up he went,
followed by the young man, till they reached a place
where the stairs gave out, and they stood directly under
the roof.
“Here is the room, sir,” said Robert, gently opening
32a door, and revealing a picture within the little apartment
which arrested young Savage where he stood. This was
the picture.
A young girl with raven black hair, so black that a
purplish bloom lay on its ripples, stood upon the
hearth, stooping over a delicate little boy, whose meagre
white face was uplifted to hers with a piteous look of
suffering. An old woman, in a low, easy-chair, sat close
by the child, who huddled himself against her knees, and
clung to her garments as if he had been pleading for
something. In the background was a lead-colored mantle-piece,
a hollow fireplace, and a few half extinguished
embers dying out in a bed of ashes. It was a gloomy
picture, yet not without warmth and beauty; for the
dying sunbeams came through the window, goldenly as
an artist would have thrown them on canvas; and the
pure, delicate face of the child was like a head of St.
John. Never on this earth did human genius embody
a more lovely idea of the Madonna than Anna Burns
made, with her worn dress of crimson merino, her narrow
collar and cuffs of white linen standing out warmly from
the sombre brown of the grandmother’s dress.
Savage unconsciously lifted the hat from his head, and
stood upon the threshold struck with a sort of reverence.
Anna was speaking to the child, and did not observe
him, or her brother. Her voice, saddened by grief, fell
upon his ear with a pathos that thrilled him.
“Wait a little—only a little while, darling,” she said.
“Don’t plead so, I will go again. You shall have something
to eat, if I beg for it in the street, only do not look
at me so.”
“But I am so hungry,” pleaded the child.
33“I know it—I know it! Oh, grandma! what can I
do?”
She changed her position, then, and wringing her
hands, went to the window, thus breaking up the picture,
and sobbing piteously.
Young Savage entered the room, then, reverently, as
if he were passing by a shrine.
“Madam—young lady, I have come from—from my
mother.”
Anna turned, and saw this strange young man standing
before her, with his head uncovered, and his handsome
face beaming with generous emotion. She hastily
brushed the tears from her eyes, and, unconsciously,
smoothed her hair with one hand, ashamed of the disorder
into which her grief had thrown it.
“My name is Savage,” continued the young man,
while a faint smile quivered over his lips, as he observed
this little feminine movement. “I met this boy, your
brother, I think. I—I wish to settle my mother’s account.
Pray tell me how much it is?”
“I beg pardon. I am very, very sorry to trouble any
one so much. Indeed——”
“She didn’t do it. I went on my own hook,” broke
in Robert, who came forward with a glow on his face.
“She considers it begging to ask for her own, but I
don’t.”
“That is right, my good fellow,” answered Savage.
“Business should be left to men. You and I can settle
this little affair.”
“No, that is not necessary,” said Anna, smiling.
“It is so small a sum that a word settles it. Only I
34should like your mother to know how thankful I am to
her for giving us something to do.”
“Will this be enough?” said the young man, placing
a ten dollar note upon the window-sill.
“Half of that—half of that, sir; but I have no
change.”
The young man blushed.
“You can give it me some other time, perhaps.”
“I’ll run and get it changed,” broke in Robert.
Anna handed him the bank-note.
“No, no! I insist!” said Savage, earnestly. “There
is no need of change. My mother—in fact I want more
work done. Let your brother come to me in the morning;
I shall have ever so many handkerchiefs to mark
with initial letters, which I am sure you embroider
daintily. Besides, I have a fancy to make my mother
a present of one of those worsted shawls—all lace-work
and bright colors—such as nice old ladies can knit
without injury to the eyesight. I dare say you could
do that sort of thing, madam?”
“Oh, yes!” answered the old lady, brightening visibly.
“If I only had the worsted to begin with, and
needles, and——”
“That is just what I leave the extra five dollars for.
Robert, remember, that is for grandma to begin her
work with. It would so oblige me, madam, if you could
have the shawl done by Christmas.”
The old lady broke into a pleasant little laugh. Little
Joseph, who had been listening greedily, pulled at her
dress and whispered:
“Grandma! Grandma! Can I have something now?”
“Yes, dear, yes! only wait a minute.”
35“But I am tired of waiting, grandma.”
“Hush, darling, hush!”
Joseph nestled down to his old place, and, half hidden
by his grandma’s garments, watched the stranger
with his great, bright eyes, eager to have him gone.
The young man saw something of this; but he had
never in his life encountered absolute want, and could
not entirely comprehend its cravings.
“Let us see about the colors,” he said, approaching
the grandmother. “White, with a scarlet border, just a
pretty fleece of soft, bright wool turned into lace.”
“I know, I know!” said the old woman, nodding
pleasantly. “You shall see; you shall see.”
“Now, that this is settled,” said the young man, balancing
his hat in one hand with hesitation, “we must
have a consultation, my mother and I, about providing
something a little more permanent.”
“You are kind, very kind, sir,” said the old lady,
smoothing the kerchief over her bosom, with a soft
sweep of both hands. “When my son comes home
from the war, he will thank you. Anna, there, don’t
exactly know how to do it; and I am an old-fashioned
lady, fast turning back to my place among the children;
but my son, her father, you know, is a very smart man.”
“And brave as a lion,” shouted little Joseph, from
behind the shelter of his grandmother’s garments.
“Hurra! so he is! They made him a corporal the
first thing they did. By-and-by he’s going to be a lieutenant.
Then, won’t we live! Well, I reckon not; oh,
no!” responded the larger boy.
“Robert! Robert!” said the sister, in gentle reproof.
“I couldn’t help it, Anna; can’t for the life of me.
Beg the gentleman’s pardon all the same, though.”
36“Don’t ask pardons of me. I rather like it, my fine
fellow,” answered Savage. “But there has been a great
battle; I hope no bad news has reached you!”
“I do not know. That is what makes us so anxious.
If I could but see a paper.”
“Go and get one this moment,” said Savage, thrusting
some currency into Robert’s hand.
The boy darted off like an arrow; they could hardly
hear his feet touch the stairs. Directly he came back
again, breathless and pale, with the paper open in his
hand, which he searched eagerly for news.
“They have been in the midst of it,” he cried. “The
regiment is all cut up; but I don’t see his name in the
list. Dear, how I wish the paper would hold still.
Anna, you try.” The girl held out her hand, but it
shook like an aspen leaf; and Savage took the paper.
“What is your father’s name?” he inquired.
“Robert Burns.”
“I’m named after him, I am,” cried Robert, with an
outburst of pride.
Savage ran his eyes hastily down the list of killed.
The old woman left her chair and crept toward him,
white and still; while little Joseph crept after, forgetting
his hunger in the general interest. No one spoke;
there was not a full breath drawn. Savage looked up
from the paper, and saw those wild, questioning eyes,
those white faces, turned upon him with an intensity
that made his heart swell.
“His name is not here,” he said.
Dry sobs broke from the women; but Robert shouted
out, “Glory! glory!” And little Joseph laughed,
clapping his pale hands.
37“But the wounded,” whispered Anna; “look there.”
“All right, so far,” answered Savage, running his
eyes rapidly down the list. “There is no Burns here.”
The old woman dropped into her chair, and gathering
little Joseph to her bosom, covered his face with gentle
kisses; while Robert half strangled his sister with
caresses, and shook hands vigorously with Mr. Savage,
who was rather astonished to find his eyes full of tears,
which threw the whole room into a haze.
“Don’t forget to come in the morning,” he said, turning
toward the door.
“Of course I wont,” answered the boy, following his
new friend into the passage; “but that yellow chap, will
he let me in?”
“Come and see. But, Robert, I say, you and I must
be friends—fast friends, you know.”
“Yes, when we know each other through and through.
But I’m in charge here when father’s gone, and haven’t
much time for anything else. Good-by, sir; I’ll be on
hand in the morning.”
Savage went away, with his mind and heart full of the
scene he had just witnessed. How poor they were?
What barren destitution surrounded those two women:
yet, how lady-like they seemed. There was nothing in
their poverty to revolt his taste, fastidious as it was.
Neat and orderly poverty carried a certain dignity with
it. He thoroughly respected these two women; their
condition appealed to every manly feeling in his nature.
Though distrustful from habit and education, he had
faith in them, and went home full of generous impulses,
wondering how he could do them good. Meantime,
Robert went back to the room, radiant.
38“Here,” he said, thrusting a bun into Joseph’s hand,
“break it in two, and give grandma half; Anna and I
will wait awhile. Here is the money, sister; I got it
changed at the baker’s, where they wouldn’t trust us a
loaf yesterday. You didn’t know it, but I asked ’em.
Didn’t their eyes open when I took out that bill. How
does the bun taste, Josey? Why, if the fellow hasn’t
finished up his half already. Here, give me back some
of that money; I’m off for a supper. There is three
sticks of wood in the closet, and a little charcoal; just
throw them on the fire, and let ’em blaze away; who
cares for the expense! Hurra!”
Away the boy went, bounding down the stairs like a
young deer, leaving Anna and the grandmother in a
state of unusual cheerfulness. They raked up the embers
into a little glowing pile, crossed the wood over
them, and filled the tea-kettle as a pleasant preliminary.
The hearth, clean and cold before, was swept again;
and as the darkness closed in, the end of a candle was
brought forth and lighted, revealing the desolate room
in gleams of dull light, that struggled hard against the
shadows.
“How pleasant it is,” murmured the old lady, leaning
toward the fire, and rubbing her withered hands over
each other. “See, darling, how the firelight dances on
the hearth. Hark, now! the kettle is beginning to sing!
That means supper, Joseph.”
“Are you hungry, grandma?” asked the boy, looking
up to that kind, old face.
“Yes, dear, a little.”
“But you wouldn’t eat a bit of the bun.”
“That was because I liked to see you eat it.”
39“Oh, how nice it was! When will Robert come back
with more?”
“Here I am!” cried Robert, dashing against the door,
and forcing it open with his foot. “Here I am, with
lots of good things. There’s a ring of sausages. Here’s
bread and butter, and a little tea for grandma, bless her
darling old heart; and just one slice of sponge-cake for
Anna—cake is awful dear now, or I’d have got enough
to treat all round. There’s a paper of sugar, and—and
here they go all on the table at once! Sort ’em out,
Anna, while I run for a pint of milk, and an apple to
roast for grandma. I forgot that. How she does like
roasted apples. Get out the frying-pan, and bustle
about, all of you. Isn’t that young Mr. Savage a splendid
fellow? How I’d like to be a drummer-boy in his regiment.
Hurry up, Anna, I’m after the milk!”
Away the boy went again, with a little earthen pitcher
in his hands, happy as a lark.
Anna Burns brought forth the frying-pan, placed the
links of sausages in it, and surrendered them to grandma,
who smiled gently on little Joseph as they began to
crisp, and swell, and send forth an appetizing flavor into
the room. The kettle, too, sent forth gushes of warm
steam, hissing and singing like some riotous, living thing
held in bondage. Altogether, the little room grew
warmer and pleasanter every moment; and the bright
face of Anna Burns grew radiant as she moved about it,
setting out the table with a few articles of China left
from their former comfortable opulence, and spreading
it with a tablecloth of fine damask, so worn and thin,
that the pawnbrokers had rejected it.
“Here we go!” cried Robert, coming in with the milk.
40“Hurra! all ready, and the sausages hissing! That’s
the time o’ day! Just get down that China teapot,
Anna, and let grandma make the tea. There, Joe, is an
apple for you; I reckon you can eat it without roasting.
I’ll put one down for grandma. Don’t she look jolly,
with the firelight dancing over her? Come, now, all’s
ready; bring up the chairs, Josey, that’s your part of
the job.”
Little Joseph fell to work with great spirit, and
dragged up the chairs, while Anna was dishing the sausages
and cutting the bread. Then the old woman drew
up to her place nearest the fire, with the teapot before
her, ready to do the honors; and, with her hands folded
in meek thankfulness on the table, asked a blessing on
the only food they had tasted in two days.
Well, God did bless that food, common as it was; and
no Roman feast, where libations were poured out to
heathen gods, ever tasted sweeter than this humble meal.
There was quite a jubilee about that little, pine table;
and the old lady, who sat smiling over her teacup, was
by no means the least joyous of the little party. As
for Robert, he came out famously; talked of the brave
exploits his father must have performed in battle; told
stories; got up once or twice to kiss his grandmother;
and, altogether, behaved in a very undignified manner
for the head of a family, as he proudly proclaimed himself.
Even little Joseph came out of his natural timidity,
and burst into shouts of childish laughter more
than once, when Robert became unusually funny. And
as for Anna, she laughed, and smiled, and talked that
evening, till the boys fairly left their half-empty plates
to climb on her chair and caress her. That happy supper,
41and the pleasant evening that followed, was enough
to reconcile one with poverty, which, after all, is not the
greatest evil on earth.
CHAPTER II. PREPARING FOR THE FAIR.
Young Savage went up those marble steps with a
light heart and a generous purpose. He would befriend
this unfortunate family. His mother should help him.
That girl, with the bright, brunette face, was too beautiful
for her friendless condition, and the burden of those
three helpless creatures who depended on her. He
could not get her picture, as she stood by the fireplace,
out of his mind.
“Where is my mother?” he inquired of the servant,
passing him at the door with a light step.
“Up in her own room, sir. She has just come in.”
Horace made his way up stairs, and entered one of
the most luxurious rooms of the noble mansion, in
which his mother was sitting, or, rather, lying, with her
elbow buried in the satin pillows of a crimson couch,
and her foot pressed hard upon an embroidered ottoman.
Horace opened the door without noise, and walking
across a carpet soft as moss, sat down on the foot of his
mother’s couch.
She was a handsome woman, this Mrs. Savage—large,
tall, and commanding. It was easy to see where the
42young man got those fine, grey eyes, and brilliant complexion.
“Oh, Horace! I am glad you have come! Such a
day as I have gone through!” cried the lady, fluttering
the white ribbons of her pretty dress cap, by the despairing
shake of her head. “Upon my word, I think
those women will be the death of me; such selfishness!
such egotism!”
“It must be very tiresome; but then I sometimes
think you like to be tired out on such occasions,
mother.”
“But the cause, Horace, the great cause of humanity.
These poor soldiers toiling in the field, suffering, dying—and
their families. It is enough to break one’s
heart.”
Horace looked at his mother in her costly dress,
trimmed half way up the skirt with velvet, and lace, and
fancy buttons, the cost of which would have fed old
Mrs. Burns for a twelvemonth; and, for the first time
in his life, a faint idea of her inconsistency broke upon
his filial blindness. The very point-lace of her tiny cap
would have given a month of tolerable comfort to the
soldier’s orphans. Yet, with all this wanton finery fluttering
about her, the woman really thought herself a
most charitable person, and mourned the dead and
wounded over each battle right regally, under moire
antique rippled with light, like a cloud in a thunderstorm,
at a cost of some ten dollars per yard.
“But it is of no use dwelling on that part of the subject;
the proper course is to find a remedy, which we
have done in this fair. I tell you, Horace, the country
can produce nothing like it. It will be superb. The
43only trouble is about the tableaux. Every lady of the
committee has some commonplace daughter that she
insists on crowding into the foreground. Thank heaven,
I have no daughter to push forward after this coarse
fashion. There is Mrs. Pope, now, insists that Amelia
shall stand as Rebecca, in the great Ivanhoe tableau,
when her eyes are a greenish-blue, and her hair a dull
brown; and I cannot reasonably object, for there is not
a passable brunette in the whole company. I was thinking
it over when you came in. The whole thing will be
spoiled for want of a proper heroine.”
“Who stands as Beatrice?” asked Horace, with the
animation of a new idea.
“Miss Eustice, of course.”
“Why, of course?”
“Because she is fair as a lily, blue-eyed, and so exquisitely
feminine; and for another reason.”
“What is that, mother?”
“You are to stand as Ivanhoe.”
Horace saw the way open by which his idea might be
worked out at once, and it must be confessed, dealt
rather artfully with his mother.
“Not with an ugly Rebecca, though. I could not
stand that.”
“But how can it be helped?”
“Mother, I saw by accident, this evening, the very
person you want—a soldier’s daughter, perfectly lady-like,
and very beautiful.”
“Of the right type of beauty? Would she make a
striking contrast to my favorite?” inquired Mrs. Savage,
eagerly.
“No contrast could be more decided.”
44“But who is she?”
“A soldier’s daughter!”
“But is she presentable? Has she style, education?”
“She has everything that goes to form a lovely woman,
I should say.”
“Where can I see her?”
“Perhaps she would come to you.”
“It is a bold step; but I can afford that. As my
protegé, they will not dare to ask questions. Where
does the girl live? Could I see her to-night, or early
in the morning? I am so weary now. Upon my word,
Horace, you have helped me out of a most annoying
dilemma. To-morrow morning, before breakfast, I
must see this person. What is her name?”
“Burns, mother—Anna Burns.”
“Thank you, Horace. Now, another thing. We
must have something national, patriotic, and all that.
A soldier’s family, for instance; but the dresses are so
plain and unbecoming, that our young ladies fight shy
of it. Could you manage something of the kind for me?”
Horace thought of the picture he had seen that night,
and answered that, perhaps, it would be possible, only
the whole thing must be managed with great delicacy;
and he, as a gentleman, must not be supposed to interfere
with it. His mother could write a little note to the
young person who had already done work for her.
“For me? Anna Burns? It must have been for the
committee. I remember no such person; but that will
be an opening. Is she to form part of this tableau,
also?”
“The principal figure.”
“And the rest?”
45“Two children, for instance, barefooted, hungry, and
in clothes only held together with constant mending.”
“Excellent.”
“And an old woman?”
“Better and better! Nice and picturesque, of course.”
“Neat and dainty, with the sweetest old face.”
“It will be perfect! Oh, Horace! what a treasure
you are to me. Now, turn down the gas, dear. You
have set my mind at rest, and I mean to go to sleep till
your father comes home. Here, just put my cap on that
marble Sappho, and don’t crush it. Doesn’t she look
lovely, the darling! like the ghost of a poetess coming
back to life? Now draw the curtains; give me a quiet
kiss, and go away to your club, or the opera, or anywhere.
Only be sure to have the girl here in time.”
Early the next morning, while Anna was dividing her
little store of money, and apportioning it toward the
payment of various small debts, she received a note,
asking her to call on Mrs. Savage at once, if quite convenient.
Anna was too grateful for delay. So, putting
on her shawl and a straw bonnet, kept neatly for great
occasions, she was on the marble steps, almost as soon
as the messenger who brought her note.
Mrs. Savage was taking a solitary breakfast in her
own room. The sunlight came in softly through the
lace curtains, as if trembling through flakes of snow,
and turned the waves of maize-colored damask, that
half enfolded them in, to a rich gold color.
Mrs. Savage was seated in a Turkish easy-chair, cushioned
with delicate blue, and spotted with the gold-work
of Damascus. She wore a morning dress of dove-colored
merino, and knots of pink ribbon gave lightness and
46bloom to her morning-cap of frost-like tulle. She looked
up as Anna entered the room, and her whole face
brightened. No peach ever had so rich a bloom as that
which broke over the girl’s cheek; no statue in her boudoir
could boast more perfect symmetry than that form.
Walter Scott had no finer ideal when he drew that masterpiece
of all his women, Rebecca.
“Come here, my child, and sit down close by me; I
want to look at you,” said the lady, beaming with satisfaction.
“You have been doing work for us, I hear.”
“Yes, madam,” answered Anna, with a grateful outburst,
“yes, madam; thank you for it.”
“Oh! it is nothing but our duty!” replied the lady,
forgetting to ask if the work had been paid for. “All
our efforts are in behalf of the poor soldiers’ families.
Now I want you to help us in another way.”
“I will—I will in any way!”
“We shall open the fair with tableaux—a room has
been built on purpose. Of course, the charge will be
extra; the pictures will be beautiful—you must stand
for two of them.”
“I, madam?”
“Certainly; for you are really beautiful. By the way,
have you breakfasted? Here is a cup of coffee; drink
it, while I talk to you.”
Anna took the cup of delicate Sevres china, and
drank its contents, standing by the table.
“You have a grandmother, or something of that sort,
I hear?” observed the lady.
“Oh, yes! the dearest in the world.”
“And some brothers?”
“Yes, madam!”
47“Picturesque, I am told; something like boys in the
pictures of that delicious old Spanish painter. We
must have them, too.”
“What! my brothers?”
“Yes, yes; and the old lady. That will be our grand
effort, and our secret, too. Not wanting outside help,
we can keep it for a surprise. Be ready when you are
called. I think they will come off on Monday. Never
mind the costumes; that dress will do very well for the
family tableau. As for Rebecca, I will take care of her.
My son says the boys and that old woman are perfect.
Don’t change them in the least; it would spoil every
thing. Oh! Mrs. Leeds, I am so glad to see you. Late
am I—the committee waiting?”
This last speech was made to a little dumpty lady,
who came fluttering into the room unannounced, with
both her hands held out, and an important look of business
in her face. The ladies kissed each other impressively;
then Mrs. Savage glided up to Anna and whispered,
“Run away now. She mustn’t get a good look at
you on any account. Don’t mind turning your back on
us. Good-morning. Remember, I depend on you as a
soldier’s daughter; it is your duty.”
Anna went out in some confusion, hardly knowing
whether she had been well received or not. Coming up
the broad staircase, she met young Savage, and he
stopped to speak with her.
“You have seen my mother?” he said, gently.
“Yes.”
“And will oblige her, I hope?”
“How can I refuse?”
48“That is generous. I thank you.”
“It is I who should give the thanks,” answered Anna
with a tremble of gratitude in her voice.
Horace smiled, and shook his head.
“I am afraid you will not let us do enough for any
claim to thanks,” he said. “But do not forget to send
that fine little fellow after my handkerchiefs. I shall
want them.”
Anna promised that Robert should be punctual, and
went away so happy, that the very air seemed to carry
her forward.
On the afternoon of the third day from that, close
upon evening, she stood in Mrs. Savage’s boudoir, again
contrasting its luxurious belongings with her simple
dress. Mrs. Savage was benign as ever. She had
driven her enemy out of the Ivanhoe tableau; and the
triumph filled her with exultation. From the boudoir
Anna was swept off to the temporary buildings erected
for the great fair, hurried through a labyrinth of festooned
arches, loaded tables, lemonade fountains, and
segar stands, into a dressing-room swarming with young
ladies, who took no more heed of her than if she had
been a lay-figure. Mrs. Savage was ubiquitous that
evening. She posed characters, arranged draperies,
grouped historical events, and exhibited wonderful
generalship; while Anna stood in a remote part of the
room, looking on anxious for the coming of her grandmother,
and the two boys, who were to find their own
way to the fair at a later hour.
The old lady came in at last with her hood on, and
wrapped in a soft, warm blanket-shawl, which some one,
she hadn’t the least idea who, had sent to her just before
49she started. Alone? no, indeed; she did not come alone.
Young Mr. Savage had happened to call in just as she
was ready, and offered to show her the way. He had
admired her shawl so much, and didn’t think the little
scarlet stripe at all too much for her, which she was
glad of; for it would be so much brighter for Anna
when they took turn and turn about wearing it. No,
no, it could not have been Mr. Savage who sent it, he
was so much surprised. The boys, oh! they were on
the way. Robert would take care of his brother, no
fear about that. But the fair, wasn’t it lovely? She
was so grateful to Mrs. Savage for thinking of her and
the boys; the very sight would drive them wild. Here
Anna was carried away from her grandmother, and
seized upon by two dressing-maids, who transformed her
into the most lovely Jewess that eyes ever beheld in less
than no time. Young Savage was called out from a
neighboring dressing-room, by his mother, to admire
her; and his superb dress seemed, like her own, a miracle.
The surprise and glory of it all gave her cheeks
the richness of ripe peaches, and her eyes were full of
shy joy. It seemed like fairy-land.
But the children, where were they? Amid all the excitement,
she found this question uppermost in her
heart. Poor little fellows! What if they got lost, or
failed to find an entrance to the fair? She whispered
these anxieties to Savage, who promptly took off his
costume and went in search of them, blaming himself a
little for having left them behind.
The little fellows were, indeed, rather in want of a
friend. They had been for days in a whirl of excitement
about the fair. More than once Robert had wandered
50off toward the building, and reconnoitered it on all
sides; he had caught glimpses of evergreens wreathed
with a world of flowers; had seen whole loads of toys
carried in, and made himself generally familiar with the
place. He had been very mournful when Mr. Savage
went off with his grandmother, and protested stoutly
that he could find the way for Joseph anywhere, and
would be on hand for the picture in plenty of time; and
to this end he set off about dusk, leading his little brother
by the hand, resolved to give him a wonderful treat
in the fair before the pictures came on, which he could
not understand, and was rather afraid of. So the two
hurried along, shabby and ill-clad as children could be,
but happy as lords, notwithstanding their naked feet.
It seemed to them as if they were going direct to Paradise,
where Anna and the old grandmother were expecting
them. They reached the entrance of the fair,
and were eagerly pressing in, when a man caught Robert
rudely by the shoulder, gave him a slightly vicious
shake, and demanded his ticket.
The ticket? mercy upon him! he had left it at home,
lying on the table. He wrung himself away from the harsh
hand pressed on his shoulder, and darted off, calling on
little Joseph to follow him. Joseph obeyed, crying all
the way with such sharp disappointment as only a sensitive
child can feel. Robert darted up stairs, and met
Joseph half way up with the ticket in his hand.
“Come,” he cried, brandishing it above his head;
“never say die! We’re time enough yet.”
But Joseph had been sorely disappointed once, and
was down-hearted enough. He had no hopes of getting
in, and one rebuff had frightened him so much that he
51longed to run home and hide himself. But Robert was
not to be daunted. He threw one arm over his brother’s
shoulder and struck into a run, carrying the timid child
with him like a whirlwind. At last they came to the
entrance-door of the fair again, and then a panic seized
on Robert, also. What if it were too late? What if
the ticket was not good? What if the man drove him
away again? Joseph, more timid still, drew close to
him and hung back, afraid to advance, and equally afraid
to leave Robert and go back.
“Let’s go ahead,” cried Robert, all at once, holding
out his ticket and making ready to advance. “Who’s
afraid! Keep close to me, Josey, and never mind if the
fellow is cross.”
Still Joseph hung back.
“Hurra!”
This came in a low shout from Robert, who saw young
Savage coming toward them. He had been a little way
up the street watching for their approach. “All right,
my boys,” he said, in a clear, ringing voice, that made
little Joseph’s heart leap with joy; “grandmother is
waiting for you. Come along!”
The next moment Robert and his little brother believed
themselves absolutely in Paradise.
CHAPTER III. THE OLD MAID.
52
“Miss Eliza?”
“Well, my sweet child?”
“Would you lend me your pearls for this one night?”
“My pearls, darling? My pearls? Oh, Georgie!
you cannot understand the associations connected with
these ornaments—the painful, the thrilling associations!”
“Don’t! Pray, don’t! When you clasp your hands,
and roll up your eyes in that fashion, it gives me a chill—it
does, indeed!” cried Georgiana Halstead, really
distressed; for when Miss Eliza went into a fit of sentiment,
it was apt to go through many variations of sighs,
smiles, and tears, till it ended in hysterics.
“A chill, Georgiana? What is a single chill, compared
to the agonies of memory that haunt this bosom?”
cried Miss Eliza, pressing one large and rather bony
hand on that portion of her tall person, for which her
dress-maker deserved the greatest credit. “Oh, child,
if you had but once listened to my history!”
“Couldn’t think of it! The first ten words would
break my heart into ten thousand splinters. Besides, I
never could endure mysteries,” cried the young lady,
letting down a superb mop of yellow hair, which shimmered
like sunbeams over her shoulders, and posing
herself before the mirror, as it revealed her lovely person
from head to foot.
“My life,” moaned Aunt Eliza, “has both a mystery
and a history, which will be found written on my soul,
53when this poor body, once so tenderly beloved, is laid
in the dust.”
“Under the daisies would be prettier, I think,” replied
Georgiana, braiding her hair with breathless haste,
in two gorgeous bands, while Miss Eliza was talking.
“A great deal prettier. There, now, tell me if you like
this.”
The fair girl had woven the heavy braids of hair
around her queenly head, forming a coronet of living
gold above a forehead white as snow, on which the delicate
veins might be traced like blue shadows. “This is
the way I intend to wear it, with the garland of pearls
in front. Won’t it be lovely?”
“No!” said Miss Eliza, shaking her head. “There
was a time——”
“Yes, yes! I understand! The skirt will be white
satin, the tunic blue velvet, with a border of ermine so
deep.”
Miss Eliza came out of her own history long enough
to notice that the ermine border would be at least six
inches deep; then she retired into herself again, and
sighed heavily; and, dropping her head on one hand,
fell into a mournful reverie.
“Shall I wear a chain, or a collar of gold?” said
Georgiana.
“Yes, it was one chain of flowers,” murmured Miss
Eliza, exploring her life backward. “Such flowers as
only grow on the banks of Eden.”
“I am afraid Rowena could have sported nothing but
wild flowers—a garland of hawthorn-blossoms, or a
bouquet of primroses,” said Georgiana, crossing some
54scarlet ribbons sandal-wise over her ankles, and regarding
the effect with great satisfaction.
“Rowena! Rowena! I mentioned no such name.
Indeed, I never do mention names,” cried Miss Eliza,
arousing herself, and setting upright. “Heaven forbid
that I should ever be left to mention names.”
The old maid, for such I am pained to say, Miss Eliza
Halstead was, arose solemnly, as she said this, and
waving her niece off with a sweep of both hands worthy
of a wind-mill in full motion, began to pace up and
down the room with long and measured steps, that gave
a tragic air to the scene.
“How about the pearls?” questioned Georgie, tying
the scarlet ribbon in a dainty little bow. “We haven’t
much time. It is getting dark, now, and one doesn’t
step out of a Waverly novel, in full rig, without lots of
preparation. Mine is the fourth tableau.”
“Tableau? Ah, yes! I remember you were going to
stand up as——”
“As Rowena, in Ivanhoe.”
“Rowena! My dear child, you are not tall enough
by five inches, and lack the proper dignity. Mrs.
Savage must have done this—she always was my
enemy from her girlhood; that is—that is, from the first
time I dawned upon her life. Let me ask you a question,
Georgiana.”
“Be quick, then, please; for I want the pearls.”
“Was Mrs. Savage aware that I was an inmate of
this house when she selected you to represent the most
queenly character in Sir Walter Scott’s novel. I particularly
wish to know.”
“I—I should think it very likely,” answered Georgiana,
55driving a laugh from her lips which broke from
her eyes in a gush of mischief. “It is now six months
since you came here.”
“She knew it, and yet invited another. This is life—this
is ingratitude! Has she no remembrance of the
time when we two—— But why should I dwell on
that painful epoch of my life? Georgiana, you shall
have the pearls. Let me complete this soul’s martyrdom.
Where is my trunk?”
“In the store-room, I think.”
“There again! Relics of the past huddled together
in a common store-room—and such relics!”
“Nothing ever was more beautiful!” said the young
lady, proceeding with her toilet; “only do bring them
along!”
Miss Eliza stalked out of the room with a key grasped
in her hands, measuring off her steps like Juno in a fit
of heathenish indignation. She returned directly, bearing
in her hand a faded red-morocco case, the size of a
soup-plate, and considerably battered at the edges.
Seating herself in an arm-chair, she opened the case,
and began to shake her head lugubriously over the
snow-white pearls that gleamed upon her from their
neat purple satin. Georgiana looked eagerly over her
shoulder.
“Oh, Miss Eliza, I didn’t begin to know how beautiful
they were: so large, so full of milky light! No
wonder you prize them!”
“Alas! it is not their beauty,” sighed Miss Eliza.
“Here, take them, child; they were intended for a more
queenly brow, but I yield to destiny.”
Miss Eliza rendered up the case as if it had contained
56flowers for a coffin, shrouded her features in a corner
of the lace anti-macassar which covered the maroon
cushions of her easy-chair, and allowed a touching little
sob to break from her lips.
“Oh! the associations that are connected with those
ornaments!” she moaned.
“Now I will render them doubly dear,” laughed the
young girl, laying the white spray on the golden braids
of her hair, and moving her head about like a bird
pluming itself.
“Destiny! destiny!” murmured Aunt Eliza.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” responded Georgia; and,
running into a neighboring dressing-closet, she came
forth a lady of the olden times, that might have danced
with the lion-hearted Richard.
Aunt Eliza gave one glance at the radiant young
creature, rose from her chair, and left the room, wringing
her hands like a tragedy queen.
Georgiana took no heed, but framed her pretty
image in the glass, where she looked like a picture to
which Titian had given the draperies, and Rubens the
flesh-tints. As she stood admiring herself, as any
pretty woman might, the door opened, and a stately old
woman entered, rustling across the floor in a heavy
black silk, and with quantities of white tulle softening
her face and bosom.
“Oh, Madam Halstead! I am so glad you’ve come!
Tell me if this is not perfect?”
“I never think you otherwise than perfect, child—who
could?” replied the sweet, low voice of the old lady.
“The very sight of you makes me young again.”
“How handsome you must have been,” cried Georgie,
57throwing one arm around the old lady, and patting the
soft cheek, which had a touch of bloom on it, with her
dimpled hand. “How handsome you are now!”
The old lady shook her head, and a faint blush stole
over her face, and lost itself under the shadows of her
silver-white hair.
“Yes, dear, some few who loved me used to think so,”
said the old lady.
“Here comes Miss Eliza,” cried Georgiana, seizing
upon a large cloak of black velvet, in which she enveloped
her dress, and twisting a fleece-like nubia over her
head, cried, “Good-night! Good-night! Just one kiss!
Good-night!”
Away the bright young creature went, sweeping out
of the room, and down the stair case, like a tropical
bird with all its plumage in motion.
“Good-night!” she repeated to Miss Eliza, who
loomed upon her from the extremity of the upper hall.
“Don’t be too late; I’ll send the carriage back!”
With a toss of her lofty head, and a wave of her hand,
Miss Eliza seemed to sweep the young creature out of
her presence; then she entered the room where old
Mrs. Halstead was sitting in the easy-chair which her
daughter had so lately abandoned, and paused inside
the door, gazing upon that calm face with a look of
mournful reproach.
“Thus, ever thus, do I find the place I have left
filled,” she said; “but my own mother, this is too
much!”
“Is it that you want the seat, Eliza,” said the old
lady, gently lifting herself from the chair; “take it, I
have rested long enough.”
58“Oh! my beloved parent, that you should make this
sacrifice for me!” sighed Miss Eliza, dropping into the
chair. “I know that your noble heart would be pained
if I did not accept it. I do—I do!”
That fine old lady had lived with her daughter too
long for any surprise at this wonderful outgush of gratitude;
she only moved to a couch on the other side of
the room, and sat down, with a low sigh.
Miss Eliza began to mutter and moan in her chair.
“Are you ill? Is any thing the matter?” inquired
the old lady.
“Did you see that child go out? Did you comprehend
the conspiracy which that wicked woman has organized
to keep me out of these tableaux? Did you
observe the impertinence of that flippant girl? Oh!
mother, these terrible shocks will break your child’s
heart!”
“Eliza! Eliza! this is all fancy,” answered the old
lady.
“Fancy! fancy! What is fancy, pray?”
“That you have enemies; that persons wish to annoy
you. Why should they?”
Miss Eliza sprang up from her chair, and turned upon
her mother.
“No enemies! no enemies! What keeps me here,
then? Why is that silly child set up in the tableau
nature and cultivation intended me to fill? Madam!
madam! are you also joining in the conspiracy against
me?” Miss Eliza shook her long, white forefinger
almost in the grand old face of her mother, as she spoke.
“Is it by your connivance that all gentlemen are
excluded from my presence?”
59“No one has ever been excluded, Eliza.”
“Indeed!”
The word was prolonged into a sneer, which brought
a faint color into Mrs. Halstead’s face.
“To think,” added Miss Eliza, wrathful in the face,
“to think of the pincushions, penwipers, and lamp-mats,
to say nothing of wax-dolls and little babies, that
I have made and dressed for this very fair—it’s enough
to break one’s heart. Not a stall left for me to attend;
every corner in the tableaux filled up with silly, pert
creatures that I wouldn’t walk over. This is justice—this
is patriotism. I might be direct from Richmond,
for any attention they give me.”
“I am sure, Eliza, the committee were very thankful
for your help,” said old Mrs. Halstead, soothingly.
“Thankful, indeed! Oh, yes! it is easy enough to
simper, and shake hands, and speak of obligations. But
why didn’t they treat all us young girls alike? Why
am I left out of every thing?”
Before Mrs. Halstead could answer, a servant entered
the room and informed Miss Eliza that the carriage had
returned.
“But I will assert my rights,” cried the lady, gathering
a rose-colored opera-cloak about her, and pluming
herself before the mirror. “You can go, Thomas; I
will be down in one moment.”
A little deficiency of the toilet had struck Miss Eliza;
and searching in some pocket hid away in her voluminous
skirts, she drew forth a little pasteboard box,
turned her back squarely on the old lady, and occupied
herself, after a mysterious fashion, for some moments
close to the mirror.
60“Do not defend these women, mamma,” she said, with
angry emphasis. “I blush for them.”
There certainly did seem to be some truth in this assertion,
for Miss Eliza’s cheeks had flushed suddenly to
a vivid red; but then her forehead and around her mouth
had grown white in proportion, showing great intensity
of shame.
“Now I am going, mamma; but first give me your
blessing.” Miss Eliza dropped one knee to her mother’s
foot-stool, bent her tall form before the grand old lady,
and seemed waiting for a solemn benediction; but the
sensible old lady put back the mass of false curls that
fell swooping over her daughter’s waterfall, and fastened
them in place with a hair-pin from her own silver-white
hair.
“That will do, my dear. I see nothing else out of
the way.”
Miss Eliza arose with a slight creak of the joints, and
a look of mournful reproach.
“Thus it is,” she said, “that one’s most sensitive feelings
are thrown back upon the heart. My own mother
refuses me her blessing; but I can define the reason—the
hidden, mysterious reason.”
This intensified female gathered the opera-cloak
around her as if it had been a Roman toga, and sailed
out of the room with the sweep of a wind-mill. Mrs.
Halstead shook her handsome old head, and sighed
faintly when Eliza disappeared.
“Will she never comprehend our position?” she murmured.
“Never remember that the bloom of girlhood
does not run through mid-age? How good they are to
overlook all this.”
CHAPTER IV. THE FAIR.
61
An old man sat alone in one of those large, old-fashioned
houses, which have been almost driven out of
existence by the march of commerce into the haunts
of fashion. The rooms were broad, deep, and well
lighted; for there was plenty of land around the old
house, which was half occupied by the remnants of an
old-fashioned garden, in which two or three quince trees
might be seen from the side windows, covered with
plump, orange-tinted fruit in the late autumn, but
gnarled and knotted old skeletons, as they appeared to
their owner that frosty afternoon.
The room in which this man sat was large, old-fashioned,
and gloomy enough. A Brussels carpet,
worn in places till the linen foundation broke through
the faded pattern, was stretched upon the floor without
quite covering it, and a breadth of striped stair-carpeting
eked out the deficiency, running along the footboards
in meagre imitation of a cordon.
A ponderous old sideboard of solid mahogany, which
contained a multitude of drawers and shelves for every
thing, stood in a recess by the fireplace. On this were
decanters with silver caps; and tiny silver shields hung
around their necks, telling what manner of spirits was
imprisoned within, bespeaking the old-fashioned hospitality
of forty years ago; and over the sideboard
hung a picture from some Dutch artist in which bunches
of carrots, heads of cabbages, birds, newly shot, and
fish ready for the pan, were heaped together in sumptuous
62profusion. It was a fine appetizing kitchen scene,
in which a few marigolds and hollyhocks had been
thrown, as tasteful market-men sometimes cast a handful
of coarse flowers on a customer’s basket. Some
mahogany chairs, with well-worn horse-hair seats, stood
against the wall; and a stiff, spindle-legged sofa, covered
with the same useful material, occupied a recess near
the fireplace, like that filled by the sideboard.
This old man, who seemed a part and parcel of the
room, sat at a round table, old-fashioned as the sideboard,
on which the remnants of his solitary dinner
still remained. A decanter, full of some ruby-tinted
liquor, stood before him; but the glasses were empty,
and not a drop of liquid had as yet stained them. With
both elbows on the table, and both hands bent under
his chin, he sat gazing on the Dutch picture; but apparently
seeing something far beyond it, which filled
his eyes with gloom, and bent his brows with heavy
thought. At last he moved heavily in his chair, and
pushed the decanter away toward the centre of the
table.
“Why should I think of him now more than at another
time?” he muttered. “The fellow is safe enough,
I dare say; very likely isn’t in the army at all. Am I
a man to grow moody over a dream, or a bit of nightmare?
I wouldn’t have believed it if any one had told
me so; but, spite of myself, I do feel shaky, and tons
of lead seem to be holding down my heart. Hark! I
heard the patter of feet running swiftly; now a cry.
There is news from the army. Tush! what is that to
me? I have no one to mourn or hope for again.”
The old man started from his chair and went swiftly
63into the hall, crying out, in a hoarse voice, as he flung
the door open,
“Boy, boy! I say—boy, a paper, quick!”
The newsboy broke up a shrill cry and came clamping
back, selecting a paper from the bundle under his arm
as he moved.
“Great battle, sir; list of killed and wounded a yard
long! Ten cents; thank you! Can’t stay to give
change. Most of our fellers ’ed stick you with a week
older, and take the money at that. But I mean ter have
yer for a general customer. Hallo! there comes another
chap yelling like blazes; bet yer a copper, old
boy, that I get round the corner fust.”
Away the sharp, young rogue darted down the street,
with the clatter of his thick shoes beating the pavement
like a pair of flails, and his shrill, young voice cutting
the frosty air with a shrill clearness that made the old
man on the door-step shiver.
“It is very cold,” he said, buttoning his coat over his
chest with trembling fingers. “Yet I could see the
wind whistling through that little fellow’s hair, and he
did not seem to mind it, or think that his voice is a
death-cry to so many. Why did I get this? What do
I care who lives or dies?”
The old man went into the house as he spoke, and
sat down on the spindle-legged sofa, unfolding his damp
paper in the light of a window behind it. It was the
first time he had interested himself in the war news
enough to purchase an extra. Now his breath came
quickly, and his hands shook with something beside
cold.
The boy had spoken no more than the truth. Column
64after column of names filled up the dead-list; and that
was followed by so many names of the wounded and
missing, that the most eager affection would tire in
searching them. But the eyes of this weary old man
seized upon each name, and dropped it with the quickness
of lightning. He had so long been accustomed to
adding up columns of intricate figures, that names of
the dead glided by him like shadows. One column was
despatched, and then another.
“What folly,” he said, looking up from the paper.
“Why should a dream set me to searching here? Ha!
Oh! God, help me! It is here!”
The paper dropped from his hold; his head fell forward.
Besting an elbow on each knee, he supported
that drooping head with two quivering hands. After a
time he arose from the sofa, and began to walk slowly
up and down the room with his arms behind him, and
his fingers interlocked with a grip of iron.
“Her only son—her only hope.”
This hard, perhaps we may say, this bad man, had
been so shaken by a dream that had seized upon his
conscience in the night, that he was almost given up to
regrets; for the dream was reality now—that paper had
told him so.
“Why should I have bought that?” he said, starting
from the paper which rustled against him as he walked.
“Just as I was thinking to search him out, too. Oh,
me! it is hard—it is hard!”
It is an old man I am writing about—a hard, stern
man, self-sufficient, and above such small human weaknesses
as grow out of the affections; but his whole nature
was broken up for the moment. Some plan of
65atonement, generosity, or ambition, had been overthrown
by the reading of that one name among the killed of a
great battle.
These thoughts crowded on the lonely man so closely,
that he felt suffocated even in that vast room, and went
into the hall, beating his breast for the breath that was
stifling him. But even the cold hall seemed without
atmosphere. So the old man seized his hat, put on an
overcoat that hung on the rack, and went into the street.
He had no object, save that of finding air to breathe,
and wandered off, walking more briskly than he had
done for years, though his cane had been left behind.
For more than an hour the old man wandered through
the streets, so buried, soul and sense, in the past, that
he scarcely knew whether it was night or day. At last
he came opposite the great fair. Around the entrance
a crowd was gathered, and people were passing through
in groups, as if some special attraction carried them
there.
The old man remembered at once that he had been
applied to for contributions to this fair, and, being in a
crusty mood, had refused to contribute a cent. Now,
when the effect of that name in the death-list was upon
him, he groaned at the remembrance of his rudeness;
and forcing his way with the crowd, purchased a ticket
and went in.
This old man was not much given to amusing himself;
and the beautiful scene before him had more than the
charm of novelty. The flags, wreathed among flowers
and heavy evergreen garlands, made the enclosure one
vast bower, haunted with lovely women, ardent, generous,
66and radiant with winning smiles. The lights, twinkling
through gorgeous draperies and feathery-fine boughs,
almost blinded him as he came in from the dark street.
The life, the hum of conversation, the laughter that now
and then rang up from some stall, or group, fell upon
him strangely. These people seemed mocking the
heavy, dead weight of sorrow that lay upon his soul.
At another time he would have gone away in disgust,
muttering some sarcasm, and escaping out of the brightness
with a sneer. But he was just then too wretched.
He had refused money when it was asked of him;
but now—now, when conscience was crowning his soul
with thorns, he would be liberal. Fortunately, there
was plenty of money in the breast-pocket which almost
covered his heart—that should redeem him from his
own reproaches. He would buy any amount of pretty
nothings, and, for once, fling away his money like dirt—why
not? It was his own, and no one in this world had
a right to question him.
With these new thoughts in his mind, the old man
paused before one of those fairy-like enclosures, which,
in such places, seem to have drifted out of Paradise.
It was one mass of evergreens, living ivy, and creeping
plants, rich with blossoms; back of the little bower this
wealth of foliage was drawn back like the drapery of a
window, and through its rich green came the gorgeous
warmth of hot-house plants in full flower. Fuchsias,
with a royal glow of purple at heart, and rich crimson
folding it in, drooping over a Hebe vase of pure white
alabaster, whose pedestal was planted among azalias
white as clustering snow, pink as a summer-cloud, or
blood-red, in great blossoming clusters, that fairly set
67the atmosphere ablaze with their gorgeousness. Behind
all this was some tropical tree of the acacia species,
drooping like a willow over the whole, and laden with
raciness of delicate golden blossoms. Around the pedestal
of the vase was a wreath of fire, composed of
tiny jets of gas, trembling up and down like jewels half
transmuted into the atmosphere, which shed a tremulous
brilliancy into the cups of the flowers, and over the
greenness of the leaves.
In the midst of this lovely spot stood a young girl,
with a fleecy white nubia twisted around her head, and
a heavy velvet sacque shrouding her under-dress from
head to foot—or, rather, so far as her person was visible.
She had evidently only stepped into the stall to supply
the place of its usual occupant, and looked a little bewildered
when the old man came up and inquired the price
of a wax-doll.
“This,” said Georgiana Halstead, seizing the doll,
which gave out a little, indeed, sullen shriek, as her hand
pressed its bosom, “this lovely little lady in full ball
costume, with a flounce of real lace, and this heavenly
sash. Well, really, sir, I should think—let me see,”
here Georgiana cast a side glance at her customer—“I
should think, twenty, or—yes, twenty-five dollars—thirty,
say——”
The nature of the man arose above his sorrow. He
cast a withering glance at the fair young face turned
upon him, and withdrew his hand from under his vest,
where he had half thrust it in search of his pocket-book.
“Thirty dollars for that thing?” he growled.
“For this thing! this loveliest of lovely little ladies!
68Why, one blink of her eyes is worth the money. Just
see her fall asleep,” cried Georgiana; and with a magic
twist of her finger, the doll closed its blue eyes in serene
slumber. “Thirty dollars—I am astonished at myself
for asking so little.”
A grim smile stole over those thin lips, and the old
man’s eyes sparkled through their gloom, as he looked
on that cheerful face dimpling with mischief, turned now
upon him, now upon the doll. The scarlet ball-dress, in
which the mimic fashionable was arrayed, sent a flush
down the white arm that held it up for admiration, and
from which the velvet sleeve had fallen loosely back,
revealing a bracelet of pure gold, formed of two serpents
twined together, and biting each other. The old
man’s face became suddenly of a grayish white as he
saw the ornament.
“Where—where did you get that?” he questioned, in
a low, hoarse voice, touching the bracelet with his finger.
“That, sir,” cried Georgiana, lowering the doll till her
sleeve fell to its place again, and speaking with sudden
dignity, “why should you ask?”
“Because I have seen one like it before, and only one.
Do not be angry, young lady. I have no wish to be
rude; but tell me where you got those twisted snakes?”
“They belong to Mrs. Halstead, my father’s stepmother,”
answered Georgiana, impressed by the intense
earnestness of the man.
“Mrs. Halstead! I do not know the name; but I
should like those serpents. If this Mrs. Halstead is
one of your benevolent women, who are willing to fling
their ornaments into the national fund, I will pay her
handsomely for them—very handsomely.”
69“Of course, grandmamma is as charitable as the day is
long, and would give almost any thing to help those
who suffer for our country; but I don’t know about
these pretty reptiles. She may have a fondness for them—some
association, as Miss Eliza says.”
“No, no, that cannot be! they have no connection
with her. She must have bought them at some pawnbroker’s
sale. They can have no value to her, except as
a curiosity. Ask her if she will sell them for ten times
their weight in gold!”
“I—I will ask her, if you wish it so much; but she
will think it strange.”
“No matter—ask her. And now, to show you that I
am in earnest, here is thirty dollars for that bit of satire
on womankind, which you may hand over to the first
little girl that comes along. Ah! here is one now, looking
meek and frightened. Little woman, would you
like a doll?”
The little girl thus addressed turned her great, brown
eyes from the old man to the doll, shrinking back, and
yet full of eager desire.
“Is it for me?—for me?” she said at last, as the glorious
creature was pressed upon her. “Please, don’t
make fun of me!”
“He isn’t making fun, indeed he isn’t, my little lady,”
cried Georgiana, delighted with the whole proceeding.
“I dare say he hasn’t any little girl of his own, and
wants to do something nice by the little girl of somebody
else. Take it in your arms, dear, and don’t forget
the good gentleman when you say your prayers.”
“I won’t, indeed, sir. I’ll put you into the long
prayer, and the short one, too, special,” cried the little
70creature, dimpling brightly under her happiness, and
huddling the great doll up in her arms as if she had
been its mother. “Aunt, aunt, see here!” Away the
little creature darted toward some woman, who was so
mingled up with the crowd that her bonnet only could
be distinguished.
“There is one person made happy by your thirty dollars,
sir,” said Georgiana, brightly; “to say nothing of
those who will receive your money. Any thing more
that I can show you? Here comes a couple of little
boys barefooted, and looking so poor.”
The old man turned toward the two boys, who had
wandered away from some inner room, and were gazing
around them with eager curiosity. Something in their
faces seemed to strike him, for his countenance changed
instantly, and he took a step forward to meet the children,
who paused before the stall where Georgiana presided,
lost in admiration.
“What would you buy here, if you had plenty of
money?” asked the old man, laying one hand on the
elder lad’s shoulder.
“If I had plenty of money?” repeated the boy, staring
into the dark face bending over him. “I—I don’t know.
I never had plenty of money.”
“But you would like to buy some of these nice
things?”
“Oh! yes, I would.”
“Well, what is there here that you like?”
The lad took a swift survey of the brilliant articles
arranged in Miss Halstead’s stall.
“I’d buy one of them caps for grandma,” he said;
71“and that shawl, with the red and white border, for
sister Anna.”
“No, no! buy ’em a whole heap of candy, and cakes,
and oranges, and peanuts,” cried the younger child,
pulling at his brother’s coat.
“Come here,” said the old man, in a tone of compassion,
“let me look in your face.”
The elder lad turned frankly, and lifted his eyes to
those of the old man. That was a frank, honest young
face, full of life and purpose, notwithstanding the pallor
which spoke of close rooms and insufficient food.
“These are thin clothes for winter,” said the old man,
grasping Robert’s shoulder almost roughly. “What is
your father doing, that you have nothing better than
these things?”
“My father went to fight for his country,” answered
the lad, bravely. “It isn’t his fault.”
“It isn’t his fault,” repeated the younger boy, creeping
behind his brother as he spoke, dismayed by his own
voice.
“No shoes!” muttered the old man.
“A soldier’s boys know how to go barefooted,” said
Robert. “It don’t hurt us—much.”
“Come with me! come with me! I saw some things
round here that may be worth something!”
The old man strode away as he spoke, followed by the
two boys, who ran to keep up with him. He stopped
at a less showy stall than that he had left, and spoke to
the rather grave female who presided there.
“Take a good look at these children, and fit them
out with warm, decent clothing. You can supply
something fanciful in the way of a hat or cap for the
72little fellow with the curls. Let the boots be thick and
strong. Leave nothing out that will make them comfortable
for the winter. Make them up in two bundles;
they’ll find strength to carry them, I dare say.”
“Oh, yes, yes!” almost shouted the boys in unison.
“We know how to carry carpet-bags and bundles,
don’t we?” continued Robert, addressing Joseph, who
was shrinking away from the sound of his own voice.
“You do,” whispered the little fellow; “you do.”
“Come along with me,” said the old man, who had
cast off half the weight of his sorrow since these children
had approached him. “There is something to eat
around here.”
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Joseph, with a sigh of infinite
delight; “oranges, maybe, or peanuts.”
“Sir,” said Robert, lifting his clear eyes, bright with
thankfulness, to the old man’s face, that was so intently
regarding him, “would you just as leave let me stay
behind, and take grandmother and sister Anna? They’d
like it so much.”
“No, no! come along! I’ll give you something for
them. We can’t have women about us.”
He spoke peremptorily, and the children obeyed him,
almost afraid.
All sorts of delicious things broke upon the lads
when they entered that portion of the fair which was
used as a restaurant; and these half-famished young
creatures grew wild with animal delight when cakes,
pies, and oranges were placed in their hands.
The old man sat down, and, leaning his elbows on a
table, watched these happy children as they eat the food
he had given them. In years and years he had not
73tasted pure joy like that. Any one, to have watched
him then, would never have believed him the hard old
fellow that he was. His eyes sparkled, and he chuckled
softly when little Joseph hid away an orange in his
pocket, thinking how nice it would be for grandma; and,
after a little, he fell to himself, and began to eat with
relish. The very sight of those children enjoying themselves
so much had given him an appetite.
The bundles were all ready when this strange group
returned for them.
“Now for the red and white shawl, and that cap,” said
the old man. “Here are lots of candies, and the other
things in this paper, which we will roll up in them.”
“Will you, though?” said Robert, taking a bundle
under each arm. “I say, sir, won’t you let me hold
your horse and run errands for all this? I’ll do it first-rate.”
The old man looked down kindly upon him.
“Perhaps, who knows,” he said, answering some idea
in his own mind rather than what the lad was saying.
“Here is the stall, but the lady is gone.”
True enough; another person had taken the place of
Georgiana Halstead, of whom the shawl and cap were
bought.
The old man was keenly disappointed, for he had intended
to learn something more about the serpent-bracelet.
But the young lady in charge had no knowledge
of the lady who had preceded her temporarily.
While the old man was questioning this lady, a young
girl came hurrying through the crowd, eagerly looking
for some one in eager haste. She saw the boys, and
came breathlessly up.
74“Oh! I am so glad to have found you, boys!” she
cried, addressing them in haste. “The ladies are waiting
for you!”
“Oh, Anna! he has been so kind! You wouldn’t believe
it!” cried Robert, looking down at his bundles.
“Such clothes!”
“Such cakes and candies,” chimed in Joseph.
“And something for you. Such a shawl—there it
lies; and a cap for grandma!” said Robert. “Thank
him, Anna; I cannot do it half!”
“I don’t understand—I am in such haste. The time
is up, sir; but I think you have done something very
generous, that my brothers want me to thank you for.
I do it with all my heart. But we must go.”
“Not till you have taken these,” said the old man,
hastily rolling up the paper of bon-bons in the shawl,
which he had just paid for. “It is a present from this
fine lad; wear it for his sake.”
“I’ll carry it for her, and the cap, too,” cried Joseph,
seizing on the carelessly-rolled bundle.
“Good-night, sir! I wish I had time to thank you,”
said Anna, earnestly. “Good-night!”
“Good-by, sir!” said Robert, with a faltering voice;
for he was near shedding tears of gratitude.
“Good-by! I wish I could do something for you.”
Away the three went, after uttering their adieus, passing
swiftly through the crowd.
The old man followed them at a distance till they led
him into that portion of the building devoted that evening
to tableaux, when they disappeared through a side
door.
75“A dollar extra, here!” said a man stationed near the
door. “The seats are almost filled!”
The old man took some money from his pocket, and
went in, feeling interested in the persons he had befriended,
and resolved to find them again if possible.
He sat down on a bench near the door, and waited.
The room was full, the light dim, and a faint hum of
whispering voices filled the room.
At last a bell rang. Some dark drapery, directly
before him, was drawn back, and then appeared before
him those boys huddled together near an old lady, in
poverty-stricken garments, with a yawning fireplace in
the background, and a young girl brightening the tableau
with her beauty.
There was breathless stillness in the room—for the
picture was one to touch the heart and fire and refine
the imagination. No one stirred; and every eye was
bent on that living picture of misery. But, all at once,
some confusion arose near the door; an old man was
pressing his way out so eagerly that he pushed the doorkeeper,
who was leaning forward to see the picture, so
rudely aside, that he almost fell.
CHAPTER V. AN UNEXPECTED PERFORMER.
Twice Anna Burns had changed her costume, first to
satisfy Mrs. Savage, that it would be all that she desired
for the Ivanhoe tableaux; and again, that no detail of
76poverty should be wanting to that picture which, alas!
has been so often duplicated in real life, “The Soldier’s
Destitute Family.” As she was putting on a Jewish
garment a second time, in the little drawing-room, a
rather heavy hand was laid on her shoulder, and a voice
that made her start, from the deep tragedy of its tones,
sounded in her ear.
“Are you the young person?”
“I—I—— What young person?” faltered Anna,
turning crimson under the touch of that hand.
“Mrs. Savage has a dependent or protegé, here, who
is to stand in the Ivanhoe picture. Are you that person?”
Anna turned suddenly, and looked her tormentor in
the face. She was a tall, angular person, with a complexion
that seemed washed out and re-dyed, pale blue
eyes, full of impatient ferocity, and a mouth that was
perpetually in motion.
“Are you that person?” she repeated, giving the
shoulder she pressed a slight shake.
“I came here at the request of Mrs. Savage, if that is
what you to wish to know,” answered Anna Burns, stepping
back with a gesture of offended pride.
“And you are her Rebecca?” answered Miss Eliza
Halstead, shaking out her laced handkerchief, and inhaling
the perfume which it gave forth with a proud elevation
of the head. “So she is determined to monopolize
every thing. Has Miss Georgiana Halstead arrived
yet?”
“I do not know the lady.”
“Not know her, and she is to be your foil—your rival.
When you go off the stage she will come on, robed in
77azure velvet, crowned with pearls—my pearls; while
I——but never mind, there is blood in my veins which
can protect itself. Oh! here she comes. Say nothing;
be secret as the grave! You will see! You will see!”
Miss Halstead put one long finger to her lips, and glided
backward out of the room just as Georgiana Halstead
came in by a side entrance.
For a moment these two young girls stood looking at
each other; one with a rosy blush on her cheeks and a
smile on her lips; the other shy, pale, and shrinking.
She felt like an intruder there.
Georgiana was the first to speak.
“I suppose, from that dress, that you are Miss
Burns,” she said, with graceful cordiality. “There is
no one here to introduce us; but I am Miss Halstead,
as the dear, delicate, stupid Rowena, who is to get
Ivanhoe away from you.”
A flush of scarlet came over Georgiana’s face, as she
became conscious of her own light speech, and felt the
strange look which Anna turned, unconsciously, upon
her; but she turned this embarrassment off with a
sweet laugh; and throwing aside her velvet sacque,
stood out in the dim room a picture in herself.
“How beautifully you are dressed,” she said, scanning
Anna’s costume with an admiring glance. “That
crimson velvet tunic, with its warmth and depth of
color, has singular richness. And the diamond necklace,
how the light quivers over it. Upon my word, Madam
Savage has exhibited a taste for once. The whole effect
is wonderful.”
“It is her taste; I had nothing to do with it,” said
Anna, glancing at her own loveliness in the glass. “The
78diamond necklace, if it is diamonds, belongs to her.
Indeed, I scarcely know myself in this dress or place.”
“But I hope to know you, and intimately, some day,”
answered Georgiana, with prompt admiration. “But
here comes the madam, with a train of committee-ladies,
ready to give us inspection. Don’t let them change a
fold of that turban, or a single thing about you. Remember,
those who have the least taste will be the first
to interfere.”
“Here they are all ready, and looking so lovely,”
cried Mrs. Savage, sweeping into the room, followed
close by half a dozen associates, whose silken dresses
rustled sumptuously as they moved. “Isn’t she perfect,
dear child? But when is she otherwise?”
Here Mrs. Savage stooped and kissed Georgiana’s
white neck with a glow of natural fondness, which the
girl felt in her heart of hearts, and became radiant at
once.
“And Miss Burns, too. How completely she has followed
out my idea. Isn’t she the most fascinating little
Jewess that ever lived? Ah! are they ready? Come,
Georgie, child, you are wanted. Ladies, hurry back to
your seats. I would not have you lose this tableau for
any thing.”
A little storm of exclamations followed this speech.
Then the silks began to rustle violently again, while the
committee made a rush, and, with a confusion of whispers,
diffused itself in the audience, which was soon enveloped
in darkness. A bell tinkled; the dark curtain
swept back, and through a screen of rose-colored gauze
Ivanhoe and Rowena were seen surrounded with rich
draperies, heavy carvings, and all the appointments of
79a feudal picture. Rowena was looking down overpowered
by the love-light in Ivanhoe’s glance; a soft,
rosy bloom lay on her cheek; a smile hovered about her
lips; no flower ever drooped more modestly in the sunshine
that brightened it. The young creature did not
move, but you could see the slow heave and fall of her
bosom. There was no acting there; the presence of
love, pure and vital, made itself felt, though it might
not have been thoroughly understood. Ivanhoe gazed
down upon her with admiration, and it may be that
more tender feelings called forth the bright smile on his
face. But young Savage was thinking of the character
he was to maintain—she was thinking only of him. A
single minute this noble picture defined itself before the
crowd; then the curtain fell, and all was dark again.
The tableau was one which had been designed to repeat
itself by a change of position in the characters.
While the applause was loudest, and young Savage
stood behind the curtain holding Georgie’s hand; while
he described the position she was to assume, a rather
impatient voice from behind the scenes called for Miss
Halstead. The young lady, who was blushing and
shrinking under the careless touch of his hand, ran out,
and found one of the servant-girls in attendance, who
said that she must come at once and speak with Mrs.
Savage before the curtain rose again.
Georgie followed the girl in haste, and the moment
she disappeared a figure came out from one of the dark
corners and entered upon the stage, which was but
dimly lighted from behind the scenes. Savage saw the
glitter of her dress, and without looking closer spoke in
eager haste.
80“Just in time. They are getting impatient. There,
stand there, with your head averted, as we arranged it:
now your hand.”
Savage dropped on one knee as he spoke, took the
hand which dropped lovingly into his, and lifted his fine
eyes to the but half averted face. A start, which brought
him half up from his knees; a quick ringing of the bell,
and every face in the audience was turned in amazement
on Miss Eliza Halstead, whose tall, gaunt form
was arrayed in blue satin, surmounted by a tunic of
maize-colored velvet; a band of pointed gold girding
her head like a coronet, and from under it flowed out a
mass of dull brown curls, wonderful to behold. Her
head was turned aside; one hand was half uplifted, as
if to conceal the blushes that lay immovable on her
cheeks; and a simper, which had a dash of malicious
triumph in it, gave disagreeable life to her face.
Young Savage had sunk back to his lover-like position
as the bell rang, and went through his part with
a hot flush on his cheek, and a quick sense of the
ridiculous position he filled quivering around his handsome
mouth. But though master of himself, he heard
the bell ring with a sense of infinite relief, and instantly
sprang up, uttering what I am afraid would have been
a very naughty exclamation had it been allowed to go
beyond his breath.
“Ah! I thought you would be surprised,” cried Miss
Eliza, beaming upon him in the twilight of the stage.
“Believe me, dear Mr. Savage, I never suspected that
you had any share in the conspiracy to keep me in the
shade. But I have defeated them for once; and I saw
81by that flush on your cheek how completely you triumphed
with me.”
Savage struggled to keep from laughing, and submitted
to the pressure which Eliza gave his hand between
her two palms with becoming philosophy.
“I suppose they will expect us to give place to the
next tableau,” he said, quietly releasing his hand.
“This way, if you are going to the dressing-room.”
Miss Eliza took his arm, and marched triumphantly
off the platform. At the first step she met Georgiana
coming back breathless.
“It is over,” said Miss Eliza, solemnly; “the evil
machinations of my enemies has, for once, been defeated;
tell Mrs. Savage and her crew this, with my
compliments. The audience out yonder can tell you
that, for once, they have seen a genuine tableau, truthful,
artistic, rich in passionate silence. Mr. Savage here
can tell you how it was received with touching and intense
stillness; then a ripple of admiration; then a buz
of admiring curiosity. We came away to avoid the
outburst of enthusiasm, which was no doubt overwhelming.”
“What is this about? What does it all mean?” said
Georgiana, bewildered. “Am I too late? After all, it
seems that no one really sent for me.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Eliza, with a toss of the
head. “Have you just found that out?”
“The tableau is over,” said young Savage, laughing
in spite of himself. “Miss Halstead has honored me
by taking your place.”
Georgiana was dumb with angry astonishment; a flood
of scarlet rushed over her face and neck. She even
82clenched her little hand, and, for once, made a fist of it
that would have done great credit to a belligerent child
ten years old. Then she burst into a laugh, musical as
a gush of bird songs in April.
“You didn’t do that, Miss Eliza. Oh! it is too, too
delicious. Savage on his knees, you ——”
Again she burst forth into a musical riot of laughter,
while Eliza stood before her frowning terribly. I am
afraid Savage joined her; but the two voices harmonized
so well that Miss Eliza never was quite certain.
“Georgiana Halstead, I hate you!” she cried, with a
sweep of the right arm.
“I—I can’t help it,” pouted the young girl, pressing
a hand hard against her lips; “the whole thing is so
comical. What will Mrs. Savage say?”
Georgiana might well ask, for Mrs. Savage had been
in front, and sat aghast during the whole performance,
which only lasted a few minutes. After which she went
into something as near rage as well-bred women permit
themselves; and absolutely tore a handkerchief made
of gossamer and lace into more pieces than she would
have liked to confess even to herself. A half-suppressed
giggle, which came from that portion of the room where
the committee was clustered, brought the proud lady to
her composure; and leaning toward her most inveterate
rival, she whispered confidently,
“It went off tolerably, after all, just as I expected.”
“Oh!” said the lady rival, smiling sweetly, “then you
arranged it.”
“Georgiana Halstead was so kind. It quite annoyed
her to have Miss Halstead cut out so entirely. Such a
lovely disposition. Then there is great power in contrast,
83you know; and my young friend, who comes
next, is directly opposite to Miss Halstead. Contrast,
contrast, my dear, is every thing. You’ll see that I am
right. How splendidly Savage bore himself. But I
knew that we could trust to him.”
During this long speech, the lady to whom Mrs. Savage
addressed herself, took an occasion to whisper to
her next neighbor, who bent toward the person who sat
next her; this swelled into a buz, which ran through the
committee, and beyond it, checking all laughter as it
went.
Then Mrs. Savage rose with dignity, and went back
of the scenes, rustling her silks like a green bay-tree,
and biting her lips till they glowed like ripe cherries.
She met Miss Halstead sailing majestically toward her
carriage, still clinging to the arm of young Savage with
desperate pertinacity.
“Here comes your mother, sir, my bitterest enemy.
As a defenceless female, I claim your protection,” cried
that lady, pausing suddenly, and clasping both hands
over his arm, as Mrs. Savage came up.
“My dear Miss Halstead, how beautifully you did it.
I came at once to thank you. Fortunate, wasn’t it, that
my messenger overtook you?”
Mrs. Savage said this, smiling blandly, and with her
gloved hand held forth with a cordiality perfectly irresistible.
“Messenger, Mrs. Savage,” said Eliza Halstead, drawing
herself up with an Elizabethian air. “I do not
understand!”
“Not understand, and yet acted the part so well.
Oh, Miss Halstead!”
84Eliza Halstead was eccentric and headstrong; but
she was not quite a fool. In fact, few people possessed
so much low cunning. She had all the craft and calculation
of a lunatic, without being absolutely crazy. It
flashed across her mind instantly that she would do well
to accept at once the doubtful invitation hinted at, and
thus escape the odium of a rude intrusion.
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Savage, you are so good,” she
cried, bowing her head, but still keeping both hands
clapsed over that reluctant arm. “Still I was but just
in time. I am so glad you were pleased; Mr. Savage
here was delighted.”
“The whole thing was charming,” answered Mrs.
Savage, setting her teeth close and turning away.
“The ladies are all delighted. Horace, pray make haste
and escort Miss Halstead to her carriage, if she must
go; the ladies are dying to thank you for this surprise.
How prettily Georgiana entered into our little conspiracy.
Good evening, Miss Halstead; be careful and
not take cold. Adieu!”
“What a charming woman your mother is—so
queenly, so gracious,” whispered Eliza, leaning toward
her companion. “So magnificently handsome, too.
Never in my life did I see a son and mother resemble
each other so much. Thank you, Mr. Savage! thank
you! If I remember rightly, Rowena gave Ivanhoe her
hand to kiss—ungloved, I fancy—there, this once.”
Miss Halstead leaned out of the carriage, and held
forth her hand, beaming gently upon young Savage, who
took the hand, pressed it, bowed over it, and laid it
gently back into Miss Halstead’s lap.
“I dare not presume! I have not the audacity!” he
85said. “Adieu! adieu! Believe me, I shall never forget
this evening!”
“Oh, heavens! nor I!” exclaimed Miss Eliza, kissing
her own hand where he had touched it, with infinite
relish. “Of all the nights in my life this is my fate!”
Young Savage was at a safe distance when Miss
Eliza uttered this tender truth; but, as she declared
afterward, “Her soul went with him, and joined its
home forever more!”
As Horace Savage returned, he met Anson Gould, a
young man about whom all uppertendom raved, as the
most splendid creature that ever lived; so rich, so distinguished,
so talented, and so on.
“Hollo! Gould! what are you doing here, wandering
about like a lost babe in the woods? Searching for my
mother, eh?”
“No,” answered Gould, laughing; “I am in search
of what is called the gentlemen’s dressing-room. Your
mother has booked me for Bois Guilbert, with a Rebecca
that she promises shall be stunning—a Miss
Burns. Tell me who she is, Savage. I do not remember
the name in our set.”
Savage felt a hot glow coming to his cheek. His
light, off-handed way of mentioning that young girl
annoyed him exceedingly.
“Miss Burns is a friend of my mother’s—not in
society yet, I believe,” he answered, quietly. “But I
keep you waiting; that is the way to your dressing-room.”
“Gould moved on, and, for the first time, young
Savage remarked how wonderfully handsome he was.
I think he congratulated himself somewhat by remembering
86that the Templar was also a splendid specimen
of a man, and yet Rebecca could not be persuaded to
love him. Still the young gentleman’s spirits became
somewhat depressed from that moment, and, forgetting
that he had promised to make himself generally useful
in his mother’s behalf, he crept away into a corner of
the audience-chamber, and there, half of the time in
semi-darkness, watched the curtain rise and fall, dismissing
each picture presented with something like
angry impatience.
At last the bell sounded with a vim, and the audience
were all on the alert. The noise of more than usual stage
preparations had whetted curiosity; and it had been
whispered about that something superb was coming, in
which Anson Gould would be a principal character—Anson
Gould, the greatest catch of the season. No
wonder there was a buzz and rustle, as if summer insects
and summer winds were playing among forest-boughs
in that portion of the room where young ladies most
prevailed.
As I have said, the bell sounded with a vim; the curtain
swept back, and there was a picture worth seeing.
Just a little scenery had been introduced into the background.
An antique window, showing glimpses of
a battlement beyond, and, poised on this battlement,
with one foot strained back, ready for a spring, and her
face turned back, with a gesture of passionate menace,
stood one of the most beautiful girls that eyes ever
dwelt upon. She was superb in her haughty poise;
superb in that proud outburst of despair which had
sent her out on that dizzy height, choosing destruction
rather than dishonor. Her dark eyes, like those of a
87stag at bay, were bent on the kneeling Templar, whose
face and form would have won the general attention
from any one less gloriously beautiful than that girl.
Young Savage started to his feet, and leaned forward,
absorbed. His heart stood still for the moment, and a
strange feeling of pain came upon him. By what right
did that man gaze upon her with such passionate admiration.
It was real; the wild love-light in those eyes
knew no dissembling. Young Gould was his rival—yes,
his rival! There was no use in attempting to deceive
himself, he was in love—really in love—for the first
time in his life—and with whom? He remembered that
low garret—the old woman—the child; and that young
creature bending with such sad, loving pity over them
both. He remembered the pile of oyster-shells in the
chimney-corner, and all the poverty-stricken appointments
of the room with a strange thrill of passion. His
love should lift her out of those depths. Gould should
never have an opportunity of kneeling to her again—even
in the seeming of a picture. But then his mother,
his proud, aristocratic father—what of them?
Mrs. Savage came up to her son where he stood, and
laid one of her white hands on his arm. “Was there
ever a success like that?” she said, looking back upon the
tableau with enthusiasm. “It sweeps away that absurd
scene with the old maid. How did that happen, Horace?
Don’t tell me now, some of them may be listening.
Oh! I see you admire this as I do. It is the great triumph
of the evening.”
“Mother,” said Horace Savage, rather abruptly,
“why did you cast Gould in that piece?”
“In order that you might stand with Georgiana,
88Horace. I thought you understood,” answered Mrs.
Savage, a little surprised.
“Yes, yes; I understand. It was very kind. See,
they are clamoring for a second sight. I don’t wonder.
How confoundedly handsome the fellow is!”
The curtain was drawn aside at the demand of the
audience, and once more Rebecca was seen ready to seek
death rather than listen to unholy vows, which could
only bring dishonor. The room was still as death; not
a whisper sounded; scarcely a breath was drawn. The
picture was more lifelike, more replete with silent passion
than before; while the breath stood still on every
lip, and all eyes were turned on the beautiful girl, a
deadly white settled on her face; her lips parted with a
cry that prolonged itself into a wail of pain that thrilled
through and through the crowd, and the poor creature
fell headlong into the darkness, carrying the mock
battlement with her.
CHAPTER VI. THE SOLDIER’S DEATH.
It was the voice of a child that had struck the life
from that young heart; a voice so changed and lost in
anguish that it seemed to cleave its way through her
whole being.
“Anna—sister Anna—come down! Our father is
killed! He is dead—he is dead!”
89As the last syllable trembled on the boy’s lips, his
sister fell upon the floor at his feet, white, cold, and insensible.
He thought the news had killed her. Down
he went upon his two knees, and strove to lift up her
head, around which the turban gathered like a mockery.
“Oh! lift her up! Take off these things,” pleaded
the poor boy, lifting his agonized face to those who
crowded around him. “She is dead, too! I killed
her—it was me! Take them off—take them off; they
look so hot and bright—she so cold. Won’t she move?
Try and make her look up. See how limp her hand is.
Anna, Anna! Oh, sister Anna! must you go, too?”
Robert fell down by the side of his sister, shaking in
all his limbs, and moaning in piteous sorrow. It did
seem as if his cry had killed that fair young creature,
who lay there under those rich vestments like a pure
white lily in the glow of a warm sunset.
The boy lay with his arms on the floor, and his face
buried on them, sobbing piteously.
The noise of his grief reached that benumbed heart.
Anna moved, and lifting her arm feebly, laid it over her
trembling brother. He started up with a cry, and
rained tears and kisses on her face till she, too, rose up,
clinging to him.
“Was it you—was it you, Robert, that said it?”
“Yes, Anna! Don’t cry; don’t break down again.
I could not help telling you; my heart was breaking.
Oh! Anna, Anna! my heart is all broken up!”
Anna sat upright on the floor. Her hands wandered
upward and took the hot turban from her head.
“Oh! if these things were put away—if I had my old
90dress on! How shall we get home, Robert, I—I am so
weak?”
“Come with me,” said a sweet voice, “come with me.
Your dress is all ready; I will help you put it on.”
It was Georgiana Halstead, whose pretty face, all
anxiety and tender compassion, bent over her.
“Come with me, Anna, for I am so sorry for you.”
Anna looked up piteously. “My father is dead!”
she answered.
“I know—I know. There, lean on me; the dressing-room
is close by.”
Georgiana was crying softly as she spoke; and she
wound her arm around that poor girl, supporting her
tenderly as Robert followed them to the dressing-room
door. Patiently, and with tears stealing down his face,
the boy waited for his sister. She came out directly in
her brown dress and modest bonnet.
“They want me to wait for a carriage, Robert; but I
cannot—I cannot. You and I will go alone.”
“No,” said a voice at her elbow. “Come, both of
you, I have a carriage ready.”
Anna looked up, and Savage caught a glimpse of her
face. It was white and quivering, like a white rose wet
with rain.
“My poor child, this is terrible!” he said, folding the
thin shawl around her; “but you shall not bear it alone,
you have friends.”
Anna gave him a grateful look through her tears,
and fresh sobs broke to her lips.
“It may be possible that there is a mistake in the
record,” said Savage, making a desperate effort to comfort
her.
91Anna looked up suddenly with a gleam of light in her
eyes; but her head drooped on the moment, and she
answered sadly.
“I feel that he is dead! If he were alive, there would
be some warmth here.”
A carriage waited near the entrance of the fair, and
young Savage lifted her in. Then he made way for
Robert, and when the lad hesitated, took him up bodily
and landed him on the front seat. It was a gloomy
ride; few words were spoken, and those were lost in
sobs.
“How can I tell her? Oh! it will kill my grandmother.
He was her only son—all she had in the wide,
wide world.”
Savage took the two hands which Anna clasped in
her lap, and pressed them between his.
“Shall I tell her for you?” he said, gently.
“No; that would be cruel.”
“I—I will do it,” sobbed Robert, who was huddled up
in a corner of the carriage. “It is my place, for I am
all the man left to take care of her. When there is any
thing hard to do, I must do it; and I will.”
“That is a brave boy,” said Savage.
“No, sir, I’m not brave. I tremble all over at the
thought of telling her; but I’ll do it,” sobbed the boy.
“Poor little Joseph, too; how he will feel when he
knows how it is. Oh, sir! you’d be sorry for little
Joseph, if you knew how miserable this will make him.
He won’t eat a morsel for days and days. He’s so delicate—Joseph
is—like a girl.”
“Yes, Robert, I can understand that,” said Savage.
92“It is all very pitiful; but, remember, your father died
for his country!”
“Oh! I wish it had been me—I wish it had been me,”
cried the boy, with a fresh outburst of grief.
They were at the door now, close by the gloomy
entrance of that tenement-house, which was darker than
ever to those unhappy young creatures. Savage went
with them to the door. There he hesitated, reluctant
to leave them. He feared to intrude on their grief.
“Shall I bid you good-night?” he said, addressing
Robert rather than Anna.
“Let us go up alone,” said the boy, shivering. “Good-night,
sir; Anna and I had better go up alone. We thank
you all the same.”
Young Savage watched them sadly as they went up
the dark staircase, hand-in-hand, slowly and mournfully,
like criminals mounting a gallows. The young man’s
heart went with them every step; and he returned home
with strange tenderness brooding in all his thoughts.
Up one flight of stairs after another those two young
creatures crept, pausing more than once to cling together
and comfort each other. At last they reached the door
of the room, and stood there breathless, without daring
to turn the latch. A glow of light came through the
crevices, and they could hear the childish voice of little
Joseph chatting to his grandmother with unusual glee.
“Hark! I think I hear ’em; something stirred outside,”
they heard him saying. “I’ll open the door—I’ll
open the door.”
They heard the quick patter of his feet coming that
way, and turned the latch.
“There, didn’t I say so? Here they are! Look,
93Anna! look at grandma in her new shawl. I made her
put it on; and the cap, too. Isn’t she grand? Isn’t
she just the handsomest, darlingest old grandma——”
“Joseph, dear,” said the old lady, “hush! hush! or
we’ll never let you go out again.”
“But isn’t she splendid?” cried the boy; “and just
look at me. A pocket here, and here, in the trousers,
too; bright buttons everywhere. Oh! how I love that
old man! Why, we’ve got a pint of peanuts left!
Don’t she look like a lady?”
It was, indeed, a bright contrast from the dark staircase,
and from the usual gloom of the apartment.
Joseph had lighted two tallow-candles, and kindled a
good fire, by which he had been a full hour admiring his
grandmother, who had the soft worsted shawl over her
shoulders, and a cap of delicate lace on her head. She
did, in truth, look like a lady, every inch of her.
Joseph, also, was resplendent in his new clothes; the
very buttons seemed to illuminate the poverty of the
room with gleams of gold.
“I tell you what we’ll do,” said the happy child,
pointing to his old garments piled on a chair, with the
frontless cap lying on the top. “We’ll give those things
to some poor boy that hasn’t got friends to take him to
fairs and put him in pictures, like us. We mustn’t be
mean, if we are rich.”
Robert went away to a corner of the room, and pretended
to be very busy untying the bundle which held
his own old clothes; but his hand shook so violently
that he gave it up, and stood looking mournfully at his
grandmother, with no heart to speak.
Anna was a long time in taking off her shawl and
94bonnet. She was afraid of revealing the sorrow that
seemed to have turned her face into marble. Robert
saw how she shrank away and shivered when those kind
old eyes were turned upon her. He was, in truth, a
brave boy, even with that terrible sense of desolation
upon him. Lifting up his young head, and choking
back the sobs that swelled in his throat, he went up to
that dear old woman.
“Grandmother,” he said, laying one hand on her
shoulder, and bending his face to meet her startled
glance, for his voice troubled her, “grandmother, let
me put my arms around you and lay your head on my
shoulder. It reaches high enough. I am almost a man
now. Let me kiss you, grandmother.”
She lifted up her sweet, old face, and the boy kissed
it, his lips quivering all the time.
“Grandmother!”
“Well, darling!”
“Grandmother!”
“What is the matter, Robert? This has been such a
pleasant night; but you seem troubled—what is it?”
The boy fell down upon his knees, and cried out in a
wild burst of grief. “Oh, Anna, Anna! tell her that
our father is killed! I cannot do it. Oh, I cannot!”
Anna came forward and fell on her knees by his side;
but she said nothing, the mournful truth had struck
home in the passionate words which Robert had uttered.
The old woman clasped her withered hands quickly,
and held them a moment locked and still. Then her
head fell back, her meek eyes closed, and two great
tears broke from under the lashes, and quivered away
among the wrinkles on her cheeks. Her lips moved
95faintly; and the children, who knelt with their awe-stricken
faces lifted piteously to hers, knew that she
was praying.
Little Joseph crept close to his grandmother, and
stole his arm around her neck. She bent down her
head and rested it against his, praying still.
Never, in this world, was grief so intense, and yet so
noiseless. At last the old woman unlocked her hands,
and laid them on the young heads bowed before her.
“Children,” she said, in her meek, low voice, “God
knows best what is good for us.”
“Oh, grandmother!” cried Robert, “shall we ever
see him again?”
“All—all; and I very soon,” answered the old lady.
“Oh, grandma! don’t talk so; we could not live without
you,” said Anna, in a burst of tender grief.
“Remember, my darlings, when death divides a
family, it is not forever. How lonely it would be if no
one we love were on the other side of the grave to meet
us when we go there.”
“All the brave soldiers that died on that battle-field
will bear him company,” said Robert.
“And mother—will she be there to meet him?” said
little Joseph, in a low voice. “I remember her so well!”
Anna lifted her face from her grandmother’s lap, and,
reaching up her lips, kissed the child.
“Yes, Joseph, dear, they are together now. It is
only their poor children who are lonely.”
“And grandmother!” said Joseph.
“Grandmother can live or die, as God wills,” answered
that meek, old woman. “Here, she has three dear,
dear grandchildren. There, she has them.”
96The children had almost stopped weeping. There
was something almost holy in the calm of that gentle
woman’s grief that subdued theirs into sadness.
“He died for his country!” said Robert, with a gleam
of pride. “Died bravely, I know.”
“How glad mother must have been when he came,”
whispered Joseph. “I wonder if they thought of us.”
“They will never cease thinking of us, darlings,”
said Anna. “God help us! we are not alone. Thousands
of helpless children are made orphans with us,
all mourning as we do.”
“Oh! how sorry I am for them!” cried Robert.
“Some may be little babies, with no brother that can do
things to take care of them. You are better off than
that, grandmother.”
“I dare say a great many are in a worse condition
than we are, child. Some have no friends. Let us be
thankful and patient.”
“Yes, grandmother, we will.”
“Now go to bed, boys, and try to sleep.”
“May we say our prayers here—the closet is so
dark?”
“Yes, dear!”
“Will he know it? Will he hear us?” whispered
Joseph.
“Yes, darling, I think so; I am sure of it.”
“That is almost like having him here,” was the gentle
answer.
“He is here,” said Anna, smiling through her tears,
“my heart is so still and quiet. It seems as if a
dove were brooding over it.”
CHAPTER VII. THE UNCLE FLEECED.
97
Two young men sat in the parlor of the Continental.
It was after dark, and the chandelier was lighted over a
small, round dinner-table, spread elaborately, at which
the two young men had just completed a sumptuous
repast.
They had both taken segars, as a luxurious conclusion
to the meal; and, leaning back in the coziest of Turkish
chairs, were chatting socially together, while clouds of
thin purplish smoke curled and eddied lazily over the
rich confusion of the table, where fruit glowing in silver
baskets; claret jugs cut into sharp ridges of light like
splintered ice; tiny glasses, amber-hued, green, or ruby
red, half full of rich wines from many a choice vintage,
were crowded close and huddled together like jewels on
a queen’s toilet. Here and there the glossy whiteness
of the tablecloth was stained, like a map, with a little
sea of pink champagne, or oceans of claret, proving that
there had been some unsteadiness of the hand at the
latter portion of the banquet. Indeed, the cheeks of
these two young men were hotly flushed with scarlet,
which glowed through the smoke as it curled from their
lips.
“So you are at last taken in and done for?” said one
of the men, flirting the ashes from his segar with a little
finger, on which a small diamond glittered like a spark
of fire. “I don’t believe you are in earnest yet, and
shan’t till you’ve slept on it at least forty-eight hours.
98What kind of an angel is she—blonde, or brunette,
petite, or queenly?”
“No matter about that, Ward. I have no taste for
showing up a woman’s points as if she were a racehorse.
She is beautiful, and that should satisfy you.”
“But who is she?”
“That is the question. She is somebody that Madam
Savage chooses to patronize without deigning to make
explanations.”
“Did she introduce you?”
“Why, hardly. She just named us to each other, and
hurried us off into a tableau, where I found myself
kneeling to one of the loveliest creatures you ever saw,
whose duty it was to scorn and avoid me with a tragic
threat of throwing herself down a battlement of pasteboard
at least six feet from the floor. Upon my soul,
Ward, she was so beautiful in that position that I could
have knelt forever, just to keep her in that one graceful
poise; but in the midst of my enchantment away she
plunged over the battlement, breaking up the picture in
a twinkling, and leaving me on my knees startled out
of my wits. The curtain fell, and all was confusion for
a time. Before I could get out of the darkness, the girl
was gone. I waited half an hour about the scene, hoping
that she would appear again. She did come at last,
but young Savage was with her, looking confoundedly
handsome and tender. I could have knocked the fellow
down with a will.”
“Did you see where they went?”
“Into a carriage—the madam’s own carriage—no
hack. There was a boy with them, too.”
“That looks respectable.”
99“But her dress, when she came out, was poor; a
brown merino, or something of that sort, with a straw
bonnet, pretty, but out of fashion.”
“And you wish to know something of this girl?”
“I will know something of her.”
“Why not ask Savage?”
“I tell you, the fellow loves her himself. I saw it in
his eyes as he looked under that outre little bonnet.”
“And you?”
“Don’t question me in that way, Ward. Of course,
I’m deucedly in love with her. You must find her out
for me by some means.”
“That would be easy, if I were intimate with Mrs.
Savage’s coachman. He would of course know where
he drove the party.”
“Well, get intimate with the fellow.”
“I will think about it; but now to other business.
You haven’t a check for a thousand about you—or two
five hundred notes in greenbacks? That was about the
amount of your losses the other night.”
“What, was it so much? I had no idea of it. No,
my bank account has run down to nothing; and as for
ready money, I dare not trust myself with it. This
filmy paper is so handy to light segars with. One does
that sort of thing occasionally. I did the other night.
But I’ll tell you what, Ward, instead of paying you the
thousand, I’ll introduce you to a fellow that’s throwing
away his money like wild-fire, thousands on thousands
in a week. One of those petroleum chaps, with wells
that gush up fortunes in a day.”
“And what is the fellow doing here?”
“Spending his money.”
100“Thank you for the offer of an introduction; but
Gould, upon my word, I am in want of ready money.”
“My dear fellow, so am I.”
“I must have it!”
“Indeed, I hope you will not be disappointed.”
Gould leaned back as he spoke, rested his head on
the crimson curve of his cozy chair, and emitted a soft
curl of smoke from his finely-cut lips.
“Now, Gould, this is too bad,” said Ward, impatiently.
“Remember, this is a debt of honor.”
“Can’t help it, my dear fellow! Haven’t got ready
cash enough to pay for these segars; to say nothing of
the wine, and so forth, that a fellow must have.”
“But there is your uncle. He refuses you nothing.”
“Hark! that is his step; speak of—— Ah! my
dear uncle, I am so glad to see you. Called at the
house this morning, but you were out.”
The person who entered to receive this greeting, was
the old man whom we have seen at his dinner in that
solitary house, and who afterward gave so much happiness
to the soldier’s orphans in the fair. He entered
the room with a grim smile on his face, and stood near
the door a moment with his brows bent, and his sharp
eyes turned upon the sumptuous disarray of that dinner-table.
The smile on his thin lip turned to a sneer as he
took in the picture. Tiny birds, with their bones half
picked; fragments of a delicious dessert; and all that
rich coloring of half-drained wine-glasses, gave an idea
of satiety at a glance, which brought out the disagreeable
points in the old man’s character, and brought the color
to Gould’s face.
“Take this seat, uncle,” cried Gould, starting up,
101eager to divert the old man’s attention from the debris
of his little feast. “You will find it comfortable. Let
me take charge of your hat and cane.”
The old man looked at his nephew with a sharp gleam
of the eye, and drawing a chair to the table, laid his hat
and cane on the carpet. Then he took up the glasses,
one after another, and tasted their contents with great
deliberation, occasionally pouring a little from the bottles
and decanters, while he muttered to himself, “Champagne,
Burgundy, sherry, claret, old Madeira, and the
Lord knows what, with roasted canary birds, and peaches
of ice by way of substantials. Wholesome eating for a
young man.”
Gould pushed his chair away, and came to the table;
all his indolent composure gone, and with the hot-red
of a school-boy on his handsome cheeks.
“Shall I ring, uncle? Will you try one of these birds
served hot? They are very fine.”
“No; thank you, nephew; they are too expensive
eating for an old fellow like me.”
“Too expensive for you, uncle—the idea amuses me.”
“Remember, young gentleman,” said the old millionaire,
with grim pleasantry, “that I have no rich uncle
to depend on. A moderate glass of port, or claret, now
and then, is as much as I can afford. But, then, it is so
different with you.”
Gould bent over the old man’s chair, and whispered
with deprecating humility,
“Uncle, don’t be so hard upon me before my friend.”
“Your friend!” repeated the old man, aloud. “So
this is one of your friends. Let me take a good look at
him.”
102With cruel deliberation he took out a pair of gold
spectacles, fitted them to his eyes, and searched Ward
from head to foot with one of his sharp, prolonged
glances. The young fellow colored, winced, and at last
turned fairly around in his chair, muttering, “Hang the
old fellow! his eyes seize on me like a pair of pincers.”
“Gould,” said the uncle, folding up his glasses, and
shutting them in their steel case with a loud snap of the
spring, “Gould, I congratulate you.”
“What for, uncle?”
“That this exquisite young gentleman is your friend.
He does credit to your choice—great credit. Such
honors do not often drop into our humble way. Sir, I
am your servant.”
The old satirist arose, and making a profound bow,
sat down again, where he could see Ward’s face burning
like fire.
“I found your note at the counting-house, Gould,
speaking of the serious nature of your illness, and came
up to see if a consultation of doctors would be necessary.”
“That was written this morning when I was seriously
ill. You remember, Ward?”
“Oh, yes! Upon my honor, sir, Gould was desperate
with—with a—that is, neuralgia in the head. You
would have been quite concerned about him. We tried
chloroform—a great thing that chloroform. Did you
ever try it, sir?”
“So the chloroform cured my nephew. I am delighted
to hear it. That is it upon the mantle-piece, I
dare say. Give me a little.”
The old tormentor pointed to a flask of Bohemian
103glass, dashed with gold, that stood on the mantle-piece.
“That, uncle? Oh! that is extract of violet. It
sometimes serves to carry off a headache better than
any thing else. Will you try it?”
The old man held out his hand for the bottle; took a
great red silk handkerchief from his pocket, and emptied
half the extract into its folds, scenting the room like a
violet bank in May.
“Your note, Gould, asked for money—an unusual
thing; so unusual, that I brought the check in my
pocket.”
At the mention of a check, Ward started round in his
chair, and fixed a hungry glance on that hard, old face.
A check! His thousand dollars might not be so very
far off, after all.
Gould bent eagerly over his uncle’s chair.
“You are too good, uncle. I—I——”
“Oh! not at all, Gould. You deserve all that I am
going to do for you—richly deserve it. Give me a light
while I sign the check; thank you. There now, see
how careless. You haven’t a stamp about you, I fear.”
“Oh, yes!” cried Ward. “Here is one.”
He reached over in handing the stamp, and caught a
glance at the amount.
“By Jove! it’s for two thousand!” he said, inly.
“Gould shall go halves before I leave him.”
The old man smiled one of his iron smiles as he
pressed the stamp in its place. Then he signed the
check, with a broad, old-fashioned flourish under the name.
“Will that do?” he asked, lifting his face to that of
his nephew, who bent over his shoulder delighted.
104“Is the figure large enough?”
“Oh, uncle! It is more than I dared hope for.”
“Not at all, Gould. Remember, I filled it in thinking
you ill. No, no! do not put out the taper yet. What
a pretty stand you have for it; filigree gold, as I am a
miserly old sinner. That makes a pretty blaze, doesn’t
it?”
Gould made a snatch at the check, but it was in a
light blaze; and the old man held it till it burned down
to his fingers, and fell in black flakes over the taper, and
the daintily warm gold that held it.
Ward jumped up from his chair with an oath on his
lips. Gould turned white, and staggered back.
“Uncle, uncle! I owed every dollar of that money,”
he cried out. “My honor is at stake.”
The old man picked up his hat and cane with silent
deliberation.
“Sir. Sir, I say! Gould owes me half the money;
and, by Jove! I must have it,” cried Ward.
“Owes you! What for?”
This curt question made the young gambler start and
bethink himself.
“What for? What for? Why for money I lent him
the other night for the Soldier’s Fair. That nephew of
yours, sir, is one of the most benevolent, tender-hearted
fellows that the sun ever shone on. That night he met
me in front of the fair, really distressed.
“‘Ward,’ said he—my name is Ward, sir. Gould
forgot to present me, but Ward is my name—‘Ward,’
said he, ‘I’ve just done a foolish thing. You’ll say so,
when I tell you what it is——’
“Said I, interrupting him, ‘I’ll lay five to one that
105you’ve been at your old tricks—emptying both pockets
to help some miserable soldier’s family out of trouble.
But it’s in you, this tender-heartedness; and all I can
say will never drive it out.’
“‘No,’ says Gould, ‘you’re wrong there. It is no
family this time; but you know a draft has been made.’
“‘Yes, I know,’ said I, ‘and you have been drawn.’
“‘Wrong again,’ says your nephew. ‘But every man
owes a life to his country. I cannot serve; it would
break my dear uncle’s heart should I be killed; and he
is too good a man for me to give him one moment’s
pain.’ I beg your pardon, Gould, for saying this; but
truth will out, and your uncle will forgive me.
“‘Well, what have you done?’ said I.
“‘Simply this,’ replied Gould, blushing like a girl.
‘I’ve given every cent that I have on hand to a brave
fellow to take my place in the ranks and fight my battles.
It’s a mean way of doing things; but I could not
leave my uncle, not—not even for my country; and
Burns was determined to go.’”
“Who? What name did you say?” cried the old
man, grasping his cane hard.
“Burns, sir. Burns was the name I used.”
“A man who left two boys, a young girl, and an old
woman behind to suffer while he fought? Was that the
person?”
“Yes, sir; no doubt of it. Gould would never tell
you of it; but these were the facts.”
“How long was this ago?”
“I—I—how long was it, Gould? I know when you
told me, but it was before that.”
106“I cannot say. All this is unauthorized, sir. I never
dreamed that he would tell this story. Indeed——”
“I cannot say the exact time,” cut in Ward; “and
he won’t. But it was long enough ago to keep him in
hot water month after month. You have been very liberal
to him, I know, sir; but it has all gone that way.
‘Soldiers’ widows, soldiers’ children—they must be fed,’
he argues. ‘What if these things do plunge me in
debt; if my uncle knew, he would not condemn me.’
“‘Then tell him,’ said I; ‘tell him at once, and relieve
yourself from all embarrassment.’
“‘No,’ he said, ‘that would be making him responsible;
that would be forcing my charities on him. Only
help me, as a friend should, and I will find my way out
of this trouble. He is generous—munificent—this good
uncle of mine, let men say what they please. Some day
he will give me all the money I want; and while he
thinks that I spend it in extravagance, perhaps, I shall
have the satisfaction of knowing where it goes, and who
it helps.’
“The very day that your nephew told me this I lent
him a thousand dollars; five hundred of that sum went
for subscriptions in less than an hour. The rest would
have been given to a family that composed the most
touching picture of distress that I ever saw—but I prevented
it. I would not let him go home penniless.”
“Was it a tableau within the fair? Did an old woman—a
lady, every inch of her—sit in the picture?
Was there a young girl, and two boys—bright, handsome
little fellows—crouching at her feet?”
The old man asked these questions eagerly. His
107hand worked around the top of his staff; his eyes kindled
under those bent brows.
“Yes, sir. Yes, that is the very family.”
“And you gave the father of this family a thousand
dollars when he went to the wars, Gould?”
Gould shook his head. “I did not say so, uncle.
I never would have told you so.”
Ward broke in upon him with breathless haste.
“But he did it, sir—he did it.”
“I saw this family. I was at the fair that night,”
said the old man, with a touch of pathos in his voice.
“Can you tell me where they live?”
“No, I cannot. Doubtless they have been moving
from place to place since then, as poverty sent them.”
“But with that money they should not have been so
poor,” said the old man with a return of keen intelligence.
“But it did not go to them, sir,” said Ward, hastily.
“This man Burns was deep in debt, and the money
went to clear him.”
“Ward! Ward!” exclaimed Gould, starting up;
“this is too much. I will not permit it.”
“Be silent, Gould!—be silent! I ought to know this.
You should have told me yourself; perhaps I should
have been glad to help you,” interposed the uncle, with
strange gentleness in his voice. “I may condemn such
extravagance as this. I do condemn and repudiate it
utterly. Extravagance is always wicked, coarse, unbearable.
I was angry——”
“Not with your nephew, I trust, for that which is
altogether my fault,” interposed Ward. “I confess to
it, my tastes are ruinously luxurious. Gould would
108never have thought of any thing so absurd; but I was
lonely, and asked leave to share his parlor awhile. The
unfortunate dinner was served by my order, and at my
expense. As for the pretty gimcracks, it is my fancy.
I like to have such things around me. But, my dear
sir, you must not think me effeminate and worthless,
for all that.”
The old man’s face brightened wonderfully after this
speech. He dropped his cane and placed his hat on the
carpet once more.
“Bring back the pen and ink! Give me another
stamp! Here, Gould, take that. But, remember, find
out where this family lives. I wish to know—I must
know.”
Gould took the check, which rattled like a dead leaf
in the old man’s hand.
“Uncle! uncle!” he said, “I ought not to take this;
I have no right.”
The old man snatched up his hat and cane, while these
honest words were on his nephew’s lips, and left the
room.
When he was gone, Ward snatched the check from
Gould, and leaping on the seat of his chair, brandished
it on high.
“What author ever got so much for a single romance,
I wonder!” he cried. “I say, Gould, I must turn my
attention to literature, or the stage. Did ever a lie out
of whole cloth tell so famously. Pour out bumpers, my
fine fellow, and let us drink the old fellow’s health!”
“Be silent, sir!” Gould’s voice trembled with passion.
There was too much good in him for a relish of
such companionship, when it took that form of broad
109dishonesty. “Be silent, sir! if you would not have me
hate you, and myself also.”
With these hot words the young men parted.
CHAPTER VIII. BRAVE YOUNG HEARTS.
The orphan brothers sat together under the shadow
of a garden wall, talking with earnest energy, as if
their young lives were in the subject under discussion.
A tender sadness lay on their faces; tears now and
then broke through their words; and more than once
their small hands clasped lovingly, as if companionship
gave sweetness even to grief. A carriage drove by as
they talked, scattering drops of mud on the sleeve of
Joseph’s jacket. Robert brushed it off with great care,
and patted the child on his shoulder in finishing.
“Now you see how it is, Joe, you and I are the men
of the family. Grandma is splendid at mending and
darning, and making things go a long way; but she
can’t earn money. So it all comes on sister Anna.
Isn’t she a beautiful darling? Wasn’t she stupendous
that night in the turban and red velvet jacket?”
“She’s always good and handsome,” said Joseph,
with touching simplicity; “but I like her best in that
brown dress and the straw bonnet. She didn’t quite
seem like our sister in the other things.”
“But she outshone every one of them, Joseph.”
110“Yes, I know; but yet she wasn’t exactly like our
sister Anna.”
“I was proud of her. It did me good to walk by her
side. I tell you, Joseph, Anna was born for a lady.”
“So was grandma. She is a lady.”
“She’s a dear, old blessed grandma, she is!” cried
Robert. “If it hadn’t been for her my heart would
have burst. It was wonderful how she quieted us all
down. I wonder if the angels are more still and sweet
than she is? Oh, Joseph! it isn’t many soldiers’ children
that have a woman like that to comfort them when
bad news comes; but we came out here all alone to have
a sort of private convention about things in general.
As I was saying, Anna is too pretty for a working-girl;
men turn round and look at her in the street when she
goes out. I’ve seen it, and it made me so mad that I’ve
longed to knock them down. Once I did stamp on a
big fellow’s boots, and it did me good to hear him cry
out, ‘Oh!’ He never knew why it was done; but I
knew, and his Oh! made me dance with joy on the pavement.
What business have strangers to be looking at
her?”
“She doesn’t mind ’em—she doesn’t know it herself,”
said Joseph, lifting his soft eyes appealingly, as if some
one had been blaming him. “She never looks up, nor
seems to notice.”
“I know that. Of course, she doesn’t. I’m not saying
she does; but she’s very, very pretty, Joseph—too
pretty for a poor man’s child; and now that she’s only
a poor soldier’s orphan, who will take care of her, if we
don’t?”
“But I am so small, I shouldn’t even dare to stamp
111on a big fellow’s boots. It isn’t her fault if she’s so
pretty, you know, Robert. I dare say she’d help it if
she could.”
“This isn’t exactly an idea of mine,” answered Robert.
“I never should have had the sense to think of it,
but I heard father grieve about Anna being so handsome
before he went away to that glorious death of his!
It troubled him then—and it troubles me now.”
“Still I like to see her so pretty,” said Joseph, smiling,
“it makes my heart swell here.”
Joseph put one hand on his breast, and sighed, as
sensitive people will, over a remembrance of beauty in
any thing.
“Well, brother, it is natural. I love grandma for
her beauty, too. Other people, I dare say, think her a
little, old woman; but I know there is something more
than that, just as I feel when a rose is near by its scent.
How lovely she looked that night when we knelt around
her! Anna is pretty—but grandma looks so good.
Her beauty seems to have turned to light, which shines
from her eyes and makes her old mouth so lovely. I
can’t just say what I mean, Joseph, but there is something
about grandma that is sweeter than beauty.”
Joseph had lifted his young face to that of his more
ardent brother, with a look of tender interest in all that
he was saying that seemed beyond his years.
“Yes,” he said, with a sigh, “I feel that when grandma
looks at me. Besides, she never hurts one. Her
hand is so soft and light, it seems like a bird’s wing
brushing you. Then she steps so softly. Dear, old
grandma!”
The boys looked into each other’s faces, and saw dimly
112though unbidden tears, of which the elder was instantly
ashamed.
“Why, Joseph, this is children’s play. We came here
to talk like men, not whimper like babies. Wipe up—wipe
up! that’s a brave little fellow, and let us go to
business at once.”
“Well, I’m ready,” answered Joseph, wiping his eyes.
“What shall we say next?”
“Joseph, these two lovely women—for they are lovely,
we both agree on that—have got to live. All hopes
from our brave father is dead and gone.”
“I know it! Oh! I know it!”
“Don’t cry, Joseph—that is, if you can possibly help
it; but listen. You and I must support the family.”
“You and I? Oh, Robert! think what a little shaver
I am!”
“Yet, I’ve thought of that over and over again; but
in this world there is something that every one can do.
Think how soon little chickens begin to scratch up worms
for themselves.”
“Yes, Robert; but then the worms are about, and
they know where to find ’em.”
“So is money about, and we must learn how to find
it.”
“But what can I do? Studying double lessons won’t
bring money, or I’d get them every night of my life.”
“No,” said Robert; “we can have no more school.”
“No more school?”
“Both of us must go to work in earnest.”
“I will be in earnest—but how?”
“Joseph Burns, I’m going to make a newsboy of
you.”
113“A newsboy of me?”
Joseph was absolutely frightened, his eyes grew large,
his lips trembled. “Of me?”
“Yes, little brother. It must be a splendid business.
I saw one of those chaps with a whole jacket full of
money; besides, it’s a healthy occupation, and leads into
a literary way of life.”
“I—I would try it, Robert, if I only knew how to
begin,” faltered the gentle child, with tears in his eyes.
“Begin! Why you’d learn in no time.”
“Would I?”
“Of course; why not?—and bring home your fifty
cents a day, clear profit, in less than no time.”
“I—I’ll try, of course. I’ll do my best.”
“Why, how you shake! Do keep that poor little
mouth still. Nobody’s going to hurt you, Joseph,
dear.”
“But—but have I got voice enough?”
“Voice! You little trooper, I should think you had.
Can’t you yell, oh! no?”
Joseph laughed through his tears.
“I’d like to do it.”
“Well, that’s settled. As for the schooling, grandma
is a lady, and could teach, if they ever let old ladies
do that. Why, she’s grand in figures, and writes beautifully.
You shall study with her night and morning—so
will I. Work shall not cheat us out of our education,
you know.”
Joseph began to brighten up considerably after this
suggestion. He had his dreams, poor boy, and loved
books with a passionate longing. The very idea that
114boys sold a species of literature, went far to reconcile
him with their noisy pursuit.
“Yes,” he said, cheerfully, “that would be almost
like school.”
“Besides all that,” persisted Robert, “a boy that has
learned to read and write, who can cipher a little, and
so on, must be a poor creature if he can’t teach himself.
Reading and spelling is the key which unlocks every
thing else.”
“Besides, I can read the newspapers at odd times,”
said Joseph.
“Certainly you can. But I tell you what, Joe, if
there comes news of a battle, and any poor boy looks
at you longingly, hand out a paper for nothing. I know
what it is—I know what it is.”
“I’d do that—you know I would. But, Robert, I
wish you were going along. How we would make the
streets ring.”
“I’m thinking of something else, Joseph. If that
fails, perhaps I shall take the lead with you.”
“What are you thinking of, brother?”
“You know that old man, Joseph?”
“Yes, I know—how can you and I ever forget him?”
answered Joseph, glancing proudly down at his new
clothes.
“I mean to offer myself at his place of business as
an errand-boy, or something like that. I think he
rather liked us, Joseph.”
“Yes, he did; I’m sure of that.”
“Well, I shall only ask for work.”
“So I would, Robert; and I’ll come down every day
with the papers, you know.”
115“That’ll be jolly. Hark! there comes a fellow along.
What a voice he has! Splendid business for the lungs.
I’ll make a man of you, Joe.”
The newsboy came up the side-walk, calling out his
papers, and looking lazily from window to window.
He had nothing very special that day, and was taking
the world easy, scorning to lay out all his powers for less
than a battle of fifty thousand strong. He came opposite
the two boys, who were watching him so earnestly,
and, thinking that they might be in want of a paper,
crossed over to where they sat.
“Want a paper—morning Ledger?”
“No, no! we were only talking about papers; not in
the least wishing to buy them,” said Joseph, blushing
crimson.
“Oh! that’s all,” said the boy, settling the bundle of
papers under his arm, and resting one shoulder against
the wall. “Seen you afore, haven’t I, my jolly rover?
Wanted me to sell you a paper for half price one night?
I remember them eyes of yourn. Jerusalem, didn’t
they look wild!”
“I—I was so anxious, so——”
“Don’t talk about it. I feel the blood biling into my
face only with the thought. I never was so mean before,
and don’t expect to be agin. Will you take half a
dozen Ledgers now, and make up? I went back to
give you one. You won’t believe me, but I did—you’d
gone, though. Didn’t get a wink of sleep that night,
I felt so mean. ‘What if his father was in that battle?’
says I to myself. ‘What if he wanted to look over the
list, and hadn’t got another copper? You’re a beast,’
said I to myself; ‘a brute beast of the meanest kind!
116A generous Newfoundland dog, now, would a given that
boy the paper without a cent; but you—oh! get away,
a kennel is too good for you!’ That was the way I
pitched into myself all night long; but I got over it.
Business was good, and it drove sich idees out of my
head. But the sight of you here, huddled agin the wall,
like two rabbits in a box, riled me up agin myself
again. If you don’t want the paper, suppose we go
round the corner and pitch into a pile of oysters.
Sales are slack, and a feller may as well enjoy himself.
Besides, I shall feel amost friendly with myself again
if you’ll let me treat once. Precious nice mince-pies to
be had if oysters don’t suit that little shaver, and sich
peanuts.”
Robert got up and took Joseph by the hand. “Yes,
we will go,” he said. “My brother, here, is thinking
of the literary business for himself; and I’d like to talk
with some one who understands it.”
“The what?” asked the newsboy, opening his mouth
in vague astonishment. “What business did you say
he was thinking of?”
“Selling newspapers.”
“That delicate little trooper, with eyes like a girl’s,
and lips that tremble if you look at him. He’d never
do!—never!”
“But he is strong; runs like a deer, and shouts like
any thing,” said Robert.
The newsboy faced Joseph squarely, and examined
him with keen attention.
“Handsome as a picture,” he muttered; “and looks
as if he could run. Just give a holler, my boy; I want
to know how far a gentleman could hear you if he was
117shut up and shaving himself for church on Sunday
morning.”
Joseph stood up, half frightened to death, and gave
out a dismal cry, while his face turned from crimson to
white in the attempt.
“Don’t be afraid, we ain’t a college faculty, we aint.
There’s voice enough in the little codger’s chest, if he
wasn’t too scared to let it out. Now let’s see your fist
clenched—savagely, remember.”
Joseph clenched his right hand into as formidable a
fist as he could make of the delicate material, and held
it out.
“Whew!” exclaimed the newsboy, with a comical
glance at the tiny fist. “Wouldn’t knock down a
canary bird; but mine will—so what’s the use talking.”
“It’s small, but I’m strong,” Joseph burst forth.
“Ask Robert if I haven’t pummelled him splendidly.
If anybody was to hurt him, now, wouldn’t I fight!”
“It ain’t to be expected that you could do a great
deal among the boys; but they’re generous, as a common
thing, and only pitch into fellers that can pitch back;
besides, I’m on hand, and they know me.”
“And you’d be kind to him?” said Robert. “He’s
all the brother I’ve got; and you see what a tender,
nice little fellow he is. We’ve got a sister and a grandmother
to support, and we mean to do it, Joe and I do.
Don’t we Joe?”
Joseph lifted his flushed face and sparkling eyes to
the tall newsboy.
“Yes, we mean to do it, and we will,” he said, with
gentle firmness.
The tall boy threw up his bundle of papers, and
118caught it again as it whirled downward, in evidence of
his warm approval.
“That’s the time o’day! Here’s the right sort of
stuff done up in little parcels,” he shouted. “Now look
here, you feller,” he added, turning to Robert, “I’ll
enter into a sort of partnership with you, and we’ll join
hands on it at once. I’ll take this little chap under my
wing, and set him a going in the business. How much
money can you put in?”
“Three dollars,” answered Robert.
“That isn’t a stunning capital; but then I began and
set myself up on fifty cents—but that was in specie
times. What I was going to say is this, I’ll stand by
this little feller tooth and nail. I’ll take him down to
the press-rooms myself, and get his stock put up; and
if any of the old stagers attempt to hustle him, or sich
like, because he wears bright buttons, and looks like a
gentleman’s son, let ’em try it, that’s all. They’ve felt
the weight of these mud-grapplers afore this, and know
how much there is in ’em. Why, I’ve been in the business
three years; but these extra times is a wearing me
out, and my run grows longer and broader every day.
He shall have a part of it—all the fancy work. Why
them eyes, looking up to the windows where ladies sit
in their muslin dresses and ribbons in the afternoon,
would set ’em to beckoning you up the steps like fifty.
They don’t take to tall fellows like me, as women ought
to. Yes, yes! I’ll give you the fancy work, and no mistake.
My! what purty girls I’ve seen looking out of
the parlor doors when some gentleman has beckoned
me into the hall. Molly! they’d let you go right in—shouldn’t
wonder a bit!”
119“I—I should rather not,” said Joseph, shrinking modestly
from this magnificent idea. “Excepting grandma
and Anna, I don’t know much about ladies.”
“Live and learn! Live and learn! I only wish them
eyes and that face belonged to me, wouldn’t I make ’em
bring in the coppers and five cent greenbacks. But
then you are a little fellow, and don’t know the value
of such things.”
“I only want to earn money for them,” said Joseph.
“I’m little, and don’t know a great deal; but if you
will be kind enough to let me run with you a day or
so, then, perhaps, I might learn.”
“And what are you going into?” asked the newsboy,
addressing Robert.
“I—I was thinking of going into the mercantile way,”
answered Robert, blushing crimson; “an errand-boy,
or something of that sort.”
“Know how to read?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Fine print, and all?”
“Yes, all kinds of print.”
“You don’t say so. Next thing you’ll be telling me
that you can write.”
“Write? Of course I can! Don’t I look old
enough?”
“Old enough? Why I’m twice your size.”
“And can’t write?” inquired Robert.
“Not a pot-hook; tried once, but broke down on the
z’s—couldn’t curl ’em up to save my life; but I can
count, and read headings—and that’s enough for the
business. But you’re bound to be a gentleman, anybody
can see that; sich an edecation isn’t to be flung
120away on the street. What if I know the place what
would suit you?”
“No, you don’t say that?” cried Robert, beaming
with hope.
“But I do, though. Gould & Co. wants a boy. I’ve
got acquainted with the old gentleman within the last
few days. He buys lots of papers—every extra.
Anxious about somebody, I reckon. The other day
he came after me full chisel, with his hat off, and the
wind whistling through his gray hair like sixty. The
way he snatched at my papers and pitched a dollar bill,
into my hand, was exciting. Wouldn’t stop for the
change—a thing I never knew of him in my whole
life—but hurried back, and shut the door of his great,
dark house with a bang.”
“Poor man!” said Robert, mournfully; “perhaps he
had a son, or some one, in the army, that he loved.”
“Just as likely as not,” continued the newsboy, “for,
as I was going round the block a second time, he came
out of his house looking as white as a ghost. I saw
his face plain by the street lamp; and he went off
almost upon a run, like a crazy man. Something had
struck him right on the heart, I’m sure of that. But
come along, if you have a mind to try your luck with
the old feller. I’ll trust this little shaver with my papers
till we come back.”
CHAPTER IX. THE NEWSBOY.
121
Little Joseph received the bundle of newspapers
offered to him, flushing crimson under the trust—and
the two lads went off together.
“Don’t go off the block,” said the newsboy, looking
over his shoulder. “Walk up and down, and who knows
but a little business may drop in.”
Joseph nodded, smiled, and settled the bundle of
papers under his arm; at which the boy gave an encouraging
flourish of the hand, and disappeared around
the corner; while Robert paused a moment, and sent
more than one anxious glance back upon his brother.
Joseph waited till they were both out of sight, then
gathered up his courage and began marching up and
down the side-walk with a bold step, but stopped still,
and turned his eyes away in dread if any one approached
him. Once or twice he attempted to cry out,
but that was when no one was within hearing. Even
then the voice fell back in his throat, and he looked
around half frightened to death, terrified lest some customer
should come upon him suddenly.
“Oh, dear! I shall never do it! There is no use in
trying!” he muttered, disconsolately. “If it was only
play, now, what a shout I could give. Goodness! there
comes a man! If grandmother was only here, I do believe
I Should hide behind her dress. But there isn’t
a place, and he comes on so fast. Dear me!”
The man was, indeed, walking fast, and seemed a
good deal excited. Joseph made a brave attempt at
122boldness, and marched toward him, blushing at his own
audacity.
“Ledger! Dispatch!”
The words broke from his lips in a frightened cry;
he trembled all over, and stood still, terrified by the
sound, faint and hoarse as it was.
The very singularity of his cry drew the young man’s
attention, and he turned quickly.
“Give me a paper,” he said, taking some money from
his pocket-book. “Any one—I have no choice. Why,
what a young thing it is—so well dressed, too! Selling
newspapers must be a prosperous business, my little
man?”
“I—I haven’t got a cent of change. What shall I
do?” cried Joseph, looking wistfully at the twenty-five
cents which loomed before him. “Please, sir, I never
did this before, and don’t know how.”
“Never did it before,” cried the young man, smiling
upon the lad. “I thought you looked above the business.
Then you are such a mere baby; keep the money.
By the way, you seem a sharp little fellow, and I can
put you in the way of earning twice that amount.”
“Can you, sir? I’m glad of that. What shall I do?”
cried the boy, all in a glow of delight.
“Nothing very difficult. Just keep along this garden wall,
turn the corner, and you will see the house it belongs
to. Watch the door till a young lady in a brown
merino dress and straw bonnet comes out; follow her
where she goes. Be sure you take the papers, that she
may not think it strange; take sharp notice of the house
she enters; then come back here at dusk, and I will give
you a dollar bill.”
123“A greenback, sir?”
“Yes; a new greenback, with Mr. Chase’s picture on
the end.”
Joseph gathered up his papers in breathless haste;
his cheeks glowed, his eyes sparkled with delight.
“I’ll do it—I’ll do it!” All at once his countenance
fell, and his small figure drooped in abject disappointment.
“No, I can’t,” he said, with tears in his eyes. “These
papers belong to another boy, and he told me not to
leave the block.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said the young man, smiling at
Joseph’s evident distress. “But you can stand at the
corner and tell me which way she turns?”
“Yes, I can do that.”
“Better still,” cried the young man, struck by a sudden
idea. “She had a parcel in her hand, and appears
as if she took in work. Speak to her as she comes out;
tell her that you know a person who wants some fine
sewing done, and ask her where you shall bring it to.
She’ll trust that face, no fear about that. So you shall
earn the money, and keep that promise about leaving
the block.”
“I—I should be a little ashamed to speak to a strange
lady, sir.”
“Oh, nonsense! She isn’t exactly a lady, you know,
only a sewing-girl. So there need be no trouble about
speaking to her; I shouldn’t hesitate to do it myself.
Just find out where she lives; but not a word about me,
remember, and the dollar is yours.”
“I—I’ll try, sir,” was the faltering answer.
124“That’s a brave fellow! Come here, just at dark, tell
me all about it, and get your money.”
The young man passed on as he spoke, leaving the
money in Joseph’s hand, forgetting, also, to take his
paper.
“This is mine, all mine; he gave it to me,” thought
the boy, gazing upon the money. “What a splendid
man he is—and yet his eyes. I don’t like his eyes, they
seem so tired. I wonder is he sick, or can’t he sleep at
night? It looks like that. I wish he hadn’t asked me
to do that other thing. How shall I speak to her?
Not a lady because she sews! Why, grandma patches
and mends, and turns, and washes, too; but I know
she’s a lady, every inch of her. Then there’s sister Anna—isn’t
she a lady, I wonder? I don’t like that man.
He hasn’t the least idea what a lady is; I know he
hasn’t.”
Joseph moved along the garden wall as these thoughts
filled his mind, and found himself at the corner in view
of a large white marble house, with a good deal of ornamental
ground lying around it. A flight of marble steps
led to the side-walks, and scrolls of carved work ran
down each side white as drifted snow.
Robert would have recognized this house at once; but
little Joseph had never seen it before, and stood gazing
upon the steps, wondering if the lady, who was not a
lady, because she took in sewing, would ever come out.
The boy had been watching, perhaps ten minutes,
when a female came gliding down those marble steps,
in a brown dress and straw bonnet, that seemed strangely
familiar to him. He started forward and, uttering a
glad cry, met his sister Anna face to face.
125“Why Joseph, is it you? Dear child, how flushed
his face is! What are you doing with all these papers,
dear? Why, you look like a little newsboy!”
“So I am, Anna—that is, I’m going to be, and earn
lots of money. I’ve hollered out papers once, and it
didn’t frighten me very much. Some day, Anna, I’ll
come and call out, ‘Ledger! Ledger!’ right under your
window; that is, when I can do it without shaking so.”
Anna’s face had brightened beautifully when she first
saw the boy; but you could see that tears lay close to
her eyes as he ceased speaking.
“Poor child! poor, dear child!” she said, laying one
hand on his shoulder, “perhaps we may come to this;
but I hope not—I hope not.”
“See! I have got twenty-five cents already,” cried
the lad, holding up the tiny note. “A gentleman gave
it to me, and forgot to take his paper; and—and—oh,
sister! I forgot; he wants to find out where you live,
and has got lots of fine work for you. He is in such a
hurry to have it done, that he offered to give me a dollar
only to find out where to send it. Only think!
But then he didn’t know that I was your brother. A
dollar for finding you out! Isn’t that splendid, Anna?”
“Joseph, dear, what are you talking about?” said
Anna, a little startled by this intelligence. “No gentleman
can want me.”
“Oh, yes! there does. Only—only, now I think of it,
he said you wasn’t a lady; and I know you are, and
will tell him so to his face; that is, I would, only I am
such a little boy.”
“Poor darling! It is of no consequence what any
one thinks about us—so don’t let it fret you; but tell
126me, what was this man like? Did you ever see him
before?”
“No, indeed, sister Anna, I never did.”
“Not on the night when we made pictures?”
“No; he wasn’t there.”
“It is strange,” muttered the young girl, a little
troubled. “What could any one want of me?”
“He said that it was work he wanted done,” answered
the boy, earnestly. “Perhaps Mrs. Savage has told
him how nicely you stitch, and embroider, and hem
handkerchiefs.”
“I think not,” said Anna, quite seriously. “Was he
a tall man, Joseph?”
“No; not near so tall or large as Mr. Savage. But
there he come—there he comes.”
Anna looked across the street, and saw a rather small
young man, with marks of age on his features; which
years had never given them; and those heavy, dim
eyes, which grow out of sleepless nights and unsettled
habits of life.
“It is a stranger; I never saw him before,” said
Anna, in a low, frightened voice. “Come home with
me, Joseph—come away at once. He looks this way,
as if he were coming over.”
“No, he won’t. He’s walking on; don’t be frightened,
Anna. He’s a very nice gentleman, and only
wants some work done.”
“No, no! Come with me, child!”
“I mustn’t till Robert and the boy comes back; the
papers are not mine, you know.”
“True, true; but come home the moment you can,
127dear; and tell that man nothing about me. I am afraid
of him.”
“I won’t tell a word, Anna; nothing shall make me.
There, he’s coming back again.”
Anna caught one glance of the man and walked on.
The moment she was out of sight, the young man
came across the street, taking out his port-monaie as he
approached the boy.
“Here is your money,” he said. “Now tell me
where the young lady lives—where I can send the
work?”
“She doesn’t want any work, sir!”
“Won’t you take the money, my boy?”
“No, sir!”
“Why not?”
“Because that young lady is my sister, and told me
not.”
CHAPTER X. ROBERT GETS A SITUATION.
Robert Burns and his new friend made their way
into the business part of the city. They entered a
large warehouse, and passed through it into a back
room—found a young man writing notes at one of the
desks. He looked up, saw the two boys, and suspended
his writing long enough to question them with his
eyes.
“This is a boy that I want Mr. Gould to engage, sir.
128Where is the old gentleman?” said the newsboy, designating
Robert by a wave of his not over-clean hand.
“True as steel, sir, and honest as a morning paper, sir.
Where’s the boss?—perhaps you don’t know,” he added,
eyeing an antique seal ring on the gentleman’s white
hand. “New feller in these premises, any way. I
never see you afore.”
The young man went on with his writing, and took
no apparent heed of this rather elaborate address. His
pen ran over a sheet of note-paper with a quick and
noiseless motion, that filled the newsboy with admiring
astonishment. Then the note was folded, and something
placed with it in the long, narrow envelope, which
rustled under the touch of those fingers, silkily, like a
bank-note. Then a wax taper, coiled up like a garter-snake,
was lighted, a drop of pale green wax fell from
it to the note; and while the young man stamped the
seal with his antique ring, he seemed to become suddenly
conscious that the boys were gazing on him with
no common curiosity.
“Well,” he said, smiling down upon the seal as he
examined the impression he had made, “what is it?
Did you want something, boys?”
“Yes, sir, that is just it. We want to see the old
boss!”
“The old what?” cried the young gentleman, with a
look of comic astonishment—“the old what?”
“The boss, sir; the old gentleman who runs this ere
machine!”
“Oh! you mean the governor. Too late; sailed for
Europe yesterday.”
“But he told me I might look up a boy for him the
129very last time I brought the weeklies here; and I’ve
found just the chap.”
“Oh! the errand-boy. So the governor commissioned
you—just like him. We do want a handy lad,
I think. I say, Smith.”
Smith came in from a little den of a room at the left,
with a pen behind his ear.
“Did you call, sir?”
“Did the governor say any thing about engaging a
boy?”
“Yes, sir. He was particularly anxious to get a good
one, smart and honest.”
“With all my heart, if he can find the paragon.
Well, what do you think of that little fellow?” The
young man pointed his pen carelessly at Robert without
troubling himself to look that way.
Smith looked at the boy keenly, who blushed crimson
under his gaze.
“He seems modest, at least, and looks intelligent,”
was the kind answer.
“Then you like him? Come here, sir, and answer
me a few questions.”
Robert moved up to the desk, and lifted his honest
eyes to the young man’s face.
“How old are you, my fine fellow?”
“Twelve, sir, and going on thirteen.”
“Rather young, isn’t he?” said the gentleman, appealing
to Smith.
“That will not matter so much, Mr. Gould. He
seems healthy, and is intelligent.”
“You like him, then?”
“Yes, I do.”
130“Thank you, sir,” said Robert, with tears in his eyes.
“I’m much obliged, and—and——”
“That will do—take him on, Smith; but stay a minute.
Are you acquainted with the city?”
“Pretty well, sir.”
“Can you read writing?”
“Oh, yes!”
“And write yourself?”
“Yes, I can write.”
“See if you can read that.”
Gould handed the note he had just directed, and
Robert read the address.
“J. Ward, Girard House.”
“That will do. Now, your first duty will be to carry
that note.”
“I am ready, sir.”
“Of course he’s ready,” cried the newsboy, rejoicing
over his friend’s success; “but hadn’t you better do
things a little ship-shape? About the wages, now.
This young gentleman has got a mother——”
“Grandmother,” whispered Robert.
“Just so. A grandmother and sister to support;
and money is money to him.”
Gould laughed.
“How much did we give the last fellow?” he said,
addressing Smith in careless good humor.
“Three dollars a week.”
“Give this one four. I’ll be responsible to the governor.
With an old grandmother, and all that sort
of thing, it won’t be too much.”
“Oh, sir! I am so glad—so very, very glad!” cried
Robert, crushing his hat between both hands in a
131paroxysm of grateful feelings. “I wish you could see
her; she would know how to thank you, I don’t.”
“He’s young and green—don’t mind him,” cut in the
newsboy, drawing the sleeve of his jacket across his
eyes. “Consarn the dust, how it blinds a fellow! By-and-by
he’ll take things like a man.”
“I only wish I was a man; oh, sir! how I would
work for you.”
Gould got up from his seat and laid his white hand
on the boy’s shoulder.
“Boy! boy! I would be a child again, could that
give me back the feeling which fills those eyes with
tears. Oh, Smith! how much we men lose in hardening
ourselves. It is only the pure and good who can be
really grateful. Heavens! how I envy this boy!”
“Me, sir?” said Robert; “envy me. But then it is
something to earn so much money; and more yet, to
know that your father died for his country, fighting in
the front ranks. I’m all they have to depend on, sir.
You haven’t any idea how rich this four dollars a week
will make us. But I’ll earn it! I’ll earn it—see if I
don’t!”
“Of course you will!” exclaimed the newsboy, who
was getting rather tired of the scene. “But here comes
another gentleman—hadn’t we better make ourselves
scarce till to-morrow?”
As the lad spoke, a strange gentleman came into the
counting-room, and shook hands with Gould.
“Well, I’ve been on the war-track, with some success,
too,” he said eagerly. “Saw her going into that
house——”
“What house, Ward? What house?”
132“Why——” here Ward broke off, and took young
Gould aside, to whom he spoke in a low, eager voice for
some minutes. The young man listened with a little
impatience; and more than once his face flushed angrily.
At last he came away from the window, where they had
been conversing, with a sparkle of indignation in his
fine eyes.
“Take no unworthy means,” he said; “I will neither
sanction or take advantage of any thing forced or dishonorable.”
Ward laughed.
“What has come over you?” he said. “Capricious
as ever; carried off by some other pretty face, I dare
say?”
“No, there you mistake.”
“Well, well! you will join us to-night?”
“No; I promised my uncle to give all that sort of
thing up.”
“You did?”
“Yes; God bless the dear old fellow! He came
down so handsomely—without a word, too; asked no
promise—found no fault.”
“But you made a promise and a very silly one.”
“Possibly—time will show; at least I will be neither
false nor ungrateful, if I can help it.”
Here Ward’s eyes fell upon the note, with its dainty
seal—and he laughed a little maliciously.
“Oh! Ha! I understand! A new flame,” he cried.
“You can look at the address,” said Gould, quietly;
“and read it, if you like.”
Ward took up the note, and looked surprised.
133“This lad would have brought it to you in half an
hour,” said Gould.
Ward tore the note open, and a thousand dollar bill
dropped out. He picked it up, glanced at the amount,
and then at Robert.
“And you would have intrusted this to that child—who
is he?”
“Our new errand-boy.”
“But his name?”
“I really don’t know it.”
“And without knowing his name, you would intrust
him with this?”
“Yes, or ten times as much.”
“But what do you know about him?”
“Nothing.”
“Who recommended him?”
“I recommended him,” broke forth the newsboy.
“What have you to say against that, I want to know?”
Ward measured the indignant newsboy with his scornful
eyes, folded up the treasury-note, and left the counting-room
a good deal crest-fallen and annoyed.
Robert and his literary friend followed him, and, I
regret to say, the latter put both hands up to his face,
and ground an imaginary coffee-mill with vigor during
the moment in which Ward turned to look upon him
as he passed round the nearest corner. As for Robert,
he did not clearly comprehend the movement, for old
Mrs. Burns had kept him in-doors a great deal of the
time, and his education, in some particulars, was incomplete.
CHAPTER XI. AN INTRUDER.
134
When Anna Burns left her little brother near the
garden wall, she turned down the next street, and met
young Savage coming from an opposite direction. His
face flushed pleasantly, and his eyes brightened as he
saw her.
“Miss Burns, how happy I am to have met you,”
he said, turning back and walking by her side. “I
would have called, but was afraid of intruding upon
your sorrow. How is the dear old lady?”
Anna had been flushing red and turning white, like
the sensitive, modest creature she was, till he looked
kindly down into her face, and asked this question;
then she lifted her eyes and answered him with a smile
that made his heart leap.
“Thank you very much! Grandmother is well, and
happier than any of us. She is so good that even grief
seems to make her more and more gentle. I never
heard her complain in my life.”
“Still, this must have been a terrible blow.”
“It was! it was! But she yields—bends; resists
nothing that God sees fit to inflict.”
“And you?”
His voice was full of tender compassion. His eyes
brought tears into hers.
“I cannot be so good, my heart will ache; my very
breath is sometimes painful! Oh, sir! you cannot tell
how I loved my father!”
“He must have been a superior man,” said Savage,
135gently; “a very superior man, to have brought up a
family so well, under what seems to me great difficulties.”
“He was a——”
Anna broke down here—tears drowned her voice.
“Forgive me! I am cruel to wound you so; but it is
not meant unkindly,” said Savage.
“I know—I know!” faltered Anna, behind her veil;
“but you cannot think how noble he was—what beautiful
talent he had. I think Joseph takes after him; he
begins to draw pictures even now.”
“Was your father an artist, then?”
“Yes; a designer on wood. He was just beginning
to make himself known. But he could do many things
beside that. We all loved him so—and now he is dead!”
Anna drew her veil close, and, for a time, the young
pair walked on in silence, unconscious of the course they
were taking. They were aroused by a carriage dashing
past, in which a lady sat alone. She leaned forward, revealing
an eager face, surmounted by a bonnet of lilac
velvet, with masses of pink roses under the narrow
front. The horses moved so rapidly that Savage scarcely
recognized the face of Miss Eliza Halstead as she swept
by; but Anna saw it clearly, and shrunk within herself.
Miss Halstead had recognized Savage with a killing
smile on her lips; but when she saw his companion, the
smile withered into a sneer, and she seized the checkstring
in fierce haste.
“Drive round the block again, fast at first, then
slower,” she said.
The man obeyed, and dashing round the block, came
upon the young couple again at a slower pace. Now
136Miss Eliza leaned out, kissed her hand to Savage, and
searched Anna’s face through the veil that shaded it
with her vicious eyes.
“I thought so—I thought so!” she muttered, biting
the fingers of her canary-colored gloves till the delicate
kid was torn by her teeth. “It’s that creature, not
Georgiana, who stands in my way. Oh! I have made
a discovery! It’s her! It’s the same girl that I
saw at the fair. Some poor seamstress or sewing-machine
operator, or I’m dreadfully mistaken.”
The carriage moved slowly on as Eliza registered
these convictions in her mind; and before it was out of
sight, Savage had forgotten its existence, so deeply was
he interested in the conversation of the young girl who
walked so modestly by his side—so completely did the
feelings of the moment carry him away.
They parted at last not far from Anna’s dwelling.
Her hand was in his for an instant; her eyes met his
ardent glance as he whispered farewell; and warm, red
blushes dried up the tears that had been upon her cheek.
“I will see you again—I must see you again,” he said,
while her hand trembled in his; “without that hope, I
should not care to live.”
These words, sincere and impassioned, were enough
to flood her face with blushes, and set her to wondering
why the heart that had seemed so heavy, rose and
throbbed like a nightingale startled on its nest by the
song of some kindred bird.
With a light step and beaming face, the young creature
turned into the dark paths of her every-day life, and
climbed the stairs which led to her garret-home, lightly
as angels tread a rainbow. The old lady looked up
137when she saw her grandchild coming, and smiled meekly,
feeling that she would need such comfort; but she was
surprised when Anna smiled back, and, taking off her
bonnet, turned a face that was almost radiant upon her.
“What is it, love? What has happened, that you
should look so bright, so happy?”
“Happy? Am I happy, grandmother? No, no!
It was but last night I told you that nothing on earth
could ever make me happy, now that he was dead.”
“Yes, child; but God does not permit eternal grief
to the young.”
“Grandmother,” said Anna, leaning over the old woman’s
chair, that her face might not be seen, “have you
not always told me that God is love?”
“Yes, darling, God is love.”
“Then, grandmother, all love must be divine—born
of heaven?”
“Yes, child, all love is born of heaven.”
“Grandmother?”
“Well, my dear.”
“Did any one ever love you?”
The old lady’s hands fell into her lap, and clasped
themselves tightly.
“I—I thought so once,” she said, in a low voice.
“Yes, I thought so.”
“Did you ever love any one, dear grandmother?”
“Did I ever love any one? God help me, yes, I
have; I——”
Anna flung herself on her knees before the old woman,
struck to the heart by her own cruelty. The poor
old lady was trembling from head to foot; her lips
quivered like those of a grieved child; her heart was
138troubled as the earth stirs when a lily has been torn
up by the root.
“Oh, grandmother, forgive me!” cried the young
girl; “I did not mean it. Can love last so long? Is
it rooted so deep in the life?”
A quivering smile stole over that gentle face.
“Do you think that love is only given to the young?
That it is mortal like the body? That it leaves the
soul because bright hair turns to silver on the head?
No, no, my child! Love is the one passion which time
deepens holily, but cannot kill. The soul, when it seeks
eternity, carries that with it. There is no real life to
the woman that does not love.”
“Oh, grandmother! how solemnly you speak.”
“The love of an old woman is always solemn.”
“And of a young woman—what is that grandmother?”
“With her, my child, it is the blossom which precedes
the fruit,—bright, delicate, heavenly,—perishing, sometimes,
with the first frost, or under a warm burst of
sunshine; but when the blossom falls only to shrine its
shadow in the core of the fruit that springs from it,
changing itself only to meet the sweet changes of
womanhood; then, and not till then, can the soul know
how faithful, how true, how immortal love is.”
Anna bent her head and listened to that sad, low
voice, which spoke of love with such sweet solemnity.
The blossoms of a first love seemed opening in her
heart, then, and flooding it with perfume.
“Oh, grandmother! how beautiful life is!” she said,
with a deep sigh, which had no pain in it. “I think the
whole earth brightens every day.”
139“Anna,” said the old lady, gently.
“Well, grandmother.”
“How long is it since the world has become so beautiful
to you?”
“Oh! I don’t know; but it seems to me forever.”
“Still it is but a little time since we heard that my
son—your father——”
“Yes, I know—I know. For a time all the universe
was dark as night to me; but now it seems as if my
father had come back, and brought glimpses of the
heaven he inhabits with him. Oh, grandmother! why
is it that I am not unhappy? I know he is dead;
I know that we are poor and helpless; that this is a
miserable room, with nothing lovely in it but this
precious old face, yet it seems like a paradise to me. I
could sing here as nightingales do among the roses.”
“Anna, my child, I fear this is love.”
“Love, grandmother!” cried the girl, in a quick,
startled voice. “No, no! not that! I never thought
that it was really love.”
That bright, young face turned white as she spoke;
and Anna’s eyelids drooped suddenly.
“Oh, grandmother! what makes you say that?”
“I did not say it unkindly, darling.”
“You never do say any thing unkindly, dear grandmother—but
this frightens me. Am I doing wrong?”
“Doing wrong! There can be no wrong in an honest
affection; but there may be, and is, great danger.”
“Danger, grandmother—how?”
“I cannot explain—cannot even point out the danger;
but this young man is rich, proud, highly educated.
140His parents are said to be ambitious for him beyond
any thing.”
“Yes, grandmother, I suppose they are; and I am
so lowly, so very poor; so, so——”
The poor girl’s eyes filled, and her sweet lips began
to quiver with the tenderness of new-born grief.
“I did not think of them. I never thought of any
thing, only——”
She broke off and covered her face with both hands.
“Only that he loved you. Has young Mr. Savage
told you this, Anna?”
“I don’t know. Yes, it seems to me as if he had.
How dark every thing is growing. This room is black
and shabby. I wonder he could ever come here. I
remember, now, the boys were playing with oyster-shells
when he came in, and they had no shoes on, poor,
little fellows! He never would have said those things
to me here. Never, never!”
Anna buried her face in the old lady’s cap, and that
little, withered hand began to smooth her hair with
gentle touches of affection, that went directly to the
young heart.
“Be quiet, be patient, my dear child. What have I
said that you should sink into such despair?”
Anna lifted her head, and put the hair back from her
eyes with both hands.
“Oh, grandmother! what do you mean?”
“Only this, my dear. If the young man loves you,
the obstacles which I have pointed out will be overcome;
for as there is nothing on this earth so pure as love,
neither is there any thing so powerful. Through the
strong affection which a mother feels for her son, even
141that proud lady may yield. Do not let the poverty of
this room, or of your dress, weigh too heavily upon
you. It is well that he should have seen you thus at
first; and remember, a modest, good girl, well informed,
and well-mannered, is the match of any man in a country
like ours.”
“Dear grandmother!” exclaimed Anna, gratefully.
“Now tell me,” said the old lady, “what did this
young man say to you?”
“Indeed, indeed, I cannot tell. Every word is in my
heart; but I could as soon give you the perfume from a
rose as repeat them understandingly. I know that it
is true; but that is all.”
“And enough, if it, indeed, prove true. But listen, I
think it is the boys coming home.”
Yes, it was Robert and Joseph rushing up stairs with
unusual impetuosity. You might have known by their
deer-like leaps up the steps, and the joyous struggle to
outstrip each other, that there was good news on their
lips.
“Oh, grandmother! we’ve done it! We’re men of
business, both of us. Four dollars a week for me, and
Josey unlimited, but magnificent. He’s got a voice. I
wish you could hear him. Twenty-five cents, clear cash,
in an hour. That newsboy wouldn’t touch a cent of it.
Oh! he’s a capital fellow, a gentleman every inch of
him—that is, in heart. He got me that place; he’s
been a benefactor to me, a prince, a first-rate fellow!
Kiss Joe, grandmother, I’m getting a little too large;
but, but—no, I’m not. I shall die and shake up if
somebody don’t kiss me. Only think, four dollars a
week. Hurrah!”
142Robert flung his new cap up to the ceiling, and
leaped after it with the spring of an antelope. Joseph
had both arms around his grandmother’s neck, and was
pressing the twenty-five cent note upon her.
“It’s all mine, every cent. You and Anna can spend
it between you; buy new dresses with it, or shawls, or
a pretty bonnet for Anna. Don’t be afraid, I can earn
more—lots and lots more. He’s going to give me some
of the papers that have pictures on them to sell; perhaps
father’s pictures may be among them. He didn’t
think that I should ever sell the beautiful things he
made, did he? But I shall, and it will make me so
proud to see people admiring them. Kiss me, grandma,
and say that you’re glad.”
“I am very glad that you come home so happy, my
children—but what is it all about?” said the grandmother,
kissing Joseph on his pure white forehead,
while she reached forth her hand to Robert.
“Oh! it’s just this. I’m engaged as an errand-boy
in a first-rate house for four dollars a week; and Joseph
there—who’d believe it of the little shaver—has got a
newspaper route ready for him; and he’s ready for it.
Between us we mean to support you and Anna first-rate,
and dress her up till she looks like a pink. I mean
to get her a velvet cloak, like that Miss Halstead had
on at the fair, the very first thing, and long, gold earrings,
and—and every thing. Indeed, I do. Don’t we,
Joseph?”
“That’s just what I told grandma when I gave her
that twenty-five cent bill,” said Joseph, magnificently.
“Said I, get dresses and shawls with it. Didn’t I,
grandma?”
143The grandmother smiled tenderly, smoothed his hair
with her palm.
“And who is it that you are engaged with, Robert?”
she said; “you have not told us any thing yet.”
“No, I haven’t. I wonder what’s the matter with me?
It’s with Gould & Co. Splendid, I can tell you. Warehouse,
as they call it, a hundred feet long. Oh, Anna!
I wish you could see the young gentleman—he is splendid.
But grandma, what is the matter with you? How
white you are! How your poor hands shake! Dear
me, what is the matter?”
The old lady’s head had fallen forward on her bosom;
the borders of her cap quivered like a white poppy in
the wind. She grasped some folds of her dress with
one hand, as if to steady its trembling.
“Grandma, what is the matter?”
The old lady lifted her wan face, and looked at the
eager boy bending over her vaguely, as if she did not
quite know him.
“Oh! grandma, grandma! what is the matter?”
“Nothing—nothing!” gasped those thin, pale lips.
“Never, never mind me, children, I am not—not very
well.”
Anna, who had taken off her bonnet and shawl, came
forward now, and, taking the old woman in her arms,
laid her head on her bosom.
“She is tired, Robert; your good news has taken her
unawares. Grandmother is not strong.”
“I—I didn’t mean to hurt her,” said Robert, penitently.
“Who would have thought it?”
“You have not hurt me, dear,” answered the faint old
voice. “See, I am better now.”
144“Wouldn’t a cup of tea do her good?” whispered
Joseph. “It almost always does.”
“That’s a bright idea,” cried Robert. “Fill the tea-kettle,
Joe, while I make a fire. Dear, me, who’s that,
I wonder?”
A knock at the door had startled the little group,
for such sounds seldom interrupted them in their garret-room.
Robert opened the door, and a young man, whom
Joseph recognized at once, stepped into the room, lifting
his hat as he entered.
“I beg pardon,” he said, glancing around the apartment;
“but chancing to see my young friend there—pointing
to Joseph—enter this house, I ventured to
follow. We entered into a little negotiation regarding
some fine sewing, which I am anxious to complete. Is
this young lady the sister you spoke of, young gentleman?”
Joseph retreated slowly toward his grandmother, and
stood looking at the stranger, turning white and red,
like the frightened child he was.
“She is my sister,” cried Robert, flinging down a
handful of kindling wood on the hearth, and coming
forward. “But just now I can support her handsomely
myself, on what Mr. Gould pays me. He wouldn’t
have followed me home like that. We are very much
obliged; but sister Anna has all the fine work she can
do, and never takes any thing of the kind from gentlemen—at
any rate, unless they are very particular friends,
indeed,” added the boy, with a blush, remembering that
Anna had done some work of the kind for young Savage,
145and seemed to enjoy the doing of it very much,
indeed.
“Then your sister does, sometimes, accept such work
as I offer?” said the young man, bowing to Anna. “I
am glad to hear that; it saves me from feeling quite like
an intruder. May I hope, young lady, that you will
make me one of the exceptions?”
“She don’t want any work,” interposed Robert, coloring
crimson. “I’ve got an idea above that for her, and
I mean to carry it out, too. Our Anna, sir, is a lady,
if she does live up here under the roof.”
“No one could doubt that for a moment,” answered
Ward, casting a glance of warm admiration on the young
girl.
Here the old lady arose, still pale, but gently self-possessed.
“Will you be seated,” she said, with quiet dignity,
“and let us understand what it is that you desire of us?
My grandson seems to have met you before.”
“Yes, grandma, I saw the gentleman at Gould &
Co.’s, and he seemed as if he would like them not to
take me; hinted that I wouldn’t carry a lot of money
from one person to another honestly, and hurt my feelings,
generally. I don’t know what he wants to come
here for.”
Here Joseph gave his grandmother’s dress a pull, and
whispered, as she bent toward him, “It was he who paid
me the twenty-five cents. Give it back to him—give it
back to him.”
The old lady patted his head, and turned to the
stranger.
“If I understand, you wish to have some sewing
146done, and thinking my grandchild wants work, bring it
to her. We are much obliged; but she is very busy
just now, and it will be impossible for her to undertake
any thing more than she has on hand.”
“But at some future time, madam,” said the young
man. “I can wait.”
“It will be impossible to promise for the future,” answered
the old lady; “as the persons who employ my
child now must always have the preference. Perhaps
we had better think no more about it.”
Ward did not rise; but sat balancing his hat by the
rim between both hands. He evidently wished to prolong
the interview; but the old lady stood quietly as if
she expected him to go, and he could not muster hardihood
enough to brave her even with a shower of extra
politeness. All this time, Anna had not spoken a word;
but sat by the window, looking out like one in a dream.
Even the intrusion of this strange man could not drive
her from the heaven of her thoughts.
Ward arose, almost awkwardly, for the gentle breeding
of that sweet old lady had been a severe rebuke
to the audacious ease with which he had entered the
room.
“Then I will take leave,” he said, glancing at Anna,
who was far away in her first love-dream, and did not
even see him. “Of course, I am disappointed; but will
hope better success when I call again.”
No one answered him; and the young man went his
way crest-fallen and bitterly annoyed. He had certainly
found out where the young girl lived, still nothing but
humiliation had come out of it. Gould, too, had almost
snubbed him that morning. The thousand dollar note
147was some compensation for that; but these people in
the garret, poor and proud—how should he avenge himself
on them? How debase the pride that had so humbled
him? As he went down stairs, a paper on one
side of the outer door attracted his attention. A room to
let—that was all; but it struck the young man with a
most wicked idea.
“Inquire in the front room, first story,” he muttered.
“Yes, I’ll do it now; that will give me a right to go in
and out when I please.”
He went into the front room, first story, and came
out with a key in his hand, remounted the stairs, and
entered a room directly beneath that occupied by the
Burns family. It was a mean room, scantily furnished,
looking out on the chimneys and back yards, which have
already been described. But the glimpse of blue sky
and a rich sunset, which could be obtained from the
upper window, was broken up by flaunting clothes-line
and bare walls here. A more lonely place could not
well have been found.
But young Ward cared nothing for this. A paltry
lie had secured him a legal foothold in the house.
How he would use that privilege would be developed in
the future. He had vague ideas, but no plans. The
people up stairs had attempted to freeze him from the
house, and he would teach them that it could not be
done. That was about all he calculated on at the time.
Ward went back into the front room, first story,
where he found a tall, gaunt woman seated in a Boston
rocking-chair, working vigorously on some woollen garment
which she called slop-work. She wore no hoop,
and her scant dress fell short at the ankles, revealing a
148pair of men’s slippers, which had once been red-morocco,
and a glimpse of coarse yarn stockings.
“Well,” she said, pressing the side of her steel thimble
against the eye of her needle, as she took a vigorous
stitch, “suited with the premises, or not? Would a
gone up with you, only hadn’t time. Ten cents apiece
for a blouse like this don’t give a woman many play
spells.”
“I like the room, and will pay two months’ rent in
advance,” said Ward, taking out his porte-monnaie.
“Then that’s settled,” answered the woman, nodding
her head as he laid the money down. “Good-day!
Good-day!”
CHAPTER XII. AN ECCENTRIC DRIVE.
Miss Eliza Halstead was very eccentric in her drive
about town that day. She had some shopping to do,
but forgot it entirely, for the first time in her life. Miss
Eliza had a taste for that especial amusement; and it
must have been an absorbing passion that could have
drawn it from her mind. As it was, Chestnut street
saw but little of the Halstead carriage that day; but it
appeared in parts of the town where such equipages seldom
presented themselves; threaded cross-streets, and
drove slowly by tenement-houses, astonishing the children
that played on the doorsteps, and chased each
other along the unswept side-walks. Once or twice Miss
149Eliza left her carriage and examined the numbers of
these houses herself, rather than trust the coachman to
leave his horses. This singular conduct disturbed the
serenity of this high potentate, who muttered his indignation
to the air, and lashed little boys with his whip,
as if they had been to blame for bringing him into a
neighborhood which revolted every aristocratic sense
of his nature. Miss Eliza, too, held up her skirts as
she crossed the pavements, and threaded the side-walks
with an air of infinite disdain; but comforted herself by
reflecting that the people who saw her would believe
that some noble purpose of charity had brought her
there; and, to strengthen this idea, she took a showy
porte-monnaie from her pocket, and tangled its gold
chain in her gloved fingers, which was suggestive of
unbounded benevolence searching in the highways and
hedges for objects of charity.
Miss Eliza was a good deal puzzled by all the numbers,
which she found contradicting each other along
the battered doors, and was about to abandon the exploration,
when she saw a young man leave one of the
houses, and walk down the block, as if in haste to leave
the neighborhood.
“That is young Ward, I’ll stake any thing,” said
Miss Eliza, leaning out of the carriage she had just
entered. “What on earth can he be doing there?”
Young Ward did not notice her, but turned a corner
and disappeared; but Eliza had taken a correct survey
of the house, and ordering the coachman to drive slowly
by it, took the number in her memory.
“She came down this block and darted into a door
somewhere close by this very place, I’ll be sworn to
150that,” muttered the spinstress. “Savage kept by her
side almost to the corner. They must have walked
together a full hour, and he with his head bent half the
time—the artful creature. I wonder if he knows that
she left him to meet this handsome young gambler in
that place? Oh! it’s all true! That boy in the door
is her brother, one of the barefooted creatures who
stood in the picture of ‘a soldier’s home.’ There is no
mistake about the thing now. Jacob! I say, Jacob!
You may drive home!”
Jacob muttered heavily under his breath, and, seeing
a long space of broken pavement, avenged his outraged
dignity by driving through it so roughly that the carriage
rocked and toiled in the ruts like some ship in a
storm. Liking the faint screams that came from within
the carriage, Jacob resolved to give his lady the full
benefit of the neighborhood she had forced him into; so
he lost his way, and drove around in a circle, where the
squalid children were thickest along the side-walks, and
women with naked arms, sometimes dripping with soapsuds,
thrust their heads from the windows, wondering
at the splendor of her equipage. But Jacob revolted
himself at this amusement, after a little, and drove back
to a level with aristocracy again, after which he condescended
to take a tolerably straight line for home.
Miss Eliza went into her step-brother’s house in a
state of sublime exaltation. Two distinct tints of red
flushed her cheeks; her pale blue eyes darkened and
gleamed. Up the steps she ran, and into the house,
eager to unbosom herself of the secret that possessed
her. Some feline instinct carried her directly to the
little room in which Georgiana Halstead spent her
151leisure hours, and where she then was somewhat lonely
and dispirited. Georgie had kept much by herself
during the last few days, for a gentle sadness had fallen
upon her, such as loving hearts know when locked up
with anxious suspense.
It was a beautiful room which the girl occupied, half
library, half boudoir, warmed with the mellow sunshine
and bright with tasteful ornaments. The walls were
wainscoted with black walnut, enriched with gilded
beading, and the ceiling was crossed with beams of the
same dark wood, giving an antique air to the whole.
The floor was also of polished walnut, which a Persian
carpet, bright with scarlet and green, left exposed at the
edges. Turkish chairs, and a pretty couch, all cushions
and crimson silk, gave warmth to the dark shades of the
wall, while crimson curtains imparted to them a double
richness when the sun shone through them. Mosaic
tables blended these commingling shades harmoniously.
A harp, that seemed one net-work of gold, stood in one
corner. A guitar, around which clustered a wreath of
gold and mother-of-pearl, lay upon the couch; and
superbly bound books were scattered on the tables.
But all these had given no happiness to pretty Georgiana,
who lay huddled together in one of the Turkish
chairs, pale as a lily, and with soft, bluish shadows
deepening under her eyes. Whoever the man was that
she grieved about, I think he never could have resisted
so much tender loveliness, had he seen Georgie then,
with her hair disturbed and rippling, half in ringlets,
half in waves, shading her face here and revealing it
there, absolutely rendering her one of the most interesting
creatures in the world. A morning dress of very
152pale green merino, with some swans’-down about the
neck and sleeves, lay in soft folds around her. She
had been crying, poor girl! and the dew of her tears
hung on those long, curling lashes, which were brown,
and several shades darker than her golden hair.
Georgie heard Miss Eliza’s step, and wiped the tears
away quickly with her hand, starting up and holding
her breath, like a white hare afraid of being driven
from its covert, as the rustle of silk drew nearer and
nearer.
“Oh, you are here yet! I fancied so,” cried Miss
Eliza, flinging open the door, and sweeping into the
room with a rush and flutter which always accompanied
her movements; “and in that morning dress, too, intensely
interesting. But do you know it is almost dinner-time?”
“I was not going down to dinner, Aunt Eliza,”
answered Georgie; “my head aches a little, I think.”
“What! have your dinner sent up? Why, child, this
is putting on airs.”
“No, I am not putting on airs, Aunt Eliza.”
“Aunt Eliza! How often am I to tell you that I detest
the title; besides, it does not belong to me. I am
aunt to no one, certainly not to a person who has not a
single drop of my blood in her veins.”
“I am sorry to have used the word; excuse me,” said
Georgie, with childlike sweetness. “I never wish to
offend you, Miss Eliza.”
“No one wishes to offend me; and yet—but no matter,
I came to tell you something, but I dare say it will
only set you off into hysterics, or something of that kind.
I have made a discovery, a painful, heart-rending discovery.
153It ought not to concern you, but you have a
woman’s heart, and can sympathize with me.”
“What, what has happened?” cried Georgie, sitting
up, and turning her eyes full upon Miss Eliza. “Nothing
very serious, I hope.”
“That depends,” answered the spinster, sitting down
on the floor with a swoop of her garments that raised a
little whirlwind around them, and leaning her elbow on
Georgiana’s lap. This was a favorite position with Miss
Eliza when the spirit of extreme youthfulness grew
strong within her. “That depends on the susceptibility
of the heart that is wounded. Oh, child! may you never
be gifted with those exquisite feelings which make up
that heavenly thing called genius in a human soul; but
without that you can never know how I suffer, how the
pride of suppressed tenderness struggles in this soul!”
Georgiana had heard these intense rhapsodies before,
and knew what trifling occasions could bring them forth.
She closed her eyes wearily, and laid her head back on
the cushions of the chair, waiting in weary patience for
the explanation that might be long in coming.
“No wonder you sigh; no wonder the lids droop over
your eyes. My own are full of unshed tears. But I
must be brave. I will be brave, and struggle against
the destiny that threatens me.”
Georgiana sighed a little wearily and moved back in
her seat, for Miss Eliza’s arm pressed heavily upon her.
“Is there—is there a man on earth that may be
trusted, who is not ready to break the heart that confides
in him?”
Georgiana shrunk back from the prying glance fixed
154upon her, and strove against the thrill of pain that
passed over her.
“Whom are you speaking of, Miss Eliza?” she inquired,
in a faint voice.
“Of the man whom you, weak, silly thing, have loved
vainly; and I—oh! too well!—too well! He is faithless,
like the rest—cruelly, cruelly faithless—I saw it
with my own eyes. After that scene in the carriage, too,
when my hand rested in the firm clasp of his; when his
eyes met all the maidenly tenderness that flooded mine.
Oh, Georgiana! that was a heavenly moment; but the
earthquake has come; the tornado is passed, and my
heart lies a wreck under his feet.
‘He may break—he may ruin the vase, if he will,
But the scent of the roses will cling to it still.’”
Here Miss Eliza took out her cobweb of a handkerchief,
and wiped some mythical tears from her pale,
gray eyes. Then grasping the handkerchief tightly in
her hand, she cried out, “But you cannot feel. He
never loved you, never encouraged your love.”
Georgiana started up, and shook the arm from her
lap with some impatience.
“Who are you talking about? What does all this
mean?” she said.
“It means,” said Eliza, gathering herself up from the
floor, “that the man you love to idolatry—but who
loves me in spite of every thing—is fascinated with that
girl who played Rebecca in that hideous tableau. I
saw them walking together a whole hour this very day,
his face bent to hers, her hand clasping his arm.”
Georgiana sunk to her chair again, white and faint.
155“Aunt Eliza, please let me rest a little, I am not well,
you know.” Tears were in her voice, tears trembled on
her eyelashes. Eliza was satisfied, and went out of the
room.
CHAPTER XIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
“What are you doing, Joseph?”
The child did not answer at first; the bright red
came into his innocent cheeks, and he gave a little
laugh of mingled confusion and glee as he trotted out
of the corner, and came toward his grandmother.
The old lady had paused for a second in her work;
but she could not afford to forget herself into stopping
completely, and her wasted fingers began moving as
assiduously as ever.
“I thought you were trying to fly,” said she, smiling
in her sweet, patient way, the sort of smile that human
lips only wear when they have been purified by great
and patient suffering. “I didn’t know but you had a
pair of wings hid away under your jacket.”
“I wish I had!” exclaimed Joseph, impetuously.
“Oh! I wish I could fly, grandma!”
“Why, what would you do, Joey?” she asked, looking
almost wonderingly down at his eager face all aglow
with enthusiasm.
“I’d fly away to heaven and bring father back,” he
whispered, nestling close to her side.
The old woman dropped her work, and folded her
156arms close about him; while one dry sob, that takes the
place of tears with the aged, shook her breast.
“I’m afraid the angels wouldn’t let you come back,”
she whispered; “grandma couldn’t lose her boy.”
“No, no! I’d come back,” he said, eagerly; “and I
would just tell father how we want him.”
“The good Father of all knows best, Joseph,” she
answered, with sweet submission. “You mustn’t wish
anybody back that has gone over the black waters.”
“Only we need him so, grandma.”
“Yes, deary; but you don’t forget your little hymn.
We ain’t alone, you know.”
“No, grandma! Oh! if I was only a big man!” he
cried, with immense energy.
“Were you trying to stretch yourself into one?” she
asked, bringing herself back to ordinary reflections;
for she had learned, poor soul, in those years of trial,
how dangerous it is to give way to yearning thoughts
after the dear ones who have gone forward to the eternal
rest.
“Yes, grandma,” said the boy, bursting into a laugh
at his own performance—such a merry, rippling laugh,
that it made the old woman think of the sound the
mountain brooks made among the wild country scenes
she had so loved in the days when life was still an
actual pleasure.
“Well, not quite that, grandma,” he added, in his
scrupulously truthful way. “But I was trying to see
if I hadn’t got up above the mark sister Anna made for
me in the corner.”
“And you couldn’t stretch yourself to satisfy you?
It’ll come soon enough, my boy—soon enough.”
157“I think it’s very slow work, grandma; and the
birthdays are so far apart. What a great while a year
is, grandma, aint it? It don’t seem as if it ought to
take many of them to make eternity.”
The smile was quite gone from her face now. She
had forgotten the work that must be done; her face
was uplifted, and the shadowy eyes looked eagerly out,
as if the tired soul were trying to pierce the mists that
lay between it and its haven of rest.
The boy looked at her wonderingly; then her silence,
and her strange, far-off look filled him with a vague
trouble. He slid his little hand into hers and pulled
her toward him, exclaiming,
“Grandma! grandma!”
“Yes, dear,” she answered, dreamily.
“Oh! don’t look as if you were going away!”
Truly, his innocent words, whose import he himself
so dimly comprehended, was the most perfect translation
of that look which words could have found.
“What were you thinking about, grandma?”
“Thinking? Ever so many things—so many!”
“Don’t the years seem a great way apart to you,
grandma?”
“So short; and such ages and ages to look back on,”
she answered; but replying more to her own thoughts
than seeking to make her words plain to his childish
understanding.
“Why, you don’t have birthdays any oftener than I,
do you?” he asked, somewhat jealously; perhaps afraid
he was being defrauded of his rightful dues in regard
to the number and frequency of those blessings that
grow such very doubtful ones as the years get on.
158“It’s only that they seem to come closer and closer,
Joey,” she answered, brushing his hair back from his
handsome face. “When anybody gets old, little boy,
the years grow very short in passing, and so long to
look back on.”
“I guess I don’t quite understand it yet, grandma,”
he said, with a somewhat puzzled look.
“Time enough, little Joseph. Don’t you try to hurry
things; you’ll understand soon enough.”
“Will I?” and he gave a sigh of relief—the promise
and the anticipation were almost as consoling as any
reality—the anticipations of childhood are so golden in
the light of the future.
Joseph nestled close to her feet on the little stool,
and, resting his thoughts on the promise she had made,
brought himself back to safer themes, both as regarded
his mental capacities and the old lady’s peace.
“This is just the morning for a good long talk, ain’t
it, grandma?” he said, in his quaint, old-fashioned way,
that was so pretty and original.
“Almost any morning seems just the one for you and
me,” she answered, pleasantly, taking up her work again,
and proceeding to make amends for lost time with great
energy.
“Well, so it does,” said Joseph, after considering the
matter for a little. “You and I don’t seem to get
talked out very easy, do we, grandma?”
“Not very, dear; you have a tolerably busy tongue
of your own.”
“Sister Anna says, sometimes she’s afraid you find it
most too long,” said Joe, honestly.
“There isn’t any danger of that, my boy; it’s as
159sweet to your old grandmother as the birds’ songs used
to be.”
“Only not like that parrot in the baker’s shop,”
amended Joseph, with a laugh.
“More like the wood-thrushes I used to hear up in
Vermont,” she said; for his laughter brought back again
the memory of the brooks, and the beautiful summers
that lay so far off behind the shadows of all those later
years.
“How does a wood-thrush sing?”
Then there had to be an elaborate explanation; at the
end of which he must ask, in great haste:
“Did you live in Vermont, grandma?”
“No, dear; but I spent a summer there once—so
long, long ago.”
“But you have forgotten about it?”
“Forgotten, child? Oh! I couldn’t forget it!”
“Was it so very pleasant, grandma?”
The feeling that surged up in her heart was like a
glow from her perished youth, so warm and powerful
was it; the soft wind from that summer of the past blew
across her soul and made her voice sweet as a psalm.
“So pleasant, Joey—so pleasant!”
“Was grandpa with you?”
“Yes; he was there part of the time.”
“I think I should like to hear about it,” said Joe;
“it sounds like a story.”
So it was—the story every youth knows, varied according
to individual experience; but the old story
still, that is always so beautiful.
“Won’t you tell me about it, grandma?”
“Indeed, dear, there is nothing to tell! It was like
160a story to me, because I was so very, very happy, and
the birds sang as I don’t think they ever have sung
since; and I haven’t heard any thing, either, like the
sound of the brooks, only your dear voice; and it was
such a beautiful time of rest.”
She was far beyond little Joe’s comprehension now;
but the unusual look in her face interested him, and her
voice sounded like a blessing, it was so soft and caressing.
“What makes you think the birds haven’t sung so
since?” he asked, with that tendency to be direct and
practical, which children show in so odd a way when
they are perplexed by a conversation that makes new
echoes in their untrained souls.
“That was only grandma’s foolish fancy,” she said,
trying to come back from the phantom world, where her
thoughts had wandered. “Dear boy, the birds never
stop singing! Never forget that as you grow older,
and troubles begin to weary you. Even if you can’t
hear them for a time, they are singing still; and so are
God’s blessed angels, too, and sometime we shall hear
both clearly again.”
“Up in heaven,” said Joe, gravely and thoughtfully.
“Up in heaven!” repeated the old woman, and her
voice was a thanksgiving.
The boy caught her hand and held it fast. There was
an expression of such trust and hope, making her face
young again, that a vague fear shot into his mind that
she was just ready to float away from his sight forever.
“Don’t, grandma!” he exclaimed.
“What, dear?”
161“Did you hear ’em sing?” he whispered, in a sort of
awe-stricken way.
“What do you mean, little one?”
“You looked as if they were calling you—the angels,
you know. You won’t go away!”
“They will call sometime, my boy, and your poor,
old, tired grandma will go to her rest. Only we must
have patience, Joey—a little patience.”
“I don’t want you to go,” said Joe, stoutly; “and I
don’t think I like the angels either!”
“Why, Joseph!” said the old lady, startled into a
practical view of things by the expression of a sentiment
so dreadfully heterodox. “What do you mean?
Not like the angels that live up in heaven? Just think
a little.”
“Well, they’re always taking folks away,” he replied,
rebelliously; “and I wish they wouldn’t! I’m sure
they can’t love you as well as I do, for I’ve known you
all my life; and they’re only strangers, after all.”
Joe spoke as solemnly as if his little existence had
endured several scores of years; and grandma, in spite
of feeling it her duty to impress a proper orthodox lesson
on the child’s mind, could not help a smile at the
idea of the angels being considered interlopers, and unjustifiably
inclined to meddle with human affairs.
“They love us, Joey,” she said.
“Yes; but not so well as we love each other, I guess.”
“They come to take us home,” she added.
“Then I want ’em to take us all together,” retorted
Joe. “They might have a family ticket, as they had at
the fair,” he added, briskly, after meditating a little;
and he looked quite delighted at his brilliant suggestion.
162“Oh, Joe!” said the old lady; but grandma’s devotion
was of a very sweet and loveable kind, and, certain
that the child had meant no irreverence, she could not
quite feel it her duty to give him a serious lecture upon
the enormity of giving expression to such proofs of
total depravity.
“That wasn’t wicked, was it, grandma?”
“You didn’t mean it to be, dear,” she answered, softly.
“But you must remember the angels do love us,
and they wont be strangers to us when we see them.”
Joe did not attempt to dispute a point that his grandmother
stated so distinctly; but he remained sufficiently
doubtful to make him desirous that the unseen visitants
should not hasten their coming; and he still held fast
to his grandmother’s hand, giving a long breath of satisfaction
when he saw the glow of exaltation die slowly
out of her face, and the every-day look of patience and
resignation settle down over its pallor.
“You are making me very idle,” said the old lady,
shaking his little fingers gently off her hand; “and we
both forgot you haven’t said any lesson this morning,
little boy.”
“I’ll get my book,” said Joe, rising with his usual
prompt obedience, rather glad to get his mind back to
safer and firmer ground. “I’ll say a good long one,
grandma, to make up.”
“That’s my good boy.”
So the lesson was gone through with great earnestness,
and with the most entire satisfaction on both
sides; for Joe was as quick at his book as with his
queer fancies that made him so pleasant a companion
to the old lady.
163“There’s somebody coming up stairs,” said Joe, as
he closed his book after receiving a kiss of approval.
“Oh! it’s Anna,” he added, as the door opened, and the
girl entered.
“Why, I didn’t expect you home so soon, dear,” said
the old lady.
“I brought the work to do it here,” she answered,
laying her bundle on the table.
“I am glad of that; it’s always pleasant to have you
at home.”
“But grandma wasn’t lonesome,” added Joe, hastily.
“We have had one of our good old talks, haven’t we,
grandma?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And I said my lesson splendid, Anna,” he continued,
too eager to be quite grammatical.
“I am glad of that,” she answered, a little absently,
and passed on into the little room she called her own,
closing the door behind her.
She was not accustomed to lose much time in dreaming
or idling; but then she sat down on the bed, and
threw her bonnet wearily away, as if her head ached
even under its light weight.
She looked weary and disheartened—the look so painful
to see in a young face; so sad to feel that life’s iron
hands settle too heavily over all the youthful dreams
and hopes that ought to make youth joyous and beautiful.
There she sat quiet, and absorbed in her thoughts till
the tired look wore away; and if there had been any to
see, they might have told accurately by the expression
of her face, and the new light in her eyes, how her
164thoughts stole, gradually, from the stern, harsh reality
into the realm of some beautiful dream-land, whose
flower-wreathed gates no care or trouble could pass.
She was so young and so lovely—ah, let her dream
on! The stern reality lay just outside; the brightness
of elf-land might only make its coldness more bleak
when she was forced to return; but I would have hesitated
to take from her the ability to wander away among
her glorious visions.
There comes a time when we can dream no longer—you
and I know it. But would we lose the memory of
the reason when such reveries were more real than the
details of the untried existence about us?
I think not. I am sure not; and since care and suffering
must come, and every human heart learn its appropriate
lesson, I would not deprive the young of any
share of the glow and brightness which belongs to that
feverish season; and you and I both know that its chief
sunshine comes from that ability to weave golden visions,
and sit in breathless ecstasy under their light. And
then Joseph’s voice called outside the door,
“Anna—sister Anna?”
“Yes, dear; I am coming.”
The dream-world vanished; the rose-clustered portals
closed, and she came back to the real life—came back,
as we all must. But, oh! woe for the day when the fairy
gates close with a dreary clang, and we know that never
for us can they open again “till these hearts be clay.”
She passed into the outer room, where Joseph was
very busily engaged in helping, or hindering his grandmother
to array herself in the worn shawl and bonnet,
165which had so long before done duty enough to have entitled
them to pass out of service.
“Grandma and I are going for a little walk, Anna,”
he said, in his quaint way. “I think it’ll do her good.”
“Dear boy,” said the old lady, with her sweet smile;
“there never was such a thoughtful creature.”
“I am sure it will do you good, grandmother,” Anna
said; “but you must put my shawl on under yours; the
wind blows cold.”
Joseph ran off to get it, and the pair wrapped the old
lady up with a fondness and attention which many a
rich woman would give all her India shawls, and diamonds
to boot, to receive from her children.
Then Joseph led her carefully down the stairs, and
Anna brought her pile of work to the fire, and sat down
in her grandmother’s chair. She could not afford to
waste the precious moments with so much dependent
upon her exertions; but fast as her fingers flew, still
faster travelled her young, unwearied thoughts; and
that they were pleasant ones one could have told by the
smile that stole every now and then, like a ray of sunlight,
across her mouth, brightening her beauty into
something positively dazzling.
There was a quick knock at the door, but supposing
it to be some of the neighbor’s children on an errand,
Anna did not pause in her work, calling out dreamily,
“Come in.”
The door opened hesitatingly, and Anna added, “Is
it you, little Alice Romaine?”
“It is not little Alice; but may I come in?”
Anna sprang to her feet in astonishment and turned
166toward the door, and stood confronting Georgiana Halstead.
“Excuse me,” Georgiana said, hastily, in her graceful,
childlike way. “I thought Rowena might come to
see Rebecca. You are not vexed, are you?”
In spite of her retired life, Anna was too truly a lady
to feel either confusion or embarrassment; not even
shame at the exposure of their dreary poverty, but one
of those flashes of thoughts, which travel like lightning
through the mind, struck her painfully as she looked at
Georgiana Halstead standing there in her beautiful
dress, like the goddess of luxury come to look poverty
in the face, and find out what it was like.
“I have been wanting to come so much,” continued
the girl, going up to Anna and holding out her hand.
“You are very kind,” she answered, pleasantly
enough; and the momentary bitterness died in cordial
admiration of her visitor’s loveliness.
They made a beautiful picture as they stood, and the
contrast only added to the charms of either. Had a
painter desired models for the patrician descendant of
Saxon kings, and the dark, passionate-eyed Jewess, he
could not have found more perfect representatives, at
least of his ideal.
“Will you sit down?” Anna said. “It was very kind
of you to come.”
Her composure was quite restored, brought back
more completely, perhaps, by a pretty little hesitation
in Georgiana’s manner, such as a petted child might
betray when venturing upon some step for which it
feared reproval.
“Thank you; ah! it’s nice of you not to be offended,”
167said Georgiana, sitting down by the fire. “Mrs. Savage
gave me your address; and ever since the tableau
I have been so wanting to come.”
“In what way can I serve you?” Anna asked, with a
proud humility.
“Oh, now! if you are going to be stately, you will
frighten me off altogether,” cried Georgiana; “so
please don’t, for I’m not at all stately myself.”
Anna smiled as a queen might have smiled at a
spoiled child. Ah! the spell of wealth and station may
be ever so strong, there is a power in nature’s patents
of nobility which is stronger still.
“I don’t think I know much about being stately,”
she said, with one of her rare laughs, which were so
musical. “Certainly it would be a poor way of showing
my thanks for your kindness in even remembering me.”
“As if anybody could forget you! Why, the whole
city has been raving about you ever since that night!”
exclaimed Georgiana; “and the men have done nothing
but beg Mrs. Savage for another sight of the queen of
beauty.”
Such words would have been very pleasant to a young
girl whose life was golden as youth ought to be; but to
Anna, oppressed with care and daily anxieties, they
brought only a bitter pain.
Dear Mrs. Browning has told us in her passionate
way—
“How dreary ’tis for women to sit still,
On Winter nights, by solitary fires,
And hear the nations praising them far off.”
And more than one woman’s heart has ached to feel its
truth; but truly, for a woman to hear that her beauty is
168the theme of idle tongues, while she sees those dear as
her own life almost hungering for bread, is a bitter comment
still on the vanity of human life.
“So I thought I would come,” continued Georgiana;
“and I want you to do me a favor.”
“If I can,” Anna said; “but don’t ask me to take
part in any more such exhibitions. I can’t, indeed I
can’t.”
“No, no!” returned Georgiana, hastily; “I wont.
You shall not be bothered. But I’ll tell you what I
wish you would do. Now do you promise?”
“I think I may,” Anna replied, with her lovely
smile. “You don’t look as if you could ask any thing
very terrible.”
“Indeed I wont!” cried she, in her enthusiastic way.
“I like you so much; don’t be vexed. I don’t want to
be patronizing or snobbish. I hate it so; but——”
“I am sure you don’t. Please go on.”
“Well, I’m such a sad, idle creature, and I thought
if you would come to me, sometimes, and help me get
through a perfect pyramid of embroidery, and work
that has been accumulating since the year one, I should
be so delighted.”
“I shall be very glad of the work, Miss Halstead, and
I thank you heartily for remembering me.”
“Oh! don’t speak that way. It’s I that ought to
thank you! Why, it will be a perfect treat just to sit
and look at anybody as beautiful as you are.”
“And I shall have that satisfaction over and above
the satisfaction of getting the work, of which I am so
very, very glad.”
There was an earnestness in her voice which sobered
169the volatile creature who listened. Her life had been
such a fairy dream that it was difficult for her to realize
there were such evils as care and poverty in the world.
It seemed so inexplicable to her that this beautiful girl
could come, day after day, in actual contact with them.
“I will try and make it pleasant for you,” she said,
more gravely than she often spoke. “I am a spoiled,
selfish girl, but I mean to be good.”
“I think you would find it difficult to be any thing
else,” Anna said, heartily.
“Oh! you don’t know. Aunt Eliza reads me the
most frightful lectures; by the way, she is a sad, catty
old maid; but don’t you mind her.”
Then she began talking with her accustomed volubility;
and it was as bewitching to poor, lonely Anna
as the Arabian Nights are to children. It seemed so
strange to have these glimpses at a young life so widely
separated from the clouds that hung over her own youth.
Georgiana Halstead never did things by halves; and
in her usual headlong way, she had plunged into a violent
interest for this lovely stranger, and sat there talking
to her as freely as if she had known her half a life.
“I must be going!” she exclaimed, at last. “Oh, dear
me! I have been out ages; and Aunt Eliza is waiting
for the carriage; how she will scold me! Then you’ll
come, miss? Mayn’t I call you Anna?”
“Indeed you may.”
“Thanks! I like you so much. You are like a picture,
or a poem. Now, please like me.”
“Just as a prisoner might the sunlight!” exclaimed
Anna, with unconscious earnestness.
170Georgiana gave her a hearty kiss, and a cordial pressure
of the hand.
“Come to-morrow,” she said. “Now wont you?”
Before Anna could answer, there was a knock at the
door, which startled them both—they had been so completely
absorbed.
“Who is that?” Georgiana asked.
“Only some of the neighbors, probably,” Anna
answered. “Come in, please.”
The door opened. The girls turned simultaneously
toward it, and there stood Horace Savage.
He advanced without any hesitation, saying,
“Excuse my intrusion, Miss Burns. Ah, Miss
Georgiana, this is an unexpected pleasure.”
The girl’s brow contracted slightly; her quick glance
went from one to the other.
“And to me, also,” she said.
There had been one vivid burst of crimson across
Anna Burns’ cheek; then it faded, leaving her paler
than before; but she stood there perfectly quiet and
self-possessed.
“Will you sit down, Mr. Savage? If Miss Halstead
will wait a moment she wont have to go down our dark
staircase alone.”
“Miss Halstead never waits,” returned Georgiana,
laughingly; but the childlike glee had forsaken both
voice and face.
“My errand is a very brief one,” said Horace. “I
only wanted to inquire after my little pets, the boys. I
hope Miss Burns will not consider me impertinent.”
“I thank you,” Anna said; “they are, both of them,
out now.”
171“Dear me, it is very late,” said Georgiana. “Good-by,
Miss Burns. You wont forget?”
But the voice was colder, and Anna noticed it.
“I shall be at Miss Halstead’s command,” she said,
gravely.
“And I shall do myself the honor of seeing her safely
down the stairs,” said Horace.
She did not seem to hear him, but ran away through
the passage. He stood a second irresolute. Anna’s
grave face did not change; and after a few confused
words he followed Georgiana Halstead down the stairs.
CHAPTER XIV. LOVE AND MALICE.
Savage walked home with Georgiana Halstead, but
there was little conversation between them. She was a
good deal excited, and walked with a quick, almost impetuous
step, while her eyes brightened, her lips parted,
and a warm red came into her cheeks. She said nothing,
and seemed almost to wish the handsome young fellow
by her side far away; his presence annoyed her.
Savage was grave, anxious, and so pre-occupied that
he did not observe this change in the graceful young
creature whose friendship had always been so dear to
him. When they reached Mrs. Halstead’s residence
he hesitated a moment, lifted his hat, and said, with a
smile,
“May I go in, Miss Georgie?”
172“Certainly, of course; how rude I was,” she answered,
and the color on her cheeks flushed over her whole
face in a scarlet cloud. “They will all be glad to see
you.”
“But I would rather see you alone, just for once,
in your own pretty room—is it quite inadmissible?”
“In my room? Well, why not? Come this way. I
only hope Aunt Eliza won’t be looking over the bannisters.”
Georgie laughed, in spite of all the painful feelings
that swelled her young heart, when she looked upward,
with her foot upon the first stair, and saw the long face
of Miss Eliza peering down upon her.
Savage, too, caught a glimpse of the restless female,
and joined Georgie in her sweet, low laugh, but decorously
pretended not to see that tall figure as it drew
back and darted away.
The young people entered Georgie’s little sitting-room. Savage placed his hat on one of the mosaic
tables, Georgie placed her bonnet beside it, and threw
her India shawl across a chair, unconsciously forming
a sumptuous drapery which swept the carpet.
“Upon my word,” she said, shaking her bright curls
loose, and pressing them back from her flushed cheeks
with both hands, “this seems romantic. I wonder what
Aunt Eliza will say?”
“Never mind what she says.”
“Oh! but you would mind, if she lived in the house
with you; but there is dear, old grandmamma to help
me out if she bears down too hard—so find yourself a
chair. The fire is delightful after our cold walk. What
a change it is from that room to this?”
173Georgiana had seated herself in the Turkish chair,
and sat nestled in its cushions, with the firelight glimmering
over her as she made this remark. Savage drew
a low ottoman to her side, and sat down upon it.
“You were thinking of that garret-room in the tenement-house?” he said.
“Yes, and thinking, too, how thoughtless and ungrateful
I am for all this comfort, for which I have done
nothing, while——”
Georgie broke off, and her eyes filled with tears, softly
and brightly as violets gather dew.
“While that poor girl is compelled to toil for the
bare necessaries of life; that’s what was in your heart,
I know,” said Savage, taking her hand gently in his.
“I—I would speak to you about her.”
“To me—and about her?” said Georgie, drawing her
hand away. “I scarcely know her. She is a nice girl,
I dare say; but why should any one wish to talk to me
about her?”
“Because you are good and generous; because she
is helpless and beautiful.”
“Beautiful!—is she? I did not particularly observe
it. A brunette, isn’t she? Some people like that style. I—I—but
you had something to say, and I interrupted you.”
“Oh, Miss Halstead! you could be of such service to
this sweet girl.”
“I of service to her?” said Georgie, lifting her head
with a little fling of pride. “I thank you for the idea.
What does she want of me?”
“What, Anna Burns? Nothing. Poor girl! she is
not one to ask help; but knowing you so good and gentle,
174I thought to interest you in her behalf. She is a
lady.”
“Yes, yes! she is nice and very lady-like, I admit
that; and good as she is beautiful. That means nothing,
Mr. Savage. When beauty lies in the fancy of the
beholder, we cannot measure other qualities by it,” said
Georgie. “Please go on and tell me what I can do?”
“You can do every thing for this young girl. She is
so lonely, so isolated in that comfortless place.”
“Yes, it is terrible,” cried Georgie, shivering among
her cushions. “Yet you did not seem to find it so very
disagreeable.”
“No place where she is can be disagreeable to me,”
answered Savage, with deep feeling.
Georgie turned white, and shrunk back in her chair,
as if some one had struck her. Her voice scarcely rose
above a whisper when she forced it into words,
“You love this girl, then?”
“Love her, Georgie? Yes, better than my life—better
than all the world beside!”
There was silence for a moment. Georgie’s lovely
face grew cold and white as marble. She seemed to
wither up like a flower cut at the stalks. The very lips
were pale. At last an almost noiseless sob broke
through them, and she started into life.
“Does she love you?”
“I hope, I think so. She has said as much.”
“And then?”
“Oh! my sweet friend, it is for her I want your help.
I know how difficult it will be to reconcile my mother;
she has such lofty expectations regarding me.”
“Who has not?” murmured Georgie.
175“Do you know,” cried Savage, laughing, and patting
her hand as if it had been a pet bird he was playing
with, so much occupied that he did not feel its marble
coldness, or read the agony in those shrinking eyes,
“do you know she has set her heart on making a
match between you and me; as if people who have
played together in childhood ever fell in love with each
other; but she will not give up this hope without a
struggle, though I have told her fifty times that we like
each other too well for love.”
“You are right, we do,” said the lovely young creature,
sitting upright, and putting the hair back from her
throbbing temples. “What an idea!” and a laugh broke
from her which startled him a little; there was such a
ring of pain in it.
“She is so fond of you, Georgie. Indeed, who could
help it? Then we have been a good deal together. I
got a habit of coming here somehow, and it wasn’t so
very strange, after all; only it seems absurd to us, who
never thought of such a thing.”
“Yes, very absurd,” cried Georgie, with another
laugh, which brought fresh tears into her eyes.
“And now, when I am in such deadly earnest, when
I would give the world to make Anna Burns my wife,
even this foolish idea comes up as an obstacle.”
“But you have told your mother that there is nothing
in it?”
“Yes, fifty times; but she will not believe me.”
“She will believe me when I tell her it is impossible—ridiculous!”
Poor Georgie, she caught her breath, and broke up a
great sob before she could utter the word ridiculous;
176but carried it off with a laugh, which the blind young
fellow passed over without a thought of the pain which
made it sound so unlike her usual silvery outgushes of
merriment.
“Will you do this, Georgie? Say that you never
fancied me in that light, that nothing would induce you
to marry me?”
“But she—she will hate me forever after,” said
Georgie, mournfully; “and I think she did like me.”
“Oh! it will not last a month; and I—I shall love
you so dearly for this help. Anna, also, you cannot
think how much she admires you.”
“I am sure she is very kind.”
“Kind—no! She is only the most appreciative creature
in the world. Then you are my friend?”
Georgie shrunk from all this praise, which was bitter
when mingled with that of another so much more beloved
than she ever was, and desperately changed the
subject.
“But there was something else; you had more than
this on your mind.”
“But I shall oppress you with my selfishness.”
“No, that you cannot. I—I shall only be too happy
in serving you.”
“That is my old, dear friend,” cried the young man,
looking brightly into her face, which must have struck
him as strangely pallid but for the firelight that fell
upon it. “Do you know, Georgie, that something in
your way of receiving my confidence has almost chilled
me?”
“Indeed, it is because you cannot read my heart—that
is not cold; try it and see.”
177“I am trying it,” answered Savage, quite unconscious
of the cruel truth he spoke. “Last night, as I thought
all this over in my room, I said if there is a creature on
earth that I can trust, heart and soul, it is Georgiana
Halstead.”
“And so you can,” cried Georgie, holding out both
her trembling hands, which he clasped eagerly. “I am
not very strong, and sometimes I have felt pain; but I
will be your faithful friend.”
“And hers, Georgie?”
“Yes, and hers,” answered the young creature,
bravely. “Now tell me what more can I do?”
“I will, Georgie. This girl, Anna Burns, you know,
is very poor. Her father was an artist, and, I think,
must have been educated as a gentleman, for his children
have received great care; but he died in the army, and
left his family helpless, even more destitute than you
saw them to-day.”
“Dear me,” murmured Georgie, glad of any excuse to
weep, “that seems scarcely possible.”
“How kind you are; so tender-hearted, so good—do
not cry. How you sob! There, there! the worst of
this suffering is over now. A little help will make them
comfortable.”
Georgie buried her face in both hands, and gave way
to the grief that had been struggling in her heart till it
was almost broken.
Savage rose, and bent over her, smoothing her bright
hair caressingly with his hand.
“Dear, tender-hearted girl,” he said, full of self-reproach:
“and I thought her cold, unsympathizing.
Georgie, can you forgive me?”
178“Forgive you! forgive you!” repeated the poor girl,
removing her hands, and lifting those deep, troubled
eyes to his face. “Oh, yes! I am sure to forgive you;
but what a child I have been, crying about troubles that
are nothing. Now tell me what it is that I can do for
these people. It is a shame that any man who has died
fighting for his county should leave suffering to his
family.”
“But many a soldier’s family have suffered, and will,
notwithstanding the people’s gratitude. This is what I
desire of you. This family are even now suffering great
privation. It is terrible for refined and educated persons
to be crowded, as they are, under the roof of a
house crowded with low families. You saw how pale
they were; what a look of weariness lay even on the
faces of the children. They need neat, airy apartments,
pure air, wholesome food. All this it would be easy to
give; but I cannot do it in my own person.”
“Why not?” inquired Georgie, in her innocence.
Savage smiled, and began to smooth her hair again.
“Simply for this reason, dear friend: that nice old
lady would not take a dollar of my money for any purpose;
nor would Anna, I am certain. But from you it
would be different. Let me find the money, and you
shall be my agent—the fairest and sweetest that ever
served a friend.”
“I understand now. Yes, you are right; they could
not receive benefits from you; but I am different. Let
me once reach their hearts, and all will be easy.”
“Then you will do this?”
“Why should you ask me? Have I not promised?
179But I only ask one privilege; let me tell grandmamma.
She will help me as no one else can.”
“But will she consent? Will she keep our secret?”
“What, grandmamma? Of course she will.”
Here a knock at the door disturbed the young people.
Savage drew back and leaned against the mantel-piece,
while Georgie bade the intruder enter.
A servant came in with Miss Eliza Halstead’s compliments,
and she trusted Mr. Savage would give her a
few moments’ conversation up stairs before he left the
house. Miss Eliza had something very particular, indeed,
which she wished to communicate.
Mr. Savage sent word that he should be delighted to
pay his respects to Miss Eliza, and would do himself
that honor in a few minutes.
The servant closed the door. Then Savage, with ardent
thanks, that went to the young girl’s heart like
arrows tipped with flame, took his leave of Georgiana,
and left her alone with her wounded life.
Miss Eliza had been in a state of wild commotion
from the moment she saw young Savage enter the house
from her stand-point over the banisters. She, too, had
her boudoir, which, however, was half dressing-room,
into which she made a plunge with a breathless determination
to convert the confusion, which usually reigned
there, into a state of picturesque elegance, suggestive
of her own poetic mind. To this end she hustled a pile
of paper-covered books, two or three pairs of old slippers,
a faded bouquet, and a dilapidated dressing-case
into the next room; dusted the tables with a fold of her
morning-wrapper, in which she had been indolently
reading, and then took a general survey of the apartment.
180Over the small centre-table, which she had just
dusted, hung a basket of artificial flowers, somewhat
faded and dusty, but in good preservation, considering
that they had done duty for more than one season on
Miss Eliza’s head. Over this, apparently plunging
downward, as if intent on burying himself in the flowers,
dust or no dust, was a moderately-sized cupid,
white as snow, suspended to the ceiling by an invisible
wire, and holding his arms out toward the flowers which
that envious wire permitted him to contemplate, but
forbade him to reach.
Miss Eliza glanced up at the cupid with a simpering
smile, made a dash at the basket with her handkerchief,
which set both that and the cupid in motion, and made
another application to the table necessary; then scattering
some books over it in picturesque confusion, she
took a volume of Tennyson, laid it open, with the leaves
downward, on the edge of the table, drew an easy-chair
into position, and hurried into her bed-chamber.
Miss Eliza never allowed any person to witness the
mysteries of her toilet, so I cannot describe what took
place in the inner room. But after a time she came
forth, radiant, in a white merino dress, ruffled half a
yard deep with convolutions of blue ribbons. Long
streamers of the same color fell from the clustering
bows on her shoulders, and another ribbon was drawn,
snood fashion, through a mass of crimped hair lifted
high from her temples, and floated off airily with a
mass of curls that fell from the back of her head.
Miss Eliza rang the bell, turned up her eyes with a
devout look, which made the little cupid tremble on his
wire, and sunk into her easy-chair, smiling upon the
181folds of her dress as they settled around her with statuesque
effect. Then a new idea seized upon her. A
gardiniere, full of plants, stood in one of the windows.
In eager haste Miss Eliza gathered therefrom two or
three sweet-scented geranium leaves, and a half-open
rose; these she placed on her bosom, and returned to
her seat beneath the cupid, and sat waiting with her
hand upon the volume of Tennyson, and one foot
pressed upon an ottoman, as if she had been sitting for
a portrait.
I am certain she heard that light footstep the moment
it touched the stairs, thick as the carpet was, for a soft
flutter of delight stirred her garments as if they had
been the plumage of a bird; and starting suddenly, she
stood a moment on the ottoman, flirting her handkerchief
upward till the cupid went off in an ecstasy of
motion, and seemed quite unable to contain itself. Then
she settled down again, and cried out softly, “Come in,”
when Savage knocked at the door.
“Oh, Mr. Savage! how long you have been in
coming,” she said, reaching forth her left hand with a
motion which threw the sleeve back from an arm that
had once been round and white, but keeping her seat
all the time, not caring to destroy the effect of her
position. “Indeed, you are too bad, I have quite
thrilled myself with Tennyson waiting for you.”
“I have but just got your summons, Miss Halstead,”
said Savage.
“Indeed! but there are moments in life when moments
seem like ages.”
“Oh! don’t talk of ages, Miss Halstead, it makes one
feel so old!”
182Miss Eliza waved her head with a gentle smile, and
looked upward, which assured her that the cupid was
softly vibrating above her.
“Ah, Mr. Savage! there ever will exist persons who
cannot grow old!”
Savage bowed, and answered that it needed no words
to convince him that she spoke truly. The young man
laid his hand on the back of a chair as he spoke; but
removing her foot from the ottoman, she motioned him
to sit there.
“Forgive me, I dare not presume,” he said. “Once
at your feet, I might never be able to leave them.”
Miss Eliza looked down modestly, and a sigh disturbed
the geranium leaves on her bosom.
“You sent for me, Miss Halstead?” said Savage, a
little embarrassed by these gentle demonstrations.
“Sent for you? Oh, yes! But let us waive the
subject a little longer; it will be soon enough for the
serpent to creep into our paradise when it cannot be
kept out.” She glanced upward, and Savage, following
her eyes, saw the god of love hovering over them. Spite
of himself a smile broke all over his face.
Miss Eliza had reached a phase in her programme
which required a drooping of the eyelashes, and she
lost the smile while performing her part.
“We were speaking of age,” she said, dreamily; “not
that it is a subject which can, as yet, interest either of
us; but I sometimes think that the lightness of selfish
enjoyment and surface life of mere youth is more unendurable
than age itself. There is my niece down stairs
now——”
“What! Georgie? She is the very embodiment of
183all that is sweet and lovable in youth. You cannot say
more in her praise than I will indorse heart and soul,”
cried Savage, whose heart was brimful of gratitude for
the young creature who, all unknown to him, was weeping
so bitterly in the room below. “If you wish to depicture
all the grace and bloom of youth in its perfection,
a lovelier object could not be found.”
Miss Eliza moved restlessly in her chair, clasped her
hand fiercely in the folds of her dress, and choked back
the venom that burned for utterance with the resolution
of a martyr.
“You—you think so? Well, yes; the same roof shelters
us, and magnanimity is always a virtue. Georgiana
is, as you say, very lovely; and no one can dispute that
she is young—verdantly so, I fear. Why, Mr. Savage,
you would hardly believe it, but she—in her innocence,
I will not say obstinacy—is always doing the most extraordinary
things. Why, this very day she has been in
one of the most extraordinary neighborhoods, absolutely
disreputable, and visiting a house—really, I cannot tell
you how low her associates sometimes are. I expostulated
with her, reasoned with her; but it was of no
earthly use; go she would, and go she did.”
“But where did she go? I do not understand.”
“You remember that night when you first knelt at
my feet before an admiring multitude. Oh! shall I ever
forget it! There was a young person admitted into
social communication with the choice few, by what influence
we will not now wait to question, who was absolutely
raked up from the very dregs of society—a poor
sewing-girl. Worse than that, a creature brought up
184in one of those loathsome dens called tenement-houses;
a low bred——”
“Madam—Miss Halstead!” cried Savage, while his
face wore one flush of indignation.
“I do not wonder that you are astonished,” persisted
Miss Eliza. “It was an insult; no amount of prettiness
could excuse it—not that I think the creature
pretty, far from it. Well, this girl, after standing up in
one of the most vulgar, poverty-stricken pictures you
ever saw, in her real dress, and character, too, flaunted
herself in velvet, and gold, and jewels, as Rebecca, in a
gorgeous tableau, with young Gould as the Templar.
This was directly after our exquisite representation,
and, I dare say, intended to rival it. Well, somehow,
Georgiana, who is always doing childish things, got acquainted
with the girl then and there, behind the
scenes, I believe, where the artful thing had pretended
to faint.”
“Oh! Miss Halstead, this is too much!” exclaimed
Savage, starting up with anger in his eyes.
“I thought that you would feel this keenly, knowing
how nearly Georgiana, foolish child, is related to myself,”
resumed Miss Eliza, with great self-complacency.
“And this generous indignation touches me to the
heart. Oh! it is so sweet to be thoroughly appreciated.
But this is not all; Georgiana was full of this girl’s
praises, pitied her, raved about her beauty-beauty,
indeed! but that was to annoy me—the silliness of youth
is often very malicious; and at last went off to the horrid
place where this creature lives, in defiance of my
wishes, in absolute scorn of my opinion. This very day
185she visited this disreputable creature in her garret, as
if she had been an equal.”
“Disreputable!” repeated Savage, starting up, pale
with suppressed wrath. “Miss Halstead, I cannot listen
to this. I, too, have visited the young lady you condemn
so bitterly.”
“Young lady, Mr. Savage! and to me!” faltered
Miss Eliza, with a flame of natural color overpowering
the permanent roses of her cheek. “Great heavens!
to me!”
“Yes, Miss Halstead, I said lady; and that Miss
Anna Burns certainly is, if one ever lived.”
Miss Eliza grew livid about her mouth and forehead;
even her hands turned coldly white.
“A lady, and live in that house!” she said, with a
snarling laugh.
“Yes, madam; even there.”
“Madam! You call me madam—you!” cried the
spinster, burying her face between both hands. “Has
it come to this, and for her sake?”
“Poverty, undeserved poverty does not change a refined
nature. That girl, madam, is good, gentle, intelligent.
Her presence would make any place beautiful.”
“Oh! oh! my heart, my heart!” cried Miss Eliza,
pressing both hands to her side, and rocking to and fro
in her chair. “These words pierce me like a poisoned
arrow!”
“Forgive me; I do not wish to be harsh; but this
young girl is so unprotected.”
“Forgive you! Alas! this poor heart has no choice,”
cried the lady, reaching out her arms with touching impulsiveness.
186“Its fibres are too delicate; the touch of
woe wounds it. With me, forgiveness is a sweet duty.”
A smile quivered over the young man’s lip, spite of
anger; at which Miss Eliza drew in her arms, and
clasped her hands, with a deep, deep sigh.
“Oh! how grieved you will be when the whole is told
you,” she said, seating herself on the chair he had resigned,
and clasping her fingers over the hand which
still rested on its back. “You have been in that house?
Horrible desecration! I shudder to think of it. How
you have wronged me. It was not this creature’s poverty
that shocked me so, but her depravity.”
“Depravity!”
“Her artfulness! her duplicity! Do not look at me
so sternly. I, too, have been in that tenement-house.”
“You, Miss Eliza?”
“Yes, even that I have endured, in hopes of saving
our Georgiana from a dangerous acquaintance. I have
seen the woman who keeps the house—a coarse, vicious
creature, buried to her knees in slop-work, who eyed me
like a terrier when I went in, and would hardly stop
working while I inquired about the people up stairs.
A weak person might have been driven away by this
rudeness; but I had a duty to perform, and that thought
gave me courage. I took out my porte-monnaie and
laid some money in her lap; then she told me all—all!”
Savage, spite of himself, grew interested; for now
Eliza spoke naturally, and seemed really in earnest;
her dull eyes lighted up with venomous fire. She was
eager as a snake when it charms a bird to destruction.
“And what did she tell you?” he said, ashamed of
the question as he uttered it.
187“Mr. Savage, I had seen this girl more than once in
the street, talking with gentlemen.”
Savage blushed crimson.
“With gentlemen, Miss Eliza? I know that you saw
her once with me, coming from my mother’s.”
“Yes, I saw it. Oh! God forgive you the pang the
sight gave me—but that was not all. I said gentlemen.”
“You saw her with some one else, then?”
“I did, and who—a gamester—a blackleg—a hotel-lounger—that
Ward, who is so much with young
Gould.”
“What! Ward? And you saw him walking with
Anna Burns?”
“Worse than that; I saw them standing together on
the public pavement, conversing earnestly.”
“But that might have been innocent enough.”
“Yes; but was it quite so innocent when he followed
her home an hour after?”
Savage laid his hand almost fiercely on the spinster’s
shoulder.
“Woman, is this the truth?”
“Do you question it? I saw him with my own eyes
enter the house. Georgiana’s infatuation about the
girl made me vigilant.”
“But this was only once,” said the young man, desperately.
“I cannot believe she encouraged him in this
impudence.”
“This was the first time; but he went there again
and again—I know it—I am sure of it; the woman
told me so.”
Savage clenched his teeth hard, and, going up to the
188gardiniere, tore a branch from the geranium and flung
it angrily from him.
“It is impossible—I will not believe it,” he said, with
passionate violence. “There is some combination
against her.”
“What combination could have induced this gambler,
Ward, to hire a room and become an inmate in this
squalid house?”
“And is this so?”
“The woman herself showed me his chamber—a miserable,
shabby room, for which he had paid the rent in
advance, she stated.”
“Great heavens! this is terrible! Woman, woman, I
charge you, tell me the truth! Is there no mistake in
this?” His lips quivered, his eyes were bright with
pain.
“Go to the woman yourself if you doubt me,” was
the answer. “Then say if I am not right in forbidding
our Georgiana ever to enter that place again. She may
be obstinate enough to insist; but I shall have done my
duty.”
Miss Eliza folded her hands over each other, and
rubbed them gently as she spoke. Savage looked at
her with no pleasant expression in his eyes. Up to this
time she had amused him by her ridiculous affectation;
but now he began to hate her, for he saw under all her
extravagance a vein of bitter malice, subtle as the
venom of a serpent. He could not altogether disbelieve
her, but detested her the more for that. We never
love, and seldom forgive, those who destroy our illusions.
189Miss Eliza took the half-open rose from her bosom,
blew a kiss into its leaves, and gave it to him.
“We have wasted some precious minutes on this
worthless girl,” she said, “let this compensate for the
annoyance.”
Savage took the rose and crushed it ruthlessly in his
hand.
“As I could crush her!” he muttered, turning away
and leaving the room before Eliza had time to stop him.
She started up and ran to the door, calling out, “Mr.
Savage! Mr. Savage!”
He heard her, and muttered something between his
teeth, which was neither a compliment nor a blessing.
That moment he was opposite the door of Georgiana’s
room.
“I ought to go in and release her from that kind
promise; but not yet—not yet. I have not the courage
to tell her yet. Besides, it may be false—it may be
false! Georgiana, herself, did not seem more innocent
than she was; and the old woman, too—was all her
sweetness put on? I have heard of such things—seen
them, too. The meekest looking woman I ever saw had
murdered two husbands, and was caught looking out
for a third. If mother Burns is one of that sort, no
wonder her grandchild is mistress of her art. But it
is not true—I cannot believe it. So sweet, so gentle,
so——”
With a gesture of passionate grief Savage turned
from the door of Georgie’s room, which he had almost
opened, and hurried down stairs. Miserable, jealous,
and burning with fierce indignation, he followed a passionate
instinct, and went directly into the neighborhood
190where Anna Burns lived. He had formed no
positive design, but went blindly to work, fearing that
every step he took would tear that dear image from his
heart, yet eager to seize upon the bitter truth. Following
the scent of fried ham, which came to him on the
stairs, he knocked at an ill-fitting door, through which
a hissing sound bespoke the fair progress of some meal,
and was told by a loud voice to come in.
It was the room which we have once described, and
the same coarse, repulsive woman presided in it. But
this time she was busy over a cooking-stove, turning
some slices of ham in a short-handled frying-pan, where
they hissed and sent off steam, as if she were torturing
them with her knife. A basket, crowded full of slop-work,
stood in one corner of the room, and a little side-thimble
lay upon the narrow window-sill, close by a
cushion of scarlet cloth, bristling all over with coarse
needles and crooked pins.
When Savage entered the room, the woman turned
her face, which flamed out, hot and red, from its cloud
of steam, and stood, with her knife half suspended,
waiting for him to speak.
“Madam, are you the mistress of this house?” he
said, lifting the hat from his head.
“I believe they generally call me so,” she answered,
bending the point of her knife against the stove. “Wont
you walk in and help yourself to a chair?”
“No, thank you. I come to inquire for a gentleman
who has a room here, I think—Mr. Ward.”
“Oh! that’s it, is it?” exclaimed the woman. “Didn’t
know but it might be another big-bug struck with a
liking for the house. Suppose it must be because they’ve
191took sich a fancy to me all at once. Anna Burns has
nothing to do with it. Oh, no!”
Here the woman thrust her knife under a slice of
ham and turned it over with emphasis, laughing a low,
disagreeable laugh, and shaking her head, as if greatly
enjoying her own words.
“You want to see Mr. Ward?” she said at last, coming
out of her laugh. “Jest mount the next stairs,
and you’ll find his room on the left, right under their’n.
I shouldn’t wonder if he ain’t at home, though. Never
had a more uncertain person under this roof. But then
I never had a genuine big-bug afore. Wait a minute,
and I’ll show you the way.”
“No, thank you, I can find it,” answered Savage, turning
away white and faint. Until that moment he had
hoped that something might arise to refute Miss Eliza’s
slander—but bitter confirmation met him at every step.
He made no effort to see Ward; indeed, had no intention
of meeting him from the first. His name had only
been used as an excuse for questioning that fiery-faced
woman, who was cross and coarse, but not bad at heart.
“If you want a room, or any thing of that sort, I
may as well out with it, and say that it can’t be had,”
cried that female, standing up resolutely with the knife
in her hand. “It don’t set easy on my conscience letting
in that other chap. There’s something mean and
underhanded about his coming here, or I don’t know
good from bad. The fact is, I offered him his money
back, and would a put up with the loss; but he said he
had got friends in the house, and couldn’t think of it.
This riled me more than any thing, for I had a liking
for that old woman and the girl, to say nothing of the
192little boys, that are worth their weight in gold, going
up and down stairs chattering and laughing so bright;
and I told him it was a shame to come here just to unsettle
a poor young cretur’s head that had got trouble
enough already. At which he laughed and hitched up
his shoulders, and woke up my temper till I could a
boxed his ears, and gloried over it like sixty, if it
hadn’t been for the law, which makes sich things salt
and battery, and six months in the penitentiary; which
I shouldn’t like, being respectable, and working for one
of the best clothing houses in the city, besides hiring
this house on speculation; and a purty speculation it’s
been, one month in advance, and then three dunning for—and
obliged to turn ’em out at last; except that
family in the top, I never dunned them, poor creturs!
and wouldn’t anyhow, knowing that they would starve
rather than not pay, if they had it. Poor girl! Poor
girl! I feel as if I’d helped to hunt her down, somehow,
and it sets hard here.”
The woman placed her hand, knife and all, against
her right side, solemnly impressed with an idea that
her heart lay in that direction; and a heavy sigh was
lost in the hissing which rose from the frying-pan.
“No, no! I’ll have nothing to do with tenants that
come here with kid gloves and coral studs in their
bosom. It isn’t for me, a hard-working woman, to put
temptation in the way of my own sect. So, if You’d just
as lieve, I’d rather you wouldn’t come here no more.
I’ve seen you more an once going up to the top of the
house, and it kinder made the heart ache in my bosom.”
Savage listened to all this with an aching heart and
changing countenance. The coarse, hard honesty of
193the woman enforced his respect; and he stood with his
hat off gazing upon her with strange interest.
“It is not likely that I ever shall come again,” he
said, with a pang at his heart, laying his hand on the
door-knob.
“It was that live-folks picture that did it,” said the
woman; “afore that time no living creature ever went
to see them. Now it is ladies in their flounces and with
lace parasols; and gentlemen in broadcloth, cutting up
and down all the time. I wish they’d a let the poor
soul alone.”
“And so do I,” answered Savage, with deep feeling.
“It was kindly meant. But I will bid you good-day,
madam. If I should ever come here again, pray believe
that it is with no unworthy motive. I cannot permit
you to think otherwise in common self-respect.”
“Well, then, don’t come again, and I’ll believe you.
In fact, I do now. There’s a difference between gentlemen
and gentlemen. I only wish the other chap had a
face that could turn red and white like yours. The long
and the short of it is, I wish he was straight out of my
house; that poor child don’t seem like the same cretur
since he came here.”
Savage did not stay to ask in what this change consisted,
the subject had become altogether too painful;
so, with a bend of his head, he went out. One moment
he paused upon the staircase; his heart turned with
passionate longing toward that lonely upper room.
Even in her unworthiness, he yearned to look upon
Anna’s face once more; to hear her sweet voice proclaim
the innocence he never could believe in again.
But he thought of Ward, the gambler and convenient
194toady, whom so many men used in his scoundrelism,
and despised, as they used him, with a sensation of
such intense loathing, that it turned his very compassion
away from the young creature he had loved with
such self-sacrificing truth.
“Had it been any one else,” he muttered through his
shut teeth, “I could have borne it better; but this
paltry wretch, this miserable hound! Great heavens!
and she, so gentle, so exquisitely pure! It is beyond
belief. Never till now did I believe in the utter duplicity
of the sex. Poor girl! Poor, wrecked girl! Could
she have known how I loved her?”
With these thoughts, which broke in half-formed
words against his shut teeth, the young man went down
stairs, and into the poverty-stricken neighborhood beyond,
feeling, for the first time, in all its force, how
squalid and offensive it was. Scarcely had his foot
touched the pavement, when he saw Anna Burns coming
down the side-walk with a small parcel in her hand. Her
face lighted up as she saw him, her cheeks dimpled, and
a warm love-glow came into her eyes. Savage stood
motionless, looking at her with his stern eyes on fire,
and his lips set.
She did not see the expression of his face, for, after
the first glad recognition, her eyelids had drooped in
shame at her own eager joy, and she came up to him
shrinking and covered with blushes—came up and held
out her hand; for was he not her declared lover, this
brave, handsome young fellow, whom any lady of the
land would have gloried in.
Savage did not touch that eager little hand, but lifting
his hat with haughty coldness, walked on, leaving her
195chilled with dismay. She turned and looked after him
with a cry of surprised pain, scarcely kept back from
the parted lips which closed slowly, and seemed freezing
into marble as his stern, unyielding footsteps bore him
further and further away. Then, just as he was turning
a corner, the cry broke from her, “Oh, come back!
Come back!” and turning wildly, she ran a few steps
after him, till she was checked on the pavement, her
face so wildly pale, coming suddenly opposite that of
young Ward, who seized one of her hands, and asked
what it was that had frightened her so.
That moment Savage turned the corner and looked
back.
CHAPTER XV. A HARD-HEARTED VILLAIN.
Ward attempted to draw Anna’s hand through his
own, but she resisted him, and at last tore it away in
passionate anger.
“Mr. Ward,” she said, “this is unkind—it is rude.
You have no right to take such liberties with me.”
There was fire enough in those eyes, then, and a
world of scorn on the lovely mouth. She turned one
look in the direction which Savage had taken, saw that
he was gone, and turned fiercely upon Ward again.
“You are wicked—you are cruel!” she said. “Knowing
how helpless I am, you persecute me horribly!”
“I persecute you, sweet one—the idea! Is it in this
way you mistake my adoration?”
196Anna’s red lips curved with scorn; her eyes flashed,
her whole form trembled.
“Great heavens!” she exclaimed, “I never knew what
a terrible thing poverty was before. But for that you
could not have forced yourself under the same roof
with a poor, helpless girl; but for that you dare not
have spoken to me.”
“Do not accuse poverty for the acts which spring out
of love, sweet one.”
Anna heard no more; but gathering her shawl about
her with the haughty grace of an empress, she turned
away from him and walked quickly into the house. The
young gambler followed her, laughing; the excitement
of her anger charmed him. Quickly as he walked,
Anna had mounted the third flight of stairs before he
entered the passage. He just caught a glimpse of her
dress on the upper landing, and that was all. But he
went up stairs, smiling to himself and humming a tune,
conscious of his power to see her almost when he
pleased.
Old Mrs. Burns was busy darning the only tablecloth
in that poor establishment, when Anna came in,
all on fire with wounded affection and outraged pride.
“Grandmother,” she said, “we must move; this
house is no place for us. Let us go to-night—this
hour!”
The old lady was holding up the tablecloth between
her eyes and the light, searching for more broken
threads. She dropped it suddenly as her granddaughter
spoke, and gazed at her a moment in anxious wonder.
“What is it, Anna? Who has troubled you, dear?”
“That young man in the room below. I haven’t told
197you of it before, grandmother, but he is always in my
way. I cannot go up or down stairs that he does not
say things to me which seem insulting, situated as we
are.”
“My poor child! poor, dear, little Anna!” said the
old lady, going up to the excited girl and smoothing
the rich waves of her hair as if she had been a child.
“Perhaps the young man means no harm. What sort
of a person is he?”
“A dandy; a pitiful——”
Here Anna’s anger flowed out, and she burst into
tears.
“There, there! Don’t cry so, child! What did the
young man say to you?”
“Say—say? I don’t remember, grandma. Nothing,
I think; only he held my hand so close, and he saw
it——Oh! it is too bad—it is too bad!”
“Be tranquil, Anna. I cannot think what has come
over you. Why, your eyes are full of smothered shame;
your lips tremble, you are giving way altogether. Sit
down quietly, and tell me what it is all about.”
“I will, grandmother. I know it is a shame to take
on so, but that man is enough to drive one mad. What
is he doing in this house? Robert says that he is a
gentleman, and a great friend of young Mr. Gould’s.
He can have no honest business here.”
The old lady sat down in her rocking-chair, and sat
thoughtfully gazing in Anna’s face. She was a timid
woman, and poverty had fastened its depressing influence
on all her faculties. But there was moral force
asleep in her nature yet; the color came and went in
198her old cheek; her soft, brown eyes grew resolute in
their expression.
“There is no one to protect us—no one to say a word
in our behalf,” said Anna, with a fresh outburst of tears.
“Robert is too young. Oh! what can we do—what can
we do?”
The old lady arose from her chair, and going up to a
tiny looking-glass which hung on the wall, smoothed
the gray hair under her cap with two little withered
hands that shook like aspen-leaves. Then, with a look
of gentle resolution on her face, she softly opened the
door and went down stairs.
Young Ward was lying upon his bed with a segar in
his mouth. He lay prone on his back, and sent up
clouds of smoke with a vehemence which seemed to
have filled his moustache and hair with smouldering fire.
He turned lazily as the old lady knocked, and emitting
a fresh volume of smoke, called out,
“Come in! Why the deuce don’t you come in?”
Mrs. Burns came gently through the door, and stood
a pace inside the threshold gazing at him. Ward started
up, flung his feet over the side of the bed, and looked
his astonishment at this intrusion.
“How do you do, ma’am? Glad to see you. Take a
seat. This seems neighborly. Excuse my dressing-gown;
free-and-easy in my room here. Did not expect
the honor of a lady’s company, but glad to have it. Sit
down.”
Mrs. Burns took a chair near the bed, and, folding
both hands in her lap, turned her eyes full upon the
flushed face turned upon her.
“Mr. Ward—I believe that is your name?”
199“Certainly. Nothing could be more correct,” answered
Ward, thrusting his foot into an embroidered
slipper trodden down at the heel, which had dropped
to the floor; “delighted that you remember it.”
“Mr. Ward, we are two helpless creatures—my
grandchild and myself; one from age, the other because
of her youth. A more helpless family, in fact, does not
exist. We have nothing in the wide world but our good
name, and the work of our hands to live on. Unhappily!
most unhappily! my granddaughter, Anna, is so
pretty that men turn to look at her in the street; and
even ladies think much of her on that account.”
“They are deuced jealous of her, I can tell you that,”
burst forth young Ward, puffing away at his segar,
which was half extinguished. “And no wonder; she
cuts into them all hollow. Of course, men turn to look
at her in the street; they don’t see a figure and face like
that often, I can tell you. Then her instep, one sees it
now and then coming up stairs, you know, when her
dress is looped up—and it’s Spanish, absolutely
Spanish, I can tell you. My dear madam, you have got
a treasure of beauty in that girl—you have, indeed; I
give you my honor upon it.”
“I have come,” said the old lady, ignoring this
speech, though a flush of red came across her withered
cheek, and the hands moved restlessly in her lap, “I
have come to tell you how unprotected we are, and how
hard it is for us to get a living. I have come to ask a
great favor of you.”
“What! want money? All right. I thought it would
come to that! How much? I’ll stand a pretty heavy
pull; hang me, if I wont.
200Ward flouted his slipper on the floor, and, drawing a
porte-monnaie from one of his pockets, took out a
roll of treasury-notes.
This time the color in the old woman’s face burned
into scarlet.
“I did not mean that, young man—I did not mean
that. The favor I want is more important to us than
all the money you possess.”
Ward put the roll of bills slowly back into his porte-monnaie,
and closed it with a loud snap.
“Not want money? Then in the name of Jupiter!
what is it you are after?”
“I wish you to give up this room and leave the
house. This is no place for a rich man like you. It is
injuring us cruelly—my granddaughter most of all.”
Ward fell back upon the bed and laughed aloud.
“This is splendid!” he cried. “Give up my room!
Why, you precious old thing, I like the room—it’s a
capital place to hide away in. Besides, I am one of the
fellows who think your granddaughter handsome. No
harm in that, I hope. Like to see her going up and
down stairs; steps like a fairy; lifts her head like a
princess. Smoke at ease here; admire beauty at my
leisure. Why should you wish to break up these little
innocent enjoyments? It is inhuman—I would not
have thought it of you.”
“Your presence under the same roof with my girl is
sure to injure her. People will not know that we cannot
prevent it.”
“But I know it. I, at least, do ample justice to the
subject. You can no more force me to leave this pleasant
room than you can change the moon.”
201“I do not hope to force your absence, but come in all
kindness to say how much your stay here is injuring us.
I come to entreat, implore you not to force us away
from the only shelter we have. Here the woman of
the house is kind to us, and that makes it seem like
home. My son died fighting for his country—perhaps
you did not know that. When he was with us we were
very comfortable, and so happy. Now, the children
have no one but me; and I am only a weak old woman;
but my child’s good name must not be lost. We were
getting a little comfortable, just now; but if you will
stay, we must go.”
“Go!” exclaimed Ward, in sudden excitement. “You
really don’t mean that, old lady?”
“It is hard. I am an old woman, and age shrinks
from change. We had got used to the rooms; but if we
must go, we must! Heaven help us!”
Mrs. Burns arose as she spoke, and stood with one
hand on the chair, looking sadly on the floor. At last
she lifted her brown eyes mournfully to his, and turned
away. Poor thing! She did not know how to struggle,
but she was patient to endure.
I think the young man was a little disturbed by the
expression of those eyes, for the fire went out from his
segar, and he flung it away half consumed, muttering
something between his teeth that sounded like an exclamation
of self-loathing.
“I’ll go and see Gould,” he said, throwing his dressing-gown
across a chair, and thrusting his arms into a
coat. “No, I wont, either! Hang it all, I’m getting
too fond of the girl myself; half tempted to marry her,
and get religion. That sweet old woman, now, would
202be like a sermon in one’s house. If one only had a nice
little fortune—income sure? How easy it is for rich
men to be good. But we fellows that live by our wits,
find ‘Jordan a hard road to travel.’ I wish that old lady
had stayed away. I can stand the girl’s haughty airs, for
anger fires up her beauty into something wonderful; but
that sweet, low voice; those poor little hands, trembling
like birds in the cold; and those eyes, take a fellow’s
spirit out of his bosom. I think they reminded me of
my own mother. Well, I’ll think about going away,
poor, old woman; if it was only her, I’d quit at once—I
would, indeed!”
Mrs. Burns heard nothing of this; she had left the
room, and was knocking faintly at her landlady’s door.
“Come in.”
Mrs. Burns obeyed the summons, and entered the
room with which our readers are acquainted. The landlady
sat on a low chair, with her foot on the round of
another chair, and the seam of a coarse jacket pinned
to her knee. She looked up, holding her thread half
drawn, and pushing the chair on which her foot rested,
asked her tenant to sit down, a little roughly—for she
was not quite satisfied with the aspect of things with
the family up stairs.
Mrs. Burns sat down, and the landlady bent to her
work again.
“Any thing stirring?” she inquired, pressing the
needle through a thick double-seam with the side of her
steel thimble. “A good deal of going up and down
stairs lately—tramp, tramp! nothing but tramp! Getting
to have lots of genteel company in your story?
203Silks a rustling, and patent-leather boots a cracking all
the day long. How’s Anna?”
“She is not very well. We are in a little trouble just
now, and that’s what brings me here. I think we shall
have to move.”
“Move! Mrs. Burns! Has it come to that? These
premises ain’t genteel enough for you, I dare say. It’s
all that girl’s doings, I’ll bet. Expected it from the
minute that young fellow came into the house! Scamp!”
“That is the reason we must go. We haven’t had a
happy minute since he came here.”
“Then you want to get away from him—is that it?”
cried the landlady, fixing her greenish-gray eyes on the
sad face turned so innocently toward her.
“Yes; that is the only reason we wish to go. People
will think something wrong of it if a man who
dresses so well, and spends so much money, is seen
often with a girl like my Anna. And he will insist on
walking by her if she goes out. She came home crying
only a few minutes ago, because he stopped her in the
street.”
“Scamp!” exclaimed the landlady, jerking her needle
out with snappish vigor. “Deserves to be kicked into
the middle of next week!”
“I have just been to his room.”
The landlady dropped the heavy work down into her
lap, overcome with astonishment.
“You?”
“I asked him to go away; told him how much we
had become attached to the rooms; how hard it would
be for us to break up—but it did no good.”
“He wouldn’t go himself, and having received two
204months’ rent in advance, I can’t make him. There’s
the worst of it, or he’d go out neck and heels, quicker
than you ever saw a fellow go down stairs in all your
born days, Mrs. Burns.”
The landlady thrust her needle in and out so vigorously
as she spoke, that it plunged into her thumb at
the termination of this sentence.
“Serves me right!” she said, thrusting her thumb
into her mouth. “Serves me right, for letting the
stuck-up creature in. But I’ll make the house too hot
for him; see if I don’t—boil cabbage and fry onions
every day of my life, with the fireboard up and the door
open. Just as like as not his night-key won’t fit some
day when he wants to come in. Will have the lock
changed as sure as I live. I’ve offered the fellow his
money back, and he won’t take it. Well, we’ll see. But
you’re not going away, Mrs. Burns; rather than that
I’ll go in and out with Anna myself. Owe her that
much for thinking she could like the fellow. I’d like to
see him, or anybody else, speak to her when I’m on
hand. Standing down by the door to look at her feet
as she goes up stairs. I’ve seen him do it. If he wants
to look at anybody’s feet, let him look at mine.”
“I am afraid we must move,” said Mrs. Burns, sadly
enough. “You have been so kind to us, it seems almost
like a funeral to go away.”
“You shan’t go! That is the long and short of it.
Wait a little, and if the cabbage and onions fail, I’ll
think of something else; for go he shall, and go you
shan’t—there!”
Mrs. Burns arose, irresolute. She loved the humble
rooms which had sheltered her deepest affliction; and
205her heart yearned toward the semblance of home they
gave her.
“Wait a few days,” said the landlady.
“Yes, I will wait. You are very good; but then
everybody is so good to us.”
“Goodness breeds goodness. I don’t believe there is
a creature on earth bad enough to be hard with you,
Mrs. Burns. I try to be like you sometimes, but it
isn’t in me.”
“It is in you to be considerate and kind to those who
most need kindness,” said Mrs. Burns, with tears in
her eyes.
“Yes, but I’ve got such a way of doing it—rough as
a chestnut-burr; but I don’t mean any harm to a living
creature—quite the contrary.”
“You have done nothing but good to us,” said Mrs.
Burns, opening the door in her soft, quiet way; “and
God will bless you for it.”
“That’s the kind of woman that people call the salt
of the earth,” muttered the landlady, as her tenant went
out; “her very look makes me a better woman. Yet
I was thinking hard of her only a few minutes ago.
Well that was the old native Adam in me. I wonder
how she managed to drive him out. Going to prayer
meeting won’t do it. I’ve tried that; but then she is
so different.”
CHAPTER XVI. THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT.
206
Miss Eliza Halstead was not a person at all likely
to leave any stone unturned which lay in the path of her
love. She knew something of the power which beauty
has over a young heart, and feared Savage might seek
some explanation that would exculpate Anna Burns
from the evil that she had imputed to her—for so powerful
is genuine innocence that even prejudice feels its
influence, let circumstances be ever so much against it.
Scarcely had Savage left the house, when Miss Eliza
put on her lilac bonnet, with its crush-roses and point-lace.
Carefully she smoothed the strings, and puffed
out the bows with her long fingers, leaving pink shadows
all around her face, almost as effective as the bloom of
youth. When she had sufficiently elaborated this portion
of her toilet, she wrapped a costly shawl around
her, and stole softly out of the house, resolved to keep
her visit and its object a secret.
Mrs. Savage was at home; and would she walk directly
up stairs.
Yes. Miss Eliza swept her trailing silks up the broad
staircase, settling her shawl as she went—for she was
forever arranging and rearranging her dress, in-doors
and out. Twice she paused before a mirror, impanneled
in the wall, and examined the flow of her long skirt,
over both shoulders, before she entered the room in
which Mrs. Savage was waiting, with Miss Eliza’s card
in her hand.
“What can she mean?” murmured the lady, reading
207over some writing in pencil above the name. “Something
to communicate of the utmost importance to the
honor of the family—but here she comes. My dear
Miss Halstead, I am delighted! How good of you to
come. Sit down here; you will find it more comfortable.”
No. Miss Eliza preferred to sit with her back to the
light. It took her some minutes to compose her drapery;
but at last she settled down in the crimson easy-chair,
like some tropical bird in its nest, and was ready
for the occasion.
“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” observed Mrs. Savage,
with her blandest smile. “What a color the air has
given you.”
“Yes,” answered Miss Eliza, tightening her glove.
“My complexion is so exquisitely sensitive, that a
breath of air brings the bloom to my cheeks.”
Mrs. Savage smiled a graceful acquiescence to this
self-praise, and hoped Miss Eliza would never feel, as
she did, any lack of youthful bloom.
“When the time comes,” Miss Eliza said, with a
smile of conscious superiority, “I must submit, like
others. But, Mrs. Savage, I came on a painful and humiliating
errand; excuse me, if I am compelled to give
you pain; but, after your great kindness in throwing
me into the same picture with your son, I feel like a
traitor till you know all.”
Mrs. Savage bent her stately head, and replied that
she was listening with attention.
“After that evening, which seemed to give a dawning
hope of union between the houses of Savage and Halstead,
you will imagine, dear lady, that my thoughts,
208hopes, prayers, were all hovering around your son.
Knowing well that our mutual passion had maternal
sanction, I allowed the pent-up feelings of a too ardent
nature to gush forth, till I fear your noble son saw too
clearly into the state of my affections. I strove to conceal
the rush of tender emotions that awoke to the
sound of his very footstep; but there are souls so
transparent, that a child can read them. For a time,
dear lady, all was hope, all was happiness; true as the
needle to the pole myself, I had profound confidence in
your son. For a time his conduct was all that the most
devoted heart could desire—I was his ideal, his love,
his divinity. Though he was too delicate to say all
this, I felt it, madam, in the very core of this heart.”
Here Miss Eliza pressed a fold of a shawl that covered
her bosom, and went on.
“Then came a frost—a killing frost! Oh! my dear
madam—mother, may I not call you? that girl—that
creature—who received your bounty but to betray it,
has broken in upon my pure dream of happiness. Your
son has, for some time, left the refinements which circle
around my home, and, regardless of breaking the heart
that has learned to adore him, has given his time and
his attentions to that creature.”
“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Savage, starting up from
her elegant apathy, her face flaming with passion, her
plump hand clenched, “my son—my son, Horace Savage,
visiting Anna Burns! Miss Halstead, you are
crazy with jealousy; stung to death in your vanity, to
say such things of him. Why, he is proud as I am,
honest as his father. I do not believe this!”
Eliza Halstead was rather pleased with this outbreak.
209She saw in it a sure termination of the attachment which,
in her belief, certainly existed. That which she had
failed to do, that haughty woman would accomplish,
she felt certain.
“You are severe, unkind, to doubt me so,” was her
pathetic rejoinder. “I have seen them together in the
street.”
“That is nothing, of course; he would speak to her
or any other person, poor and dependent. A Savage is
too proud for arrogance. If that is all the proof you
have, permit me to say that your absurd jealousy has
outrun all common sense.”
“Madam!” exclaimed Miss Eliza—and the angry red
outflamed the permanent color on her cheek—“Madam,
I have seen him enter the low house where she lives,
not once, but half a dozen times. I have seen him walking,
block after block, with her down such streets as
you never entered in your life.”
“But you were there, it seems.”
“A woman’s heart will take her anywhere when she
suspects the object of her love.”
“Miss Halstead—but it is useless arguing with you,
utterly useless; there is no fool like an old fool!”
This very trite adage was muttered under the lady’s
breath; but Miss Eliza had sharp ears, and caught the
word fool.
“What did you say, madam?” she demanded, sharply.
“Oh, nothing! only that I was an old fool, to believe
any thing alleged against my son.”
“Believe what you like, think what you like,” answered
the spinster, who was not so easily deceived;
“I have done my duty—a painful, sad duty. All that
210I ask of you, his mother, is silence—secrecy; profound
secrecy as to my part in the affair. Owing all loyalty
to him, I have come here to betray him to his own
mother. It breaks my heart; do not, I pray you,
madam, add one pang to those which rend it now.
Remember the relations which may one day unite us,
and be faithful to the trust I have reposed in you.”
Mrs. Savage was by this time pacing up and down
her sumptuous sitting-room, trampling upon the flowers
in its map-like carpet as a tigress treads upon the grass
of its jungle. She was dreadfully annoyed; all the
pride and unbounded affection which she had lavished
on her son, rose in revolt against the tidings Miss Eliza
had brought her. Now that her suspicions were aroused,
she remembered many little circumstances calculated to
confirm Miss Eliza’s statement. As this belief grew
strong upon her, the color left her face, and she sat
down in her chair, stern and cold, doubting, unbelieving.
“You are sure of this thing?” she said, speaking in
a slow, still voice. “This is no phantasy of a jealous
imagination?”
Miss Eliza drew close to the woman whom she had
come deliberately to wound, and took her hand. She
dearly loved to create a sensation of any kind, and took
the pallor and distress in that proud face as a personal
compliment.
“Do not distress yourself, sweet friend, my almost
mother; but have faith, as I do, in the immutable truth
of love. He may wander away from me; he may have
one of those fleeting fancies for another which sometimes
211disturb the most faithful heart, but in the end he
will return; he will be mine—all mine!”
A smile quivered around Mrs. Savage’s mouth, spite
of her distress; but it passed away, leaving a stern expression
there. The evil was too serious not to sweep
away all sense of ridicule in her mind.
“Now tell me quietly, and in as few words as possible,
exactly what you have seen or know about this
affair. Excuse me if I have seemed rude; but you took
me by surprise. Now let me know the whole.”
“I have told you all, sweet friend—that is, all as
regards your son; but as for that artful young person,
Burns, really, as a young girl, hedged in from such
knowledge by all sorts of refinement, I cannot tell you,
without burning blushes, how unworthy she is.”
Mrs. Savage half started from her chair.
“You surprise, you astonish me,” she said. “If ever
innocence was depicted in a face, I thought it was in
hers.”
“She is artful enough to deceive you. She has deceived
your son. Even Georgiana will believe nothing
against her.”
“If she is what you say, there is little danger for
Horace; there is too much refinement and discrimination
in his character for a deception of that kind to last
long with him,” said the mother.
Miss Eliza instantly took the alarm. She saw that
Mrs. Savage had too much faith in her son’s principles
for any fear of a person who could shock them, and with
crafty adroitness sought to undo the impression she had
made.
“Perhaps I have gone too far,” she said, retreating
212gracefully. “My own love of truth is so profound, that
the least deviation seems to me like a crime. She professes
to be every thing that is meek and good, yet I
cannot believe in it. Without some falsehood, some
deception, she could not have won such influence over a
heart that is, in reality, all mine, as those who saw him
kneeling at my feet that night must have felt.”
“Let that pass,” broke in Mrs. Savage, with a gesture
of impatience. “You really know nothing against
this girl, except that she is beautiful and lovely?”
“I never said she was beautiful,” cried Miss Eliza.
“Never!”
“But I know that she is, and, to all appearance, a
modest, well-bred girl. Seeing all this, I was an idiot
to introduce her as I did.”
“I thought so all the time,” said Miss Eliza, demurely.
“Not that I think of her as beautiful or well-bred—far
from it; but those artful young creatures do fascinate
men some way quite unaccountably. I cannot bear
to think of it.”
“You are sure that he visits her house?”
“Sure as I am of my own life.”
“And that he walks with her in the street?”
“I have seen him join her not a block from your own
door, and never leave her till she reached that which
leads to her rooms in the garret of a tenement-house
where she now resides.”
“Where is this house?”
Miss Eliza reluctantly gave the street and number
where Anna Burns lived.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Savage; “you have done me
213a great service. I will think what steps had best be
taken in the matter.”
“And you will keep my visit a secret? Situated as
we are, he might think it indelicate for me to interfere.”
“I will not mention your name in the matter,” answered
Mrs. Savage, wearily.
Miss Eliza arose, shook out the drapery of her dress,
kissed Mrs. Savage with elaborate affection, and left the
room, well satisfied with the work she had done.
Mrs. Savage was a proud, impetuous woman, well
calculated for a leader in social life, and in all respects
the mistress of her own house. Such women are usually
ardent in their attachments; willing to die for those
they love; ready to turn the world over in their behalf;
but well disposed to regulate and control the happiness
they are so earnest in securing.
There was no being in the world to whom young Savage
was so much attached as his mother. There was
something chivalric in his admiration of her talent, and
in the loving pride that he felt in her womanliness. He
saw her by the graceful force of a superior will governing
other women, and charming strong men into her
service. He knew that she was grand in her magnanimity
when it was once aroused; but sometimes more
disposed to be generous than just, when the tide of her
strong prejudices set in against the truth. She was,
indeed, a woman of whom any son might well have been
proud—full of faults, and rich in magnificent virtues.
For the world he would not have given this woman
pain; for he, above all others, knew what a cruel thing
pain was to her. For this reason he had, perhaps, unconsciously
kept his knowledge of Anna Burns a secret
214from her until quite assured that this feeling, which
seemed so like love, was an enduring passion; he would
not disturb his mother by confessing it. There was
nothing like domestic treason in this. The young man
was not quite sure of himself. Refined, fastidious, and
over-educated as he was, the feelings which sprang up
in his heart regarding this girl were a wonder to his
own mind. They were so opposed to all his relations
in life that he could not believe in them; yet they were
there strong as his life.
About the time that he learned of Ward’s residence
in the same house with Anna Burns, he had resolved to
open his heart to his mother, and tell her all. Savage
had at this time resolved to make Anna Burns his wife.
The first step he took in that direction was to seek
Georgiana Halstead, and ask her aid in removing the
object of his love to a less revolting home, and in surrounding
her with associates kindred to her character
rather than her position. This done, he fully intended
to make that proud mother his next confidant.
A single hour had swept all these honorable projects
from his mind. He had listened with scornful incredulity
to the charges made against the lady of his love by
Miss Eliza. But his own eyes were not to be disbelieved;
the evidence of that roughly honest landlady
had been complete. He had been about to sacrifice himself
to an artful, unprincipled girl, who could share love,
true and generous as his, with a creature like that Ward.
He had seen them together; he had seen her hand in
his. He knew that they dwelt under the same squalid
roof. It was enough. Never, in this world, would he
215mention that girl’s name to his mother. She had
wronged him too cruelly.
Savage, stung to the soul with these feelings, sent a
note to his mother that he was going into the country
for a few days—and went away, in what direction he
neither knew nor cared. He had been humiliated,
wounded in his love and in his pride beyond bearing;
so much as he had been willing to give up for the sake
of that girl’s love—and she knew it. The infatuation
must have been coarse and deep which could have led
her from the prospects his love would have secured, to
the evil fortunes of that gambler.
Mrs. Savage received her son’s note just after Eliza
Halstead left the house. She was glad to know that he
had left town. In her present state of feeling she could
not have met him with the equanimity which her pride
demanded. While he was gone, she would see this girl,
and sweep away the temptation that had beset him, if
eloquence or money could do it.
It was honorable to the mother, and most honorable
to the son, that Mrs. Savage never once imputed a dishonorable
thought to the visits that had been described
to her—proud, generous women like her are not apt to
think the worst of human nature. She would have felt
as much degraded by an immoral or dishonorable act in
her son, as if it had fastened upon her own person.
“If I do not prevent it, he will marry this girl,” she
said; “and I, fool that I was, have cast her in his way.
There is poor Georgiana wronged and deserted. Not
that he ever said much to her; but I had so set my
heart on it, that every word I said to the dear child was
a promise. Heaven bless that vicious old maid for
216warning me in time! What a character she is—how
silkily she kept down the venom of her tongue. I wonder
Halstead can endure her in the house.”
Thus Mrs. Savage wandered in her thoughts as she
closed her son’s note. She had received a hard blow,
but women like her do not spend much time in recrimination
when work is to be done.
“I will go at once,” she thought. “This may be
nothing serious, after all; Horace is so generous, and
he knew of their poverty. This may only be one of his
private charities, which the old maid has tortured into
a love romance.”
Mrs. Savage followed out these thoughts by ringing
for her maid, and ordering her shawl and bonnet to be
brought down; but the girl had hardly left the room
when a servant came from the hall, and inquired if Mrs.
Savage could spare a minute to the young person who
came so often about the fine sewing?
“Let her come up—let her come up,” answered the
lady, in eager haste. “Mary, you need not get the
things; I shall not go out just now.”
Anna Burns came into the room softly as a tear falls.
She was pale, and a sad sweetness made her face touchingly
lovely.
“I have brought the work home,” she said, laying a
roll of embroidered muslin on the table, and leaning
against the marble for support. “And—and I have
come to say that grandmother does not think it best
that I should take any more.”
Anna’s voice shook, and the woman who listened knew
that it trembled through suppressed tears.
217“Why do you give up work?” she inquired, with unconscious
sympathy in her voice.
“I—I——Because grandmother thinks it best.
Carrying home the work takes me a good deal into the
street, and she does not think that good for me.”
“Your grandmother is a prudent woman. But how
are you to live without work?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I can find something to do
that wont take me away from home just at present, at
least.”
Mrs. Savage took up the roll of work and began to
examine it. Woman of the world as she was, something
gentle and good about that girl prevented her speaking
out as she had proposed do. The sad, wistful look
turned upon her bespoke too much sorrow for ungentle
handling.
“Sit down,” she said, gently, as if she had been addressing
a naughty child, “I wish to speak with you.”
Anna sat down with a frightened look, and trembling
a little as the lady could see.
“You know my son, Anna Burns?”
“Yes; yes, madam, a little—that is, I did.”
“He has been to your house?”
“To our rooms you mean, lady? Yes, he has been
there.”
“More than once?”
“Oh, yes! more than once. We—we did not think
there was any harm in it.”
Anna’s eyes were filling with tears; her lips quivered
like those of a grieved child just before it bursts into a
cry.
“Did he help you——”
218“Madam!”
“Did he give you money? Was it for that he came?”
“Money? Oh! he would not do that. Grandmother
is a lady; and no one ever offers her money, most of all,
Mr. Savage.”
There was no deception here. Those eyes were
lifted to the proud woman’s questioning, clearly and
purely as the stars of heaven shine on earth. Mrs.
Savage hesitated and looked down, there was too much
of the woman in her heart not to shrink from the task
she had imposed on herself.
At last she took the girl’s hand in her own, and felt
that it trembled there like a frightened bird.
“Anna Burns, has my son ever said that he loved
you?”
Anna struggled to free her hand.
“Oh, madam! Oh, lady! this is punishing me too
much!”
“Answer me, Anna, I mean nothing unkind; but I
must know. Has my son ever said that he loved you?”
Anna sat upright. Her face had been scarlet a moment
before; now it was white as snow.
“Yes,” she said, with gentle firmness. “He has said
that he loved me more than once.”
“And you believed him?”
“Believed him? Oh, yes!”
“One question more, Anna. Do you love him?”
“Lady, I am a very young girl, and hardly know
what love is. But I hope God will forgive me if it is
wrong to think so often and so much of Mr. Savage!”
“This is very sad,” murmured the lady; and she held
the little hand in hers closer when she spoke again.
219“Has he ever said any thing about marrying you,
Anna?”
“I think so. It seemed to me that it was what he
meant; but that was before—”
“Before what, Anna?”
“I don’t know. I would rather not talk any more
about it, madam, if you please.”
“Anna, let me talk seriously with you. There is a
great distinction between you and my son.”
“I know it—I know it. Grandmother said exactly
those words.”
“He cannot marry you.”
“Oh! madam.”
“You must save him from the ruin such a step would
bring upon him.”
“Ruin?”
“Yes, ruin! I, his mother, never would consent.
He would lose his high place in society. He would regret
the step within a month after it was taken.”
Anna grew paler and paler, the quivering of her lips
became convulsive.
“That is the reason—that is why he would not speak
to me. Oh! madam, my heart is breaking.”
“Better the pain now than when it is too late, child.
Give him up—give him up, and I will see that neither
you nor yours shall ever want.”
“It is too late—too late, lady. He has given me up.
I understand it all now. Let me go home. I am faint—so, so fain——”
The sentence died out in a murmur on those white
lips. Anna had fainted at the proud woman’s feet.
CHAPTER XVII. A NEW LIGHT.
220
When Anna Burns awoke from that deathly fainting
fit, Mrs. Savage was leaning over her, with pain and
sorrow in her fine features. The unhappy girl looked
so white and broken in her insensibility that it touched
her to the heart.
“Poor child! it is a sad pity,” she murmured, lifting
Anna’s head to her lap. “But these things, happily, do
not prove fatal. She should not have lifted her eyes to
my Horace. Dear fellow! no wonder he thinks her
pretty.”
“Let me go home, lady! Let me go home!” said
Anna, drearily. “I will do any thing you say, only let
me go home!”
“Wait a little, my child; take a glass of wine, it will
make you strong. I want to say a few words now.”
“I will wait,” said Anna; “but no wine; grandmother
will make me some tea when I get home.”
“I—I wished to say a word more about my son.”
“Well, madam, I will try and listen.”
“I have said that it would be his total ruin if——”
“If he married me. Yes; I know—I know; please
do not say it over again, it kills me.”
“I think, Anna Burns, you love him well enough to
save him.”
“I—I love him well enough for—for almost any
thing.”
“There is but one thing you can do for him.”
Anna lifted her large, questioning eyes to meet those
221of Mrs. Savage—and that look made speech unnecessary.
“Your eyes ask me what it is you can do.”
“Yes.” The words fell faintly from those white lips,
as they began to quiver again.
“Keep out of his way. Leave the place you live in—I
will supply the means. Move to some other city.
Go into the country; do any thing but see him again.”
Again Anna lifted those eyes to the proud woman’s
face; and this time the fine, blue eyes of the lady fell
under her glance.
“Is there no other way?”
“None in the world. Listen, child. You are pretty,
I admit—lady-like, refined, surpassingly so; but my
son has a position to maintain, a career of ambition
before him. We have no other child, and have founded
high hopes on him. This marriage, if he, indeed, thinks
of it, would destroy them all. His father never would
be brought to sanction it; he never would recognize
you. As for me, I should forgive him, perhaps, but you,
never!”
“It will not happen, lady. I shall never need your
forgiveness. You did not know that Mr. Savage had
thought better of it already—that he does not speak to
me in the street. That——”
Anna stopped, for a quick rush of tears was choking
her.
“Indeed! Is this true?”
“Indeed, indeed it is, lady!”
“And what is the reason?”
“Perhaps he is obeying your command, lady?”
222“No, I have never spoken of this—never heard of it
till this morning.”
“Then he must have been angry with me about——”
“Well, about what?”
“About Mr. Ward.”
“Mr. Ward—what of him? Is it the Ward I know—the
great friend of young Gould?”
“I—I think so. He has been cruel to me; he would
come to live in the house.”
“Live in the same house with you?”
“Yes, he would do it. We did not know about it
at the time. Then he contrived to meet me on the stairs,
and follow me into the street. Mr. Savage saw him
there one day. It was then he did not speak to me.
But I was not to blame. Oh, lady! pity me a little;
for since then, I have been so miserable.”
“It will not last. I give you my experience that it
will not last. I will inquire about young Ward. He
has no family or connections to speak of. There could
be no objections to that match, if he really fancies you,
I should suppose. Come, come, cheer up; the other is
out of the question, you know; but if young Ward
comes forward, I should not in the least mind giving
you a wedding outfit, and a neat little sum of money.
Take these things into consideration, like a good girl.
This fancy for my son will soon exhaust itself.”
Anna stood up firmly now, and drew the shawl, that
had partly fallen off, about her person with a proud
grace that astonished the woman who had wounded
her so.
“Lady, be content; I will not, if possible, see your
223son again; but to speak of another, especially that man,
is worse than cruel, it is insulting.”
The red flush of a haughty spirit, ashamed of itself,
swept over the lady’s face.
“I did not mean to wound or insult you,” she said.
“No, lady; you only forgot that a poor girl who
works hard for her living may have a little pride, and
some shadow of delicacy.”
“Indeed, I do not forget any thing of the kind; but
I am anxious to save my son from a step that I honestly
believe he would repent of, and have frankly asked
you to help me. Another woman would have taken
different and harsher means; I stoop to entreat, implore
you to give him up.”
“Lady, I have—I do.”
“This fact about young Ward will, if you manage it
wisely, be a great assistance. My son is proud and
peculiarly sensitive. If he supposed that you encouraged
this young man, it would go far to cure him of his
folly.”
“What do you mean, lady?”
“This. He now thinks, doubtless, that you have encouraged
young Ward to come under the same roof
with you. He has already seen him with you in the
street. Do not undeceive him—that will be his cure.”
“But what will he, what can he think of me?”
“No matter what he thinks. You will never meet
again; and if you should, all this foolish passion will
have been swept away on both sides. Then you can
inform him with safety.”
“Lady, do not ask me to act in this way. I can give
up his love, but not his respect.”
224“Not for a time? If it will restore him to himself—to
the parents who love him better than themselves?”
“I could not force myself to do that, madam.”
“But he may return to you.”
Anna’s eyes sparkled through the tears that hung on
those curling lashes. Mrs. Savage saw the look, and
her own eyes flashed angrily.
“You wish it. I see you wish it,” she said.
“If I do, it is because even a new pain would be
something like a relief to the dull ache here,” answered
the young girl, laying a hand on her heart. “You have
my promise, lady, not to see your son again, if I can
help it. After that, any conditions you may make are
of little importance. You are right; it does not matter
what he thinks of me. Do with me as you will, I cannot
be more wretched than I am.”
Anna sat down in a chair, simply because she was too
weak for the upright position she had bravely maintained
till then; but her face was turned upon the
proud woman with a look that seemed to be making a
last plead for her life.
“I wish it could be avoided. Do believe me, I am
giving myself almost as much pain as you can feel; but
firmness here is mercy. Promise not to see my son
again.”
“I have—I have!”
These words were uttered in a cry of absolute anguish,
that drove the blood from Mrs. Savage’s face;
but she was firm as a rock, notwithstanding this strain
on her sympathy.
“Promise, if you should be forced to see him, that no
explanations shall be made. Let him keep his present
225impression, injurious as it may be, regarding young
Ward.”
Poor Anna Burns! These were hard conditions,
harder than she knew of; for, brought up by that pure
and gentle old woman, more carefully than most city
belles ever were, she had no idea that any one could
think worse of her than that she had encouraged the
honorable attentions of this man Ward. But that
thought alone was enough to make her young heart
swell with bitter humiliation.
“Lady, he cannot believe it. He never will believe
that I could turn from him to that dreadful man,” she
cried, in a passion of resentment. “There is not a girl
on earth who could be so insane.”
“But it seems he does believe it,” answered the lady.
Anna’s uplifted hand fell heavily into her lap.
“True! true!” she repeated, in a heart-broken voice.
“He saw us together; he would not speak to me.”
She got up wearily now, and besought Mrs. Savage
to let her depart.
“I have promised every thing,” she said. “There
is nothing more that you can want of me.”
“But I, too, have promised something.”
“What?”
“Help, protection, money, if you need it.”
Anna turned upon her like a hunted doe, her cheeks
red with passionate pride, her eyes on fire.
“Madam, I give you back your son, I do not sell
him.”
“Then you reject kindness. You will accept
nothing?” faltered Mrs. Savage.
Anna did not answer, but walked quietly out of the
226room, with her hand clenched under the scant shawl,
and her lips pressed firmly together. For the first time
in her life she was really in a passion.
Mrs. Savage, shocked by the surprise of this outbreak,
stood speechless till the girl had disappeared.
When she did find words, they came in a burst of admiration.
“Upon my word, she is a splendid young creature!
I do not wonder that Horace is infatuated with her.
She absolutely makes me ashamed of myself. If it
were not for Georgiana——No, no! it never can be.”
As Anna was going home, stepping proudly, from
the pure force of such resentment, as few women could
feel and retain their dignity, she met little Joseph, with
a bundle of papers under his arm.
“Please, will you buy a paper, Miss? Ledger! Telegraph!
Bulletin!” he said, with a rogueish little laugh.
“Only five cents!”
Anna recognized this gentle pleasantry, and turning
upon him, tried to smile, but instead of the smile came
a burst of tears that seemed to freeze little Joseph in
his tracks.
“Why, Anna, what is the matter?” he said, laying his
papers on the side-walk, and clinging to her hand, which
was grasping the shawl hard in her anguish. “Why,
how it trembles! Poor little hand! Poor, darling
sister! what is it that makes you cry so? Stoop down,
Anna, and let me kiss you. Nobody is in sight. There!
There! Doesn’t that make you feel better?”
“Yes, darling, yes!” faltered Anna, striving to hide
the ache at her heart with a smile that was so mournful
that it almost made the gentle boy cry too.
227“There is a man coming round the corner, or I’d give
you plenty of ’em! Indeed, I would!” he said, feeling
in his pocket and drawing forth some crumpled money.
“I’ve had pretty good luck to-day, Anna; only see!
Suppose we go out on a bender, and get a plate of icecream
between us?”
Anna shook her head, and drew the veil over her
face.
“What is that for? Don’t you see it is Mr. Savage.”
Anna snatched her shawl from the boy’s grasp, and
hurrying past him, turned the next corner.
Horace Savage quickened his step as he saw the boy,
who had gathered up his papers, and stood looking after
his sister, surprised by her strange conduct.
“Ah, ha! my little friend, is it you?” said Savage,
speaking with great kindness. “How is trade to-day?
Hand me out two or three papers, that’s a fine fellow.”
Joseph forgot his usual alacrity, but stood looking
toward the corner where his sister had disappeared in
sad bewilderment.
“What did she run away for?” he said at last, appealing
to the young man. “Is she afraid of you?”
“Of whom are you speaking, Joseph?”
“Of sister Anna, to-be-sure.”
“I saw a lady going round the corner, but did not
observe her much—was that your sister?”
“Yes it was. Some one has been making her cry.
Who is it, I wonder?”
“How should I know?” answered the young man,
smiling a little at the boy’s earnestness. “Was she
really crying?”
“Not at first; she was walking along as proud as a
228queen, with her head up, and her cheeks as red as two
peaches; but when I spoke to her and asked her to buy
some papers—all in fun, you know—she burst right out
a crying. I declare, sir, it was enough to break one’s
heart. If I hadn’t been a fellow in business, with property
to take care of, I should have burst out crying
with her. I don’t know what has come over sister Anna,
to go on as she does.”
“Why, how does she go on?” inquired Horace,
prompted to the question by the love which would not
be crowded out of his heart. “She ought to be very
happy, I should think.”
“But she isn’t, sir. She doesn’t eat as much as a
chipper-bird; and as for sleep, grandma says she don’t
close her eyes sometimes all night.”
“Indeed! What can trouble her so, Joseph?”
“I’ll tell you what I think it is,” answered Joseph,
lifting his innocent young face toward that of the
young man, “I believe it’s that Mr. Ward’s being in
the house. He torments sister Anna, and she——Well,
I really do believe she can’t bear him.”
“Can’t bear him, Joseph?” cried Savage, with a
sudden glow of the whole countenance.
“Yes, it’s almost that, wicked as it is. I’m sure of
it. Just as likely as not he has been following her out
again, and trying to make her walk with him. That
always makes her come back with red cheeks, and such
angry eyes, that one doesn’t hardly know her.”
“Are you sure that she does not like him, Joseph?”
“Like? Why, she hates him. Only sister Anna
can’t hate much, you know—it isn’t in her.”
229“But why does Mr. Ward follow your sister into the
street, when he could so easily visit her at home?”
“No he can’t, though. Anna goes into the bedroom
if he only knocks. As for grandma, why she sits up so
straight, and looks at him so steady, that he makes believe
to ask for something, and goes away mad enough.”
“Then he is never welcomed in your room?”
“Welcomed! I should rather think not. Why, Mr.
Savage, he isn’t the least bit of a gentleman. When
grandma went down to his room and told him how inconvenient
and unpleasant it was to have him there,
and Anna so young, he almost laughed at her. Grandma’s
eyes were as bright as stars, I can tell you, when
she came up stairs again. She’s a real lady, is grandma,
and it isn’t often that any one dares to treat her
so.”
“Did your grandmother really ask Mr. Ward to go
away?”
“Yes, she did, right to his face.”
“Joseph, I have been keeping you a long time, breaking
up business, and that isn’t fair. There is money
enough for your whole stock. I can’t carry it away,
you see; but sell the papers out at half price and go
home.”
Joseph took the offered money, and insisted on forcing
some copies of his stock on Savage, who took them
in order to give a business air to the transaction.
“Don’t say any thing to your sister about what we’ve
been talking of, Joseph,” he said, a little anxiously.
“It might annoy her, you know, if she thought I knew
she had been crying in the street.”
230“No,” said Joseph, confidentially. “I wouldn’t say
any thing to make her feel bad for the world.”
“But you are quite certain of all you’ve told me,
little Joseph?”
“Certain? Of course I am. But, Mr. Savage, if
you’d just as lief call me Joseph without the little, I’d
rather. When a boy gets into business for himself, it’s
apt to hurt him in the way of trade to be called ‘little,’
our Robert says. It isn’t me, remember—I don’t mind;
but our Robert is a capital business man, and he’s very
particular about it ‘in a commercial point of view’—these
are his very words.”
“Well, Joseph, I’ll be careful.”
“Thank you, sir; I hope you’ll be coming to see us
soon. Grandma is always glad to see you.”
“And no one else, Joseph?”
“Of course, we’re all glad,” answered the boy, instinctively
keeping his sister in the background; “Robert
and I, particularly.”
I am not quite certain that Horace Savage felt so
grateful for this delicate reserve as he ought to have
been; but one thing is certain, he did not go out of
town that night, and was in better spirits, during the
day than had been usual to him for a week past. His
mother was greatly surprised to see him come home
that afternoon as usual; but received his excuses for
what seemed a capricious change of mind with great
good humor.
“Fortunately,” she said to herself, “I saw the girl
before he relented. She will keep her word, poor thing,
though he may make it hard for her.”
It was wonderful what confidence this woman of the
231world placed in the young creature whose life she was
breaking up. Like a wise diplomat, she let her son
take his own way unquestioned.
CHAPTER XVIII. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
“Grandmother!”
“Well, my dear.”
Anna did not answer at first, but sat for a time lost
in thought. At last she spoke again, but in a voice so
constrained that the old lady looked at her with sudden
anxiety.
“Grandmother, how long would it take us to move?”
“Not long,” answered the old lady; “we have not
much to pack up. Two or three hours would get us
ready for the cart, if we all worked.”
“Could we go to-night, grandmother?”
“We could, certainly—but where?”
“I have found a place. When Miss Halstead was
here the other day, she told me of a little house which
belonged to her grandmother, who did not care to rent
it just then, and wanted a nice, quiet family to take
charge of it. She had mentioned us to the old lady,
and we are just the kind of people she wants.”
“Have you seen the house, Anna?”
“No, grandmother; but Miss Halstead says it is
very comfortable and pretty.”
“And the rent?”
232“I told you, if you remember, that we were to take
charge of the house. It is furnished, and they must
have some one. There is no question of rent about it.”
“That is rather strange. Are you sure, Anna, that
Miss Halstead is not making this a charity in disguise?”
“It may be—I cannot tell; but one thing I do know,
if charity could be sweet from any one, that dear young
lady would make it so. She is good and lovely as an
angel!”
“She is, indeed.”
“And you will accept this offer, grandmother?”
“It seems too good to be true, Anna. But if we can
take a more comfortable house on such terms, it would
be wrong to refuse it. For many reasons, dear, I should
be glad to get you out of this place.”
“And I shall be so glad to move. It seems as if I
could not breathe here. Put on your shawl, grandmother,
and let us go look at the house. It is not so
very far away.”
“How impatient you are, Anna. We will look at
the house, and I will get ready; but as for moving, we
must give the landlady notice—she has been very kind
to us.”
“So she has, grandmother, I had forgotten her. Indeed,
it seems to me as if I forget every thing but
myself. Of course, the boys must be consulted.”
“They must, at least, be informed.”
“Oh! how I wish it could be done at once; but if
that is impossible, we can, at least, go and see this new
house.”
The old lady put on a neat crape bonnet which Anna
233had made for her, and covered the darns in her dress
with an old black shawl, good in its time, but worn thin
as muslin in places. She looked neat, and like a perfect
gentlewoman; and would have appeared so in any dress,
for with her, innate refinement was independent of costume.
Anna had been sitting in her bonnet and shawl, for
she had taken a long walk after her interview with Joseph,
which ended in that call on Miss Halstead, during
which the business of the house had been settled.
Georgiana had received her with more than kindness.
There was something shy and tender in her manner
inexpressibly touching. It seemed as if she were accepting
a favor, rather than conferring one, when a
second offer of the house was made. Old Mrs. Halstead
had been called in to the conference, and seemed delighted
at the prospect of securing such unexceptionable
inmates for her house.
“It is a little box of a place in the edge of the town,
so small that I find it difficult to obtain a tenant that
suits me. Besides, I may sometimes wish to live in it
myself.”
“You! grandmamma?” exclaimed Georgiana.
“Yes. When my pretty grandchild here gets tired
of petting me, or loves some other person enough to
leave me.”
“That I never shall—never!” answered Georgie.
“Now it is impossible.”
The old lady laid a hand on her young head with a
queenly sort of tenderness, and said, “Hush, child,
hush! I do not like to hear you talk in this way.”
“What! do you want me to leave you?” answered
234Georgie, rallying her sprightliness; “that is very
unkind, grandmamma.”
There was something sad and a little out of the common
way here, which Anna did not understand. Was
it possible that this beautiful young creature, living in
the very lap of wealth, could have her anxieties and
feel the heartache as she did? The thought made her
look on Georgie with more interest; a growing sympathy
was fast springing up between these two girls, so
far apart in the social strata, but so close together in
that refinement of heart and mind which makes high
natures kin.
“If you can go to-day,” said Georgie, “I will meet
you at the house and do the honors.”
So it was arranged; and Anna went home, brightened
a little by this change in her existence, to consult her
grandmother, and prepare for the appointment she had
made.
Mrs. Burns entered a street-car and sat down by Anna,
pleased with an event that had drawn her from the
eternal sameness of her garret-home. She was a mild,
sweet-faced old lady, for whom even the rude jostlers
of a street-car made room reverently. So she enjoyed
her ride, and thanked God in her heart that Anna
would soon be under a shelter where no bad, rude man
would dare to force himself upon her. The advent of
Mr. Ward into what had been to them always a safe
and peaceful dwelling, had distressed the old lady more
than her grandchildren had dreamed of. She had seen
enough of the world in her lifetime to understand that
to be domesticated with a young man, from any grade
in society, would bring reproach of some kind on her
235child. The cars stopped, and after walking a single
block, these two women found themselves in front of an
opening or park, encircled by a double crescent of small
three-story cottages, with verandahs of light wood-work
running along each story, all woven and draped with
climbing roses, honeysuckles, and Virginia creepers.
In fact, the front of these houses was one lattice-work
of flowers; and all the open ground inclosed in the two
crescents was broken up with guilder-roses, lilacs, spireas,
and a world of roses growing in rich masses, if not
always rare, exceedingly beautiful.
A street ran between the two crescents lined with
tall trees, which, here and there, tangled their branches
over it. In the grounds, too, were weeping-willows,
the paper-mulberry, and alanthus trees, drooping under
the weight of great clusters of vividly red fruit.
The old lady uttered an exclamation, half delight,
half surprise. Was it possible? Could she again
gather her son’s children about her in a place like that?
To Anna it seemed a little paradise. The very breath
stopped on her lips as she paused to gaze upon it.
“There must be some mistake,” she said. “The number
was on one of those gates, truly; but it could not
be.” She stood before one of the rustic gates which
opened to a house in the very deepest curve of one of
the crescents, bewildered and uncertain.
“Do not attempt to open it,” said the old lady, restraining
her granddaughter’s hand as she was about
to unlatch the gate. “It cannot be here we are to live.”
Poor old soul! She had lived so long in the close
rooms of that tenement-building, that these houses, very
simple and unpretending if divested of their grounds
236and flowers, seemed far too magnificent for her aspirations.
“Let us go on,” she said, “and search out the real
house; this place is as lovely as paradise, but it is not
for us. I wish you had not come this way, Anna, it
will make you dissatisfied with the reality.”
“Look, grandmother, look! It is the very house.
There is Miss Halstead in the door; you can scarcely
see her for the honeysuckles—but I should know her
face anywhere. She is coming forward, and looks so
pleased. Come, grandmother.”
Through the gate they went, and along the broad
path lined with flowers on either hand. A rustic chair
stood in the lower verandah, close by an open French
window, which led into a pretty little parlor connected
by folding doors, always kept open, with one of the
cosiest little rooms you ever saw. This room was just
large enough to hold a small couch, an easy-chair, a
stand for flowers, and some books—just what it did
contain. Mrs. Burns sat down in the rustic chair, and
drop after drop trembled up into her dear old eyes.
Was this to be her home, even for a short season?
Would her children breathe the odor of these flowers,
and sleep in those neat rooms? She could not realize
it. Our readers know how this sweet, old creature had
bent and yielded to what was inevitable in adversity
without a murmur, and without shedding a single tear:
but she was childlike with gratitude now, and the tears
began to steal down her withered cheek in slow drops
of happiness.
“My dear,” she said, holding out her hand to Georgiana
Halstead, “come here and let the old woman kiss
237you, she is getting to be a child again; but a happy, very
happy child. Are we, indeed, to live here?”
“If you will, dear madam, my grandmother wishes
it; but she makes one condition.”
“What is that? I am sure it will not be a hard one.”
“Not very, I hope. While you stay in the house, you
and your family must occupy it entirely. Your own
furniture can be brought in, but you will find the house
tolerable without that. She wishes no reserve as to
room or furniture. Take possession when you please—the
sooner the better; that is all the condition my
grandmother makes.”
“Your grandmother is a kind woman, and I thank
her—that is all we can do. We are poor in every thing
but this gratitude, which is very sweet to feel.”
“Let us see the house. It was pretty as a bird’s-nest
when I was here months ago. How fortunate it is that
grandmamma did not wish to let it. Come up stairs, you
will find a very pretty sitting-room there, one of the
most breezy, cheerful places you ever saw. Your bed-chamber,
Mrs. Burns, opens into that. Anna’s will be
on the third story. I have arranged it all. Come and
see.”
Up stairs they went, into a room which Georgie had
described well as cheerful and breezy, for the two sash-windows
were open, and the whole chamber was swept
with perfumed air as they entered it. Two good-sized
book-cases were in this room, filled with pleasant reading.
The furniture was all excellent, but unpretending. Two
or three engravings hung on the walls; and one of
Wheeler & Wilson’s sewing-machines stood in a rosewood
case in one corner. In the balcony, which seemed
238like a little room—it was so festooned with vines—were
some rustic chairs, and a bird-cage, in which birds were
chirping.
“This is my little present,” said Georgie, promptly,
remarking the old lady’s look of surprise. “Here is a
rocking-chair, which grandmamma sent from her own
room. No one is to sit in that but Mrs. Burns, remember.
Now take a peep in here; comfortable, I think.”
She opened the bedroom door and revealed a low
bed, white as snow, but simple as a bed well could be;
an easy-chair, covered with white dimity, stood near it,
and every thing that an old person could require for
comfort or convenience was there. Something more
than the common furniture of a house had certainly
been added here. Georgiana accounted for this frankly
enough.
“Grandmamma,” she said, “had more of these things
than she knew how to use, and would send them. She
does so like to make every thing complete.”
Old Mrs. Burns had not been known to smile so frequently
as she did that day for years. There was an
absolute glow on her face all the time she stayed in that
cottage. She felt intuitively that some great kindness
was intended, but it gave her no pain—generous persons
can receive favors without annoyance; the very qualities
which induce them to give freely enable them to receive
gracefully. Here that good old lady had a double
pleasure, that of occupying a pleasant home, and the
intense gratitude which came out of it, which was exquisite
happiness in itself.
“Tell your grandmother that her kindness has made
239an old woman hopeful again. For my own sake, and
in behalf of my dear children, I thank her.”
They stood by the gate looking back upon the grounds
when Mrs. Burns said this. Anna was a little apart,
silent, and with a dreamy sadness in her eyes. She had
said little while examining the house. What could a
change of place do for her? Indeed, I think the old
rooms under the roof of that tenement-house was dearer
to her than those open balconies, and all the flowers
that draped them, for there he had held her hand quietly
in his. There he had “looked, though he was seldom
talking of love.” She was glad for her grandmother’s
sake, and pleased that the boys, who worked so hard
and were so good, would be for a time, at least, made
more comfortable. As for herself, poor girl, her life
was broken up. But for those dear ones she would have
been glad to die, had God so willed it.
Georgiana Halstead did not understand this. She
knew nothing of Anna’s interview with Mrs. Savage;
and deeming her possessed of a love for which she
would have given so much, was both surprised and disappointed
at a coldness which to her seemed want of
feeling. In the exaltation of a most generous nature,
she had found relief in carrying out the promise she
had given Horace Savage; but she had expected more
enthusiasm, more demonstrative happiness, from a girl
who had darkened her own life in attaining the love
which was so ready to lift her out of all that was disagreeable
in her life.
Georgiana went home with Mrs. Burns. She was not
the girl to make half sacrifices, and thought that, perhaps,
her help or counsel might be of use. She would
240not be saddened by Anna’s silence, or disheartened in
any way. Horace had asked her to befriend these people,
and she would oblige him whether they wished it
or not.
Very much to the surprise of Mrs. Burns and her
visitor, Robert had reached home earlier than usual,
and was sitting in the room with young Mr. Gould, who
had just returned from Ward’s room, where a fiery
scene had passed between him and his old friend. That
morning Robert had appealed to the nephew of his employer
with frank earnestness, and besought him to get
the young man away from that house. He told Gould
how cruelly his presence annoyed sister Anna, and
added that the grandmother had appealed to him in
vain.
Gould was terribly angry when he learned how meanly
Ward had seized upon his reckless hint to persecute a
helpless girl. Every generous impulse of his nature
rose up in repudiation of an act so base. Scarcely had
Robert told his story, when Gould seized his hat and
stood ready, so far as lay in his power, to correct the
evil his own rash folly had instigated. His transient
fancy for Robert’s sister had vanished long ago, and he
felt responsible for an act which might injure her, and
certainly debased the man he had once considered as
his friend.
I have said there was a stormy scene in Ward’s room
within ten minutes after Gould entered the house. We
do not care to give the particulars, as it was enacted at
the very time Mrs. Burns was going over her new
house—a much pleasanter subject. But the result was,
that an hour after young Ward gave up his key to the
241landlady, and hurried out of the house with a portmanteau
in his hand, looking greatly flurried, and as mean
as an exquisite dandy could well look.
Gould went up stairs with Robert, resolved to set the
old lady and her charge at rest for the future; and, if
it could be done, offer them such help as might atone
for the trouble he had unwittingly occasioned them.
He had been angry, or at least excited with generous
indignation; and his very handsome face was lighted
up into something more striking than mere color or
form. He really was splendid while moving up and
down that little room, his face bright with noble feeling,
and his step lithe as the movements of a panther.
Gould stood in the middle of the room when the young
girls came in. I think at that particular moment it
would have been hard to find a more noble-looking fellow.
Anna started and turned crimson. She recognized
him at once as the Bois Guilbert of that Waverly
tableau that had terminated so disastrously. Georgie,
too, remembered him, and blushed in company with her
friend.
“My dear madam,” said the young man, addressing
Mrs. Burns, “I beg ten thousand pardons for this intrusion;
and as many more that any person I have ever
known should have been its cause. My friend Robert
here—a boy to be proud of, madam—informed me of
the distress Ward had thrown you into, and I came up
at once to turn him out. He is gone; I saw him into
the street myself. You need have no further uneasiness
on his account.”
“You are very good, very kind,” answered the old
lady, thanking him with her eyes all the time she was
242speaking. “It would have been a great service, and is;
but we are going to move.”
“What! has the scoundrel really driven you out?”
“No, not altogether that. We have found friends,”
said Mrs. Burns, looking significantly at Georgiana.
“I am heartily glad of that. Miss Halstead, I have
already had the pleasure of an introduction. I could
hardly have found it in my heart to forgive any one
else for preceding me. But my uncle and I will settle
our share with my young friend Robert.”
“Robert,” whispered Mrs. Burns, who seemed to be
trembling all over, “who is this young gentleman?”
“Hush, grandmother! it is only young Mr. Gould.”
The old woman dropped into a chair, and, clasping
her hands together, forced herself to sit still.
“I will go now,” said Georgie, seeing that nothing
could be done. “To-morrow I will come again, and
we will arrange things. Robert, are you very tired?
It is getting a little dark, I think.”
Robert got up and took his hat from the table; but
young Gould took it gently from his hand and laid it
back again. “I am going by Miss Halstead’s residence.
Will she permit me to escort her?”
Georgie smiled, twisted the elastic around her lace
parasol, as if it was of no further use, and prepared to go.
That splendid young fellow, with eyes so soft, and yet
so bright, was no mean escort for any girl—and
Georgiana was quite conscious of the fact. Indeed, of
the two, she could not but confess he was taller and
finer-looking than Savage. That was why he had been
selected to represent the magnificent Templar.
So Georgie went home, accompanied by Mr. Gould,
243with her pretty gloved hand resting on his arm lightly
as a bird touches the branch it nests on, yet sending the
pleasantest sort of a sensation through that arm, and
into the impetuous heart close by. If Georgie was conscious
of the mischief she was doing, the pretty rogue
gave no sign, unless a little heavier weight upon the
arm might have been deemed such; but upon the steps
of her father’s mansion she paused, after ascending
just far enough to bring her face on a level with his,
and such a warm, rosy smile met him that he longed to
kiss her then and there, as an excuse for going into that
house and demanding her on the instant of her father.
Gould had seen that provokingly handsome creature
many a time without any such feelings, and asked himself,
with supreme contempt, what he had been about
never to fall in love with her before.
“May you call?” said Georgie, putting the tip of her
parasol up to her mouth, and turning her head on one
side, as if she were brooding over the subject, “Yes, certainly,
if you have any business with papa—I think he
does that sort of thing with your house sometimes; or
if you have taken a fancy to know grandmamma. She’s
an old lady worth knowing, I can tell you.”
“If you permit me, I certainly shall have business
with your father,” answered Gould, with a bright smile;
“and am so anxious to see this fine old lady, that to-morrow,
at the furthest, I shall claim that privilege.”
“I dare say she will be glad to see you. If she
should be indisposed, there is Aunt Eliza—you have
seen Aunt Eliza?”
“Oh, yes, certainly! I have seen her, and shall be
delighted to resume the acquaintance.”
244“Well, that being settled, good-night!”
Gould lifted his hat, and went away. Georgie ran up
the steps, smiling like a June morning. The door was
opened, and she glided through singing in a low, happy
voice, “Spring is coming! Spring is coming!” when a
voice called to her from over the banisters. Miss Eliza
spent half her natural life leaning over those banisters—and
she was there, as usual, keeping guard.
“Who was it? Who was it you were talking to,
Georgiana?” she called out. “I heard a man’s voice.
I will take my oath I heard a man’s voice.”
“It was Mr. Gould,” answered Georgie, breaking off
her song.
“Mr. Gould? What, the young gentleman who was
on his knees to that vile girl in the tableau? You don’t
mean to say it was him?”
“Yes, I do, Aunt Eliza.”
“Where did you meet him, Georgie, dear? Tell me
all about it, that’s a sweet angel!”
“I met him at Mrs. Burns’, Aunt Eliza.”
“What! in that garret? Is he bewitched by that
creature, too? I can’t believe it!”
“I don’t know about his being bewitched, but he certainly
was in Mrs. Burns’ room when we got there.”
“We! Georgiana. Who are you talking about?”
“Old Mrs. Burns, Anna, and myself. We had been
up town on a little business, and——”
“Georgiana Halstead, have you been in the street
with those low people?”
“Yes, if you will call them so.”
“Without my permission?”
“I had that of grandmamma.”
245“My mother is an old—— My mother does not
know what she is about. I must inform her.”
“She is well informed, Aunt Eliza.”
“I will make sure of that. But Mr. Gould—did he
inquire for me?”
“He spoke of you, certainly.”
“What did he say? Come up here this minute, and
tell me all about it.”
“He said that he had been introduced to you, and
should like to renew the acquaintance.”
“Yes, yes! I dare say he would! I saw clearly that
he was watching my Horace that night like a lynx, so
jealous that he could not conceal it, because he escorted
me to the carriage. So he has manifested himself at
last. Too late! Too late!”
“He spoke of calling to-morrow, Aunt Eliza.”
“Indeed! That is serious. I will receive him courteously,
of course, and with tender dignity. If there is
any time when a lady should be considerate, it is when
she is compelled to suppress the love she has inspired.
Do not look at me, niece; I shall find myself equal to
the occasion, depend on that. But, after visiting that
creature, he cannot expect the reception I might otherwise
have given him.”
“Where is grandmamma, Aunt Eliza?”
“In her room. Go to her, child, and confess every
thing. She is kind, she is benevolent. Have no fear
to approach her; she may not possess my bland manner—but
that is the fault of early education. She is a
trustworthy person, and deserves to be treated well.”
“Afraid to approach my darling old grandmamma,
who knows so much more than all of us put together,
246and is worth a thousand people, if we count the heart
for any thing. Dear me! what a precious old goose
Aunt Eliza is. Ha! she is leaning over the banister
again. I hope she didn’t hear me.”
“Georgiana!”
“Well, Aunt Eliza.”
“At what hour did Mr. Gould speak of calling?”
“He did not appoint any special time.”
“Well, it does not matter, one can dress early, and
the pleasures of anticipation are so exquisitely sweet,
that I shall quite revel in them,” muttered Miss Eliza
to herself. “I only wanted this to bring that proud
man to his knees. Let him fear to lose me once, and
we shall have an interesting crisis; depend on that,
Eliza Halstead.”
Once more the banisters were left to their own support,
and Miss Eliza retired into the place she called
her boudoir, while Georgie went to her grandmother,
and told her all that had passed. When Georgie spoke
of Mr. Gould, the old lady seemed unusually disturbed,
and asked a good many questions with singular interest,
but said nothing against his coming, and smiled a
little, as nice old ladies will when they watch the workings
of a young girl’s heart in her innocent speech.
From that night Mrs. Halstead was less anxious about
the heavy eyes and pale cheeks of her pet. In fact, it
was not long before her cheeks wore the flush of wild
roses, and her eyes—— Well, it is of no use describing
Georgie’s eyes when she was happy—they were too
lovely for comparison.
It had been a chilly day, which made fires pleasant,
when Savage had that interview in the old maid’s room;
247but the weather was deliciously pleasant now, and Miss
Eliza came out in white muslin and blue ribbons, radiant
with expectation from breakfast time till noon, and from
noon till evening. Then Mr. Gould came, and, according
to her own private instructions, was taken up to her
room, where the Cupid was quivering over a basket of
real flowers, and Miss Eliza sat in position, with her
foot on the ottoman, and some innocent white flowers
in her hair.
Gould was not quite so much pre-occupied as Savage
had been, so he fell into the lady’s humor, complimented
her till she fluttered like a bird of paradise on its nest,
and began to think seriously of spurning young Savage
from the feet to which he was expected to fall. After
awhile Gould adroitly brought the conversation round
to the lady’s mother, and expressed an ardent wish to
know intimately any person connected with a person he
had admired so long. This desire was so promising
that Eliza took Gould into the family sitting-room,
where Mrs. Halstead sat with her beautiful grandchild.
In this fashion Gould introduced himself into the
family, where he soon became intimate as a son.
It was after this bold step that the roses came back
to Georgie’s face; and the young creature began to sing
again, like a bird that some great storm has silenced for
a time. The old lady smiled on all this, but at times
she would fix her eyes, with strange anxiety, on the
young man’s face, as if her thoughts were afar off, and
troubled with bitter memories.
As for Miss Eliza, it was very difficult to sweep an
illusion from her brain. Intense vanity like hers is not
easily warned.
CHAPTER XIX. A DECLARATION OF LOVE.
248
The night that Gould went home with Miss Halstead,
Savage presented himself in the tenement-house, resolved
to come to an explanation with Anna, and be
guided by the result. The boys had gone out on some
errand, and old Mrs. Burns had just stepped down
stairs to give their landlady notice of the removal; so,
for once, Anna was alone. She heard the step on the
stairs, and started up like a frightened fawn ready for
flight. But there was no place to flee to, except the
little bedroom, and that was so close to the room that
he might hear her breathe—for she was even then panting
with affright. What could she say to him? Had
he really thought that Ward was staying there with her
consent? He had reached the last flight of steps, when
she remembered, with a pang, her promise to Mrs. Savage,
“never, if she could help it, to see him again.”
Stung by this thought, she sprang for the bedroom;
but the doors of that house did not move with patent
springs; this one dragged against the floor, and, before
she could close it, Savage was in the ante-room. Was
she glad or sorry that the possibility of avoiding him
had escaped her? The tumult in her heart would have
forbidden an answer to this question had her conscience
been able to force it upon her.
He was in the room, his eyes caught hers as her hand
dropped from the door, and she stood on the threshold,
gazing wildly at him like an antelope frightened in its
lair.
249“Anna,” he said, yielding to a sudden rush of tenderness
which swelled in his heart at the very sight of
her; “Anna, was it from me you were striving to
escape?”
She stood where he had first seen her, with drooping
eyes and a cheek of ashes.
“Anna, speak to me.”
She looked up with such agony on her face, that the
very sight of it made him recoil a step backward.
“Anna, my poor, dear girl, what is this that has come
between us?”
“I don’t know. Ask—ask——No, you must not ask
any one. You and I must never speak to each other
again—never! never! never!”
The voice broke off in a faint wail, so full of pain, that
it made the young man shiver.
“But we can and will speak together. Who shall
prevent it?”
“I must.”
“You, Anna? This is madness. Some trouble has
driven you wild.”
“No, I am not wild, nor wicked enough to break a
sacred promise.”
“A sacred promise? Who exacted this promise?”
“One who had a right?”
“One who had a right! Who on earth has any right
over you, Anna Burns? Are you not in every thing
but words my betrothed wife?”
“I was—I was!” cried the poor girl, wringing her
hands in piteous distress. “But every thing is changed.”
A flash of the old suspicion came over Savage; he
250strode across the room, and seizing Anna by the wrist,
drew her with gentle violence through the door.
“Look me in the face, Anna Burns, and say, if you
have the courage, that this change is in yourself.”
She cast a piteous look into his face, and strove to
force her hand from his grasp.
“Girl! Girl! Has your heart become so false that
it dares not look through your eyes?”
“It is breaking! It is breaking!” she cried, desperately
yielding her feeble strength to his.
“Breaking? For what—for whom?”
“You wound it so. Every one I meet gives it a
blow.”
“I wound it? Girl! Girl! Two days ago I would
have died to save you an hour’s pain!”
“But now you hate, you despise me!” moaned the
poor young creature, giving him one look that went to
his heart.
“Why should you think so, Anna? If you have done
nothing to earn hate or contempt, how could the idea
enter your heart?”
“I—I cannot tell. I can tell you nothing, Mr. Savage,
only that I have made a promise, and must keep it.”
Savage grasped her hand so fiercely that it pained her.
“Girl, answer me. Was that promise made to Mr.
Ward?”
“Mr. Ward?”
Her face became instantly crimson with flashing
blood.
“Mr. Ward? Who told you? Who—who——‘
She remembered her second promise to Mrs. Savage
in time, and grew coldly white again.
251“Those who know him to be under the same roof
with you told me, Anna. If you could only know how
I have reproached myself for believing them.”
“But you must believe them,” she said. The words
fell from her lips sharp and cold, like hailstones on frozen
snow. She shivered under his eye, and made another,
wild effort to release herself. But he held her in an iron
grasp.
“Anna, do you love that man?”
His voice was low and hoarse; his eyes were full of
passionate pleading; all his pride was forgotten then.
He was a man pleading for the very life of his love.
“Do you love that man?”
“Oh! let me go! I pray of you let me go!”
“Not till you answer me, Anna.”
“What was it you asked me to say?” she faltered,
humbly.
“I asked if you loved that man Ward?”
“I could not answer that question. I—I wonder
how you can ask it.”
“Another, then—and for mercy’s sake, be frank.
Have you ceased to love me? Anna, is it so?”
Anna would not tell a lie. She could be silent, and
so keep her promise; but to say that she did not love
that man, when every thought of her brain and pulse of
her being was drawing her soul into his, was a blasphemy
against love that she recoiled from.
“Oh, Anna! is it all over between us?”
She began to weep; great tears broke through those
drooping eyelashes.
“Yes,” she said, mournfully. “It is all over between
us.”
252“And you will marry that man?”
“No! No! He does not wish it. I—I——”
She broke off, as if a shot had penetrated her heart;
for Savage had dropped her hand with a gesture of
sweet anguish, as only a proud man feels when the
woman he loves sinks into degradation. Fortunately
for her secret, she neither understood the gesture, or
the thought that made him turn so deadly white. She
had paused suddenly, because the words on her lips
were about to betray her. The next words that Savage
addressed to her made the heart in her bosom thrill and
ache as it had never done before.
“Anna, listen. I am going now, and you may never
hear my voice again.”
A sob broke on her white lips. She drooped before
him, white and still; but, oh! how miserable! ready for
the last killing words.
“If—if this man should become weary of you——”
“Weary of me?”
There was pride on her lip, and fire in her eyes now;
but this only revolted Savage. It seemed to him like
the confidence of a vain woman, secure in her unhappy
position.
“This may happen, Anna.”
“No, Mr. Savage, it never can.”
“But men do change sometimes,” he answered bitterly,
“almost as readily as women. When this time
comes, send to me. I shall never, of my own will,
speak to you again; but while I have a dollar you shall
never want.”
Anna was weeping bitterly now. She strove to answer
him, but her throat gave forth nothing but sobs.
253“Do you promise, Anna, if any thing connected with
you could give me a gleam of pleasure, it would be a
certainty that you would send to me in your trouble or
your need?”
“I will—I will,” she cried out.
“And to no other person?”
“To you, and no other.”
“Now, farewell, Anna.”
She took his hand in hers; she pressed her lips upon
it again and again, covering it with tears and passionate
kisses.
“It is forever—it is forever!” she sobbed in despair.
“Do not hate me. Think kindly of me sometimes. Tell
your mother——”
“Tell my mother what, Anna? She will be sorry to
hear this. She has been kind to you.”
“Kind! Oh, yes! very kind.” There was bitterness
in her heart, and it broke up through her sobs.
“But what must I tell her?”
“Nothing.”
“I will tell her nothing,” he answered sadly.
He made an effort to take away his hand, but it
brought a cry of such anguish from her that he desisted,
and strove to soothe her.
“And after what you have told me, it is only pain to
stay near you.”
“I know it,” she said; “terrible pain!”
They were both silent now. She still clung to his
hand, but was growing calmer. The storm of tears was
ending in short, dry sobs; and she lifted her eyes to him
with a look of such yearning tenderness, such humble
deprecation, that his own eyes were flooded.
254“You will not hate me?” she said.
“No, Anna. Heaven knows that is not in my power!”
“And sometimes, when you are married to some
lady——”
“I shall not marry for many a long year, Anna.”
“There is Miss Halstead!”
“Hush! That name on your lips wounds me.”
“You will marry her?”
“Hush!” he said, “I cannot bear that.”
“And when you are happy, sometimes think kindly
of the poor girl who is not so very bad.”
“Anna, I shall always think kindly of you. God forgive
you that I cannot mingle respect with kindness!”
“Then you think I have done very wrong?”
“Yes; very, very wrong.”
“Ah, me! How can I help it? Which way shall I
turn? It is hard to be so young, with only a dear old
grandmother to show you the right way.”
“It is hard, poor child!”
“And I have tried to do my best—indeed, I have.”
“Tried and failed. Unhappy girl!”
“Yes, I am an unhappy girl—so unhappy that I sometimes
think there never was a creature so wretched.
Then I must not let her see it, or the boys—they have
so little pleasure, you know; but they are affectionate,
and will find me out; but not if I can help it.”
She said all this in a low, dreary voice, that would
have touched a heart of granite. Savage felt his resentment,
his pride and his strength giving away. He would
have given the world to take that young creature in his
arms and weep over her. But it could not be. Her
hands had fallen away from his unconsciously. She had
255covered her face with them. Savage turned from her
and softly left the room; he had no heart to attempt
another farewell.
Anna felt the silence, and, looking up, saw that he
was gone. She heard his footsteps going rapidly down
the stairs. Quick as thought she snatched up her
bonnet and shawl. She would not part with him so.
If the whole world dropped from under her feet she
would follow him. Down the stairs she went like a lapwing,
wrapping the shawl about her as she ran. He
walked swiftly, as men do when stung to quick motion
by pain. She soon came up with him; but that moment
a panic of shame seized her, and she lagged behind,
growing fainter and fainter each moment. An impulse
of self-preservation had sent her into the street. She
could not part with him so. That proud woman had no
right to ask it. She would follow him home. She would
demand a release from her promise from that haughty
woman in his presence, and tell him how she loathed
that man Ward; that a thousand thousand worlds
would not induce her to marry him. How could he believe
it of her, even though she told it herself?
Wild with these rash thoughts, she would have called
out for him to stop; but she was panting for breath,
and no sound came when she made a wild effort to utter
his name.
Then, with the faintness, came other thoughts. His
parents never would consent that he should marry her.
It would be ruin, utter ruin to him. What wild, wicked
thing was she about? After resisting her own love,
and his unhappiness so bravely, was she to destroy it
all and ruin him because of that awful heartache? But
256she was so tired, so completely worn out. A few moments
she would rest on that door-step, and then go
home. It did not matter much what became of her,
since he had gone, believing her a fickle, heartless girl,
capable of marrying that creature. No; it was of very
little consequence, for—for—for——
Unhappy girl, she had fallen into insensibility on
that door-step, and there she lay like a lost lamb, pale
and still.
Anna had scarcely rested on those cold stones five
minutes, when an old man turned from the street and
was about to mount the steps. He saw her lying there,
with the light from a street lamp blazing on her features.
They were so white that he thought at first she
must be dead. Stooping down, he found that she had
fainted, and rang the bell violently. A servant came
out, and lifting the insensible girl between them, master
and man bore her into that old-fashioned family mansion,
which I have described in the early part of this
story.
They laid her on a broad-seated old sofa in the front
room, and then, for the first time, that strange old
man recognized her as the girl he had seen in that
poverty-stricken home picture. He had been a voyage
to Europe since then, but those delicate features were
fresh in his memory yet.
“Bring brandy, wine, every thing that can help her
out of this cold fit,” he said to the servant. “I know
the girl, and will take charge of her myself.”
The wine and brandy were brought. With his old
hand shaking the glass unsteadily, the master poured
wine through those white lips. It was a simple case of
257exhaustion, and Anna soon felt a glow of life diffusing
itself through her frame.
“Give me another glass—not the brandy, that is too
strong; but generous wine hurts no one. Take another
drink, child, and then tell me all about it. Remember,
I am your friend.”
“Yes,” said Anna, “I remember you were very good
to grandmother and the children once. We do not
forget such kindness.”
“But how happens it that you are here?” inquired
the old man, smoothing her hair with his hand.
“Come out on an errand, I suppose, or something like
that, and wilted down on my door-step. Singular,
wasn’t it? Do you know that your brother is in my
employ? Found the place out for himself; didn’t
know it was mine. Mean to make a man of that shaver,
I promise you. True as steel, and good as gold. Now
tell me all about yourself.”
“Oh! if I only could,” she said, looking earnestly in
his face.
“But you can. Of course, you can.”
“Perhaps you might help me,” she said, rising to her
elbow. “Somehow I feel as if——but you couldn’t.”
“Who knows? I have helped a great many people in
my lifetime.”
“But not young girls like me, who have troubles that
money cannot cure.”
“Little lady, permit me to doubt that.”
She rose higher on the sofa-pillows, and looked at
him with her great, earnest eyes.
“I will fancy that you are my father, and tell you
every thing,” she said.
258“Do,” answered the old man, but his voice shook a
little; “do.”
Anna told him every thing, even to her love for
Horace Savage, for the old man helped her forward
with low spoken questions, and she could talk to him
with more ease than if it had been her grandmother,
with whom she was just a little shy about some of her
feelings. There may be things in the human heart
which we can confide to strangers more easily than we
can explain them to our dearest friends. At any rate,
Anna opened her innocent, young heart to that old
man, as if she had been saying her prayers before God.
With him she felt such a sense of protection that she
smiled in his face more than once through her tears.
“Let the whole thing alone, child. Move into the
new house as soon as you like, and wait till I can think
every thing over. But, above all things, get a little sunshine
into those eyes; you shall never be sorry for
having trusted the old man. As for that young scamp,
Ward, Gould shall take care of him. But where do you
live?”
Anna gave him the name and number of the house.
He seemed surprised.
“Why, that house belongs to me; and you have been
paying rent in it all the time to this good-hearted
woman? I remember, my agent said that he had a
good tenant there. I wont forget that the woman has
been kind to you and your grandmother.”
“Most of all to her,” said Anna.
“And this grandmother—does she bear her age
well?”
259“Oh! you must ask some one else—to me grandma
is lovely.”
“And she was kind to you?”
“Kind!”
Anna’s fine eyes opened wide at the question.
“I was foolish to ask that, of course—grandmothers
are always kind.”
“But she isn’t, like any other grandmother that ever
lived. She has petted us, worked for us, gone without
food that we might have enough. When my father was
alive——”
“Hush! hush! we need not speak of him. Robert
has told me all about that.”
The old man was a little excited, and seemed to
shrink into himself when Anna mentioned her father.
So she changed the subject, and said she must go home;
they would miss her and be frightened.
“Yes,” the old man said, “perhaps they would. She
was looking natural again and might go; but it would
be as well not to say where she had been. No good in
talking too much, even if it was only to an old grandmother.”
Anna promised not to say any thing about her little
adventure. It did really seem to her as if Providence
had taken away her strength at that door-step for some
kind purpose, with which it would be sacrilege for her
to interfere. She had a world of faith in that old man’s
power to help her, and went home, if not happy, greatly
comforted.
The very next morning young Gould sought an interview
with his uncle, and told him the whole story about
260young Ward, and his own great fault regarding the
Burns family. He concealed nothing, either of his
former extravagant entanglements, or the last vile act
which this man had perpetrated under his patronage.
The old man listened in dead silence till Gould had
exhausted his subject. Then he looked him quietly in
the face, and spoke in his usual dry fashion.
“Had you succeeded in really injuring this girl, I
should have broken with you forever,” he said.
“I—I never thought of injuring her. It was only a
freak, a sudden fancy to know who and what she was.
I hope you believe me, uncle?”
“If I did not, you would have little chance to convince
me, for I would not endure you in my presence
an hour. Let that pass. You were about to say something
more—ask something of me, I believe?”
“Yes, sir, I was. Having given these people some
annoyance——”
“Driven them from their home, in fact,” broke in the
uncle
“Yes, as you say, driven them from their home. I—I
should like, in short, to give them a better one.”
“But that is already secured to them.”
“How did you know that, uncle? Oh! I see, you
have been questioning the boy. But there is something
about this new home that I do not like, uncle. I think
young Savage is at the bottom of that movement.”
“Very likely. He seems a generous young fellow
enough.”
“But I cannot accept his generosity. No man shall
be permitted to pay the penalty of my fault.”
261“No man? What if I choose to take that in, with
your other expenses?”
“Ah! that is another thing.”
“Entirely! Well, now do not trouble yourself about
young Savage, if you love the girl.”
“But I don’t. On the contrary, uncle, I am deuced
near loving another girl, if not quite in for it.”
“That is fortunate, because I could not permit you
to marry this one. She’s too good for you, fifty per
cent. too good.”
“Well, uncle, we wont quarrel about that. But the
new home. Either Savage or old Mrs. Halstead is providing
that, and I wont permit it. We must take this
on ourselves.”
“We?”
“Yes. For what am I without you?”
The old man’s eyes glistened. He took young Gould’s
hand in his with a vigorous pressure.
“True enough—true enough! No man is sufficient
to himself. That which men call independence of our
fellow-creatures only brings loneliness. But about this
house, nephew? It belongs to me—I own all that
property, every foot of it, and better paying houses
can’t be found. Old Mrs. Halstead lived in one of ’em
before she took up her residence with her husband’s
son, and we’ve kept it on hand, thinking that she might
want to go back.”
“Then you know Mrs. Halstead?”
“A little. She was my tenant. Well, your suspicions
were right. Young Savage did want to make the
family more comfortable. He is an honorable young
fellow, Gould, and did not want to risk the girl’s good
262name by direct help—so he went to Halstead’s daughter.”
“What, Miss Eliza?”
“No. I think they call her Georgiana.”
“Confound his impudence!” muttered Gould.
“What were you saying, nephew?”
“Nothing, sir. But is Savage so intimate with the
Halsteads as that?”
“Decidedly. Mrs. Savage hints that there is an engagement
between her son and the young lady.”
“I—I don’t believe it, sir.”
“Nor I. At any rate, this Georgiana consented to
act as his agent; and, thinking as you do, that old
people are worth something in an emergency, she went
at once to her grandmother for help. Her grandmother
came to me about the house, and I took the whole
affair off her hands, knowing what a scamp you have
been, and guessing that you would be wild to make
atonement.”
“Uncle!”
“Well, sir.”
“You are too good. I am unworthy of all this kindness.”
“Of course you are!” said the old man, looking at
him with eyes that twinkled as through a mist. “But
what about this little Halstead girl?”
“Uncle, since I saw her in that garret with that
family, I honestly believe I am getting in love with that
girl!”
“Hem!” muttered the old man, pressing his thin lips
to keep them from smiling too broadly; “the second
263confession in twenty-four hours. I wonder if Miss Eliza
would lend me her flying cupid?”
“Why, what do you know about the cupid?” inquired
Gould, laughing.
“Oh! the young lady sent for me, and I went. She
was in full state with that little winged imp dancing
over her.”
“Did she ask you to sit on the ottoman?” asked
Gould, going into convulsions of laughter.
“Yes; but I told her my joints were too rusty.”
“And she answered that ‘hearts never grow old.’ I
know all about it. Oh! uncle, beware! But what on
earth did she want of you?”
“She wanted to make some inquiries about my
nephew.”
“What?”
“How much he was worth in his own right, and if I
knew that his heart was touched.”
“No!”
“If he would, in the end, be my heir; and if I intended
to divide with him before my death.”
“Oh! ah, this is too much. Had the creature an
idea about Georgiana? Was I goose enough to let her
guess that?”
“Georgiana! Nothing of that; Miss Eliza was
speaking in her own behalf.”
“Oh, uncle! that’s too bad; with all my faults, I do
not deserve that.”
“It is the solemn truth, though.”
Here the old man broke into a low, chuckling laugh;
and Gould, well-bred as he was, broke into a wild ecstasy
of fun.
264“She asked my consent.”
“What! under the cupid?”
“Said she could not think of encouraging your devotion
without that.”
“No! no! no! she didn’t do that!”
“Said that it was but right to confess that her first
maiden affections had, for a moment, wandered to another,
who might even then hold her in honor bound to
him; but her love, the pure, deep, holy, irresistible feeling
would forever turn to my nephew, though she might,
such was her fine sense of honor, be compelled to marry
another.”
“Oh, uncle, uncle! do break off. I shall die—I shall
die with laughing. Have mercy, uncle.”
“I am an indulgent old fellow, Gould, and I told her
that my consent should not be withheld, when you
asked it.”
“You did—and then?”
“Then she kissed my hand, slid down, with one knee
on the ottoman, and asked my blessing.”
“And you gave it?”
“No, Gould; an old man’s blessing is too sacred for
such trifling; but Louis the grand, never lifted a woman
from her knees more regally. She was delighted with
me.”
“I wonder she did not put in a reversionary interest
in yourself, uncle.”
“She did, rather. I think she said, if her young
heart had not gone out to my nephew, it would still have
rested in the family.”
“Excuse me, uncle, but this is getting too funny; I
265have got a pain in my side already. Just let me off
awhile till I take breath.”
“But about Georgiana?”
“Don’t uncle. I cannot bear to have that sweet girl
mentioned in the same day with that excruciating old
maid.”
“That is right, Gould. We’ll talk of her another
time.”
CHAPTER XX. A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND.
Georgiana Halstead called on Mrs. Savage as she
had promised. She knew nothing of the change that
had come over Horace, and went with a heavy heart to
perform a painful task. Mrs. Savage received her with
more than her usual cordiality. She took off her bonnet
with her own hands, smoothed her hair caressingly,
and kissed her forehead before she allowed the girl to
find a seat.
“And how is my pet of pets?” she said, smiling down
upon that lovely face. “It is a long time since you
have been here, child.”
“Yes,” said Georgie. “I have been so busy, so—that
is, I have not felt like going out.”
“Ah! I understand it all. Miss Eliza has been talking
to you; what a mischievous creature she is. But do
not believe a word of it, dear. Horace cares no more
about that Burns girl than I do.”
“But I thought you liked her so much!” said Georgie
266faithful to her promise. “Why not, she is a good girl,
and so pretty?”
“Why, Georgie, what has come over you? But, perhaps,
Eliza has been discreet for once.”
“No, she hasn’t. Aunt Eliza don’t know what discretion
is. She told me a hundred cruel things about
that poor girl; but not one of them is true.”
“And, among the rest, something about my son.
Confess, dear, that she has?”
“Well, yes, I do not deny that. But, so far as relates
to him, I think it is the truth.”
“You think it is the truth, Georgie, and speak so
quietly about it? How can you?”
“She is a dear, sweet girl, Mrs. Savage; and I think
Horace loves her.”
“Horace does no such thing, Georgie, and you know
it. His real love has always been for you, my own
child.”
“I hope not,” answered Georgie, demurely; “for I
can never love him.”
“Georgiana Halstead!”
“It is true, Mrs. Savage. I haven’t had the courage
to tell you so before, because your heart was set on it;
but, try as hard as we will, Horace and I cannot—that
is, I cannot marry Horace.”
Poor child! how she struggled to shield her pride,
and yet speak the truth. She was trembling all over,
and yet smiled into Mrs. Savage’s astonished face, as
if it were the easiest thing in the world that she was
doing.
“Georgiana, I cannot think that you are in earnest.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Savage, you must think so.”
267“You are angry about the girl, and will not let me
know it.”
“Indeed, I am not. In my whole life I never saw a
finer girl—she is worth a dozen of me.”
“No human being could ever claim half so much,
dear little Georgie. Come, come, tell me the truth;
you are very angry with Horace, and no wonder—he
tries even my patience.”
“Mrs. Savage, do believe me; I am not in the least
angry with any one. It is only that neither Horace nor
I wish to marry each other. We have always been good
friends; and I would so like to be related to you, but
without mutual love it would be wicked.”
“Then you really do not love my son?”
“Don’t, please, make me repeat it over and over! It
seems so harsh; but you must not expect any thing of
the kind.”
Mrs. Savage threw her arms around Georgie where
she sat, and laid her cheek against her hair.
“Oh, Georgie, Georgie! you will not disappoint me
so.”
The woman was in earnest; her voice broke, and
tears fell upon the girl’s bright hair. Then Georgie
began to tremble, and burst into tears.
“Dear child, you are crying, too. I felt sure that you
could not persist in this cruel resolution. Come, child,
kiss me, and forget all that has been said.”
“No, no, dear friend. I—I am only crying because
it is impossible. Hearts are not to be forced.”
“But he loves you. Believe it, for he does!”
“I am very sorry; but that can make no difference.”
“Do you love any one else, Georgiana Halstead?”
268A new thought had struck the proud woman; you
could tell that from the imperious tone in which she
spoke.
“You must not ask me any thing more,” answered
Georgie. “I have said all that you will care to hear.”
“I think you have all conspired to drive me frantic’”
said Mrs. Savage, throwing herself back in her chair:
“I thought every thing was settled so nicely. Now you
come to disturb me. But I will not give this match up.
It has been in my heart since you were children.”
“We must give it up. But do not love me less for
that, dear Mrs. Savage. If we could love according to
our own will, I would gladly be your daughter. But
from this hour we must never think of it again.”
Georgie flung her arms around Mrs. Savage, and
kissed her face, which had an expression upon it half
stern, half sorrowful. Then the two women burst into
tears, and clung to each other, sobbing.
“It is because I grieve to disappoint you!” said
Georgie, sweeping the tears from her eyes. “It breaks
my heart, for I do love you as if you were my own
mother.”
“Ah! reconsider it, Georgie—I may be that.”
“If I could—if I could!” cried Georgie, hurrying on
her things. “Good-by—good-by. It is all my fault;
but I cannot help it.”
Poor Georgie. She had gone through her generous
task bravely, but she shook with agitation all the way
home; and, once there, locked herself into her own
little sitting-room, and cried herself into complete exhaustion,
huddled up in the easy-chair, in which she had
269suffered so terribly when Savage first made her his confidant.
That evening young Savage came to see her, looking
so miserably wretched that she forgot her own sorrow
in pity for him. “What had gone wrong?” she asked,
“he looked so ill.”
“Nothing!” For the world he would not have told
her, or any one, of the broken hopes that had left him
so depressed. To have hinted at this would be a sacrilege
to the love that Anna Burns had forfeited. He
looked at Georgie earnestly. Sorrow had rendered him
sympathetic. Some vague idea of the disappointment
which had left the violet shadows, so deep and dark,
about her eyes, fell upon him; but he did not guess at
the whole truth, but took a misty idea that she, too, had
loved some one—young Gould, perhaps—and been disenchanted
as he was.
“After all, Georgie,” he said, “it would have been
better if you and I could have gotten up a grand passion
for each other. It would have pleased our parents, if
nothing more.”
Georgiana smiled sadly enough.
“But it was impossible,” she said, in a faint voice.
“That was what she had told his mother not three hours
before.”
“You told her this? Oh! now I remember! It was
I who asked you. But it was selfish. I had no right
to wound your delicacy so.”
“But it was best. She had been cherishing a delusion.
Very soon you will tell her all.”
Savage did not answer. He longed to make a confidant
of Georgiana, but his heart was too freshly wounded,
270he could not expose its misery to her. Besides, how
could he pain that pure heart with the story he had to
relate?
“We have found a house for Mrs. Burns,” said Georgie;
“such a pretty place, you would almost think yourself
in the country.”
“Will they go? Does she accept it?”
“Yes, the old lady is delighted. Anna seems less
glad, but she accepts the change, and is grateful for it.
But some change has come upon her, more depressing
than poverty—that she bore well.”
“You noticed it, then? You saw how sadly she was
altered?” said Savage; “but did you guess the cause?”
“No; how could I? Perhaps she has heard some of
the unkind things Aunt Eliza is saying of her, though
I cannot think how.”
“Did you talk with her? Will she tell you nothing.”
“No; she said very little, but her voice was full of
tears. It broke my heart to see her look of suffering.”
“She does suffer, then, poor girl?”
“I should think so—but why? No doubt she is very
anxious. You have a little of the same look. Better
ask your mother at once; with so much happiness lying
beyond her consent, it is a pity to lose a day in doubt.”
“Not yet. I shall not speak to my mother of this
yet.”
“Oh! that is what troubles Anna. But why?”
“Do not ask me, Georgie. The other night I could
tell you every thing, but now I am full of uncertainty
myself.”
“But you love her; there is no doubt on that point?”
she asked, eagerly.
271“No; unhappily. I wish——But what is the use
of wishing. Let us talk of something else—the house,
for instance.”
“Oh! it is such a pretty duck of a house, half verandahs,
half little rooms, and the rest honeysuckles and
roses. Just the place for them.”
“But you will want money to pay for every thing.
Pray hand this to your grandmother.”
“She will not take it. I asked her and she said no;
she had made all the arrangements about money.”
Savage turned crimson, and held the envelope, which
he had extended to her, irresolutely.
“Georgiana, be honest with me. Has Anna Burns
refused to accept this kindness? Has any other person
preceded me here?”
“No, no! I am sure Anna accepted grandmamma’s
help gratefully enough; and the dear old lady would
not allow any person to help her if she refused you;
that is, any other young person. She is not rich;
grandpapa had but little when he died; but she can
afford to do this.”
Savage put the envelope in his pocket, sighing
heavily. “So it seems I am to be put aside everywhere,”
he said.
“Not at all; only grandmamma thinks it best that no
young man should help pay for the home she has
selected for Anna Burns.”
“She is right. You tell me that she has met Anna?”
“Oh, yes! and liked her so much!”
“Georgie!”
“What is it, Mr. Savage?”
272“You will keep my secret? You will not mention
any thing that I said to you the other day?”
“How can you think I would?”
“True, how could I?”
“Any thing else? You seem so anxious and strange
to-night.”
“Yes, one thing more, Georgie. I have got you into
this affair——”
“Affair! Why, how you talk!”
“Well, let me express myself better. It was through
my mother you were introduced to Anna Burns. She
really knew very little of the family.”
Georgie opened her beautiful eyes wide, and sat upright
in her chair, staring at him.
“Why, Horace Savage, are you turning against that
poor girl?”
“No, no! God forbid!”
“Then what is it you are trying to say and cannot?”
“Nothing, only this; I shall never marry Anna
Burns.”
“Why, Mr. Savage, why?”
“She does not love me.”
For one instant Georgie’s face was radiant, then it
slowly settled back to its former gentle sadness, and
she said, with firmness,
“That is terrible, for she loves you!”
“No!”
“I tell you she does.”
“Still it can never be. All I ask is, Georgie, that
you will let this good grandmother care for this family
without—without interference on your part.”
273“That is, you don’t wish me to have much intimacy
with Anna Burns.”
“It would pain me to put it in that form.”
“But that is what you mean. Well, Mr. Savage, I
cannot consent to it. I have promised these people to
befriend them. They are no common objects of charity,
but refined, and gently bred as I am. You may forsake
them, but I never will.”
Savage gazed on the young girl with more admiration
than he had ever felt for her in his life before. How
was he to act? In what way could he warn the girl,
and keep her safe from evil associations, and yet protect
his knowledge of Anna Burns’ unworthiness?
“Poor Anna! Poor, dear girl! I know how to pity
her!” murmured Georgie, with tears in her eyes.
“God bless you, Georgie! What a good heart you
have!”
Savage sat down by her, and taking her hand,
kissed it.
“Miss Georgiana Halstead, is this the way you
answer my messages?” The door of Georgie’s sitting-room
had been softly opened, and Miss Eliza stood on
the threshold in a dress of blue silk, and with natural
roses in her hair.
“I—I did not receive any message,” answered Georgiana,
shivering.
“But I sent one, asking Mr. Savage to my room.”
“I will see you presently, Miss Eliza,” said Savage,
coming to Georgiana’s aid. “The servant gave me
your message in the hall; Miss Halstead knew nothing
about it. I had a little special business with her.”
“Indeed! Then I will retire.”
274Miss Eliza gave him an imperial courtesy, and gave
them both a fine view of her sweeping train as she passed
up the stairs.
“Do go,” said Georgiana, smiling in spite of all her
trouble; “she will give me no peace for a week to come
if you keep her waiting. Besides, she saw you kissing
my hand, and it would be an awkward subject at the
breakfast table before papa.”
“Rather!” answered Savage. “But, tell me, Georgiana,
what shall I do if she proposes to me outright?
She looked capable of it, on my word she did.”
“Do?” answered Georgie, brightening under the idea.
“Why, marry her; it will serve you right for asking
me to give up Anna Burns. I won’t do it, make sure
of that.”
“What a thing it is to fear no evil. God bless the
girl! What if her answers were wiser than all my
worldly wisdom?”
Miss Eliza was kneeling by her cozy chair, half prostrated
on the floor, over which the broad circumference
of her crinoline, and waves on waves of blue silk swept
in rustling waves. She was crying, partly from pure
vexation, and partly because tears would be extremely
convenient just at that moment.
A light knock came to the door. She started, turned
over one shoulder, shook out the folds of her dress, and
bent to her grief again.
Another knock; a third, somewhat louder, and the
door opened.
“Did you tell me to come in?”
Miss Eliza started from her knees, with a splendid
275sweep of her draperies, and turning away her head,
wiped the tears from her eyes with ostentatious privacy.
“Oh, Mr. Savage! I—I did not hear you. Pray be
seated; in a few moments I shall be more composed.”
“What has happened to trouble you, Miss Halstead?”
inquired Savage, looking innocent as a lamb.
“Oh! can you ask? That scene! That terrible enlightenment!
Horace! dear Horace——What am I
about! Has my sensitive nature lost its pride; all the
lofty feeling which hedges in the love of a woman’s
heart like—like——
“Like the bur around a half-ripe chestnut,” suggested
Savage. It was very impudent, truly; but the young
fellow could not have helped saying it to save his life—it
came into his mind and out on his lips so suddenly.
“Do you mock my anguish? Load my desolate
heart with ridicule?” cried the lady, dashing back the
skirt of her dress like a tragedy queen in high agony.
“Has it come to this?”
“I beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Halstead!” said
Savage, blushing for himself; “but you seemed at a
loss for some comparison, and that came into my mind—not
a bad one, either, when you reflect how those ten
thousand little thorns keep rude hands from the fruit,
guarding it sacredly till the burs open of themselves,
and let the nuts drop out.”
“Mr. Savage,” said Eliza, “I beg your pardon; it
was a beautiful idea; my heart feels all its poetry.
The thorns you speak of are piercing it, oh, how
cruelly! The bur has opened, the fruit has dropped
out, and you are treading it under your feet.”
“I—I, Miss Eliza?”
276“Yes, you; the betrothed of my soul! But it is all
over; never in this world can we be to each other what
we have been.”
“Why, Miss Halstead?”
“There it is; Miss Halstead—cold, cruel, Miss Halstead?”
“But I do not understand.”
“And never, never will!” cried Miss Eliza, spreading
one hand over her bosom. “No common mind can
ever comprehend the anguish buried here.”
“But what is this all about? I am quite unconscious
of having offended you.”
“Offended! Does love take offence? Does despair
reveal itself in anger? Oh, Mr. Savage! it was not
three days ago that I received the most touching proposal—money,
position, manly beauty, every thing that
could tempt the heart from its allegiance to a beloved
object, or kindle the ambition. But I refused it, gently,
kindly—but I refused it.”
“And why, Miss Halstead?”
“Why? Great heavens! He asks me, why?”
She turned her eyes upon him; she clasped her hands,
and sunk upon her knees, burying her face in the cushions
of that most convenient chair.
“He asks me, why! He asks me, why!”
Her shoulders began to heave under the thin lace
that covered them; her head swayed to and fro in
spasms of grief. She crushed a little web of fine linen
and lace up to her eyes with both hands, and wet it
with her tears.
“I tear you from my heart! I give you up!” she
cried. “Cold, hard man! you see me at your feet without
277pity! With my own eyes I have witnessed your
faithlessness; but you make no effort at consolation;
explain nothing!”
“What can I explain, madam?”
“Madam!”
She arose slowly to her full height, and, pointing
her finger at his astonished face, said, with solemn emphasis,
“Mr. Savage, did I not see you kissing Georgiana
Halstead’s hand?”
Savage laughed, a little nervously, it must be confessed.
“It is possible. Yes, I dare say you did.”
“He owns it! He glories in his unfaithfulness!” she
cried out, wringing her hands. “Was ever treason like
this?”
“Really, Miss Halstead, this scene is getting tedious,”
said Savage, losing all patience. “I am not aware of
ever having given you a right to address me in this
way.”
“Sir,” answered the lady, “I am aware of my rights,
and will maintain them. To-morrow my brother shall
call upon you to decide between his sister and his
child.”
“Miss Halstead, are you insane?”
“If I am, Horace, who drove me to it? Oh! this will
break your mother’s heart.”
“Miss Halstead, sit down, and let me talk with you
reasonably. You know as well as I that this idea of
an engagement is an impossibility—that it never
existed.”
278She had seated herself, and held that morsel of a
handkerchief to her eyes.
“If you have any thing to say in excuse for this
cruel treachery, I will listen,” she said, with broken-hearted
resignation. “Heaven knows my heart pleads
for you.”
“I have nothing to say, madam,” answered Savage,
completely out of patience, “except that this farce is
fortunate in having no other witnesses. The wisest
thing that you or I can do, is to forget it as soon as
possible.”
Miss Eliza saw the quiet resolution in his face, and
went gradually out of the little drama that she had
acted so well. Her sobs were subdued; the morsel of a
handkerchief fluttered less frequently to her eyes. She
sat down, crest-fallen, with her two hands lying loosely
in her lap. Her grand coup d’etat had signally failed.
Savage neither soothed, promised, or admitted any
thing. All that was left to her was the most graceful
retreat she could make.
“Mr. Savage,” she said, holding out her hand, “let
us be friends. If this artful girl has won you from me,
let us be friends, eternal friends. This proud heart
shall break in silence, if it must break. But there may
be a future for us yet—something that the angels can
look upon with pleasure.
“‘Is there no other tie to bind
The constant heart, the willing mind?
Is love the only chain?
Ah, yes! there is a tie as strong,
That hinds as firm, and lasts as long—
True friendship is its name.’
279Mr. Savage, let us work out this beautiful idea. My
soul turns toward it for consolation. Mr. Savage, are
we friends?”
Savage took the hand she held out, bowed over it,
and went away.
“Ah!” said Miss Eliza, leaning back in her chair—for
high tragedy is exhausting—“Ah! how fortunate it
is that Mr. Gould presented himself in time. He wishes
to renew his acquaintance. With him a sure foundation
of a family compact exist—that interview with the old
gentleman was a masterpiece. If—if the young man
should prove treacherous, like the heart traitor who has
just left me, there is still this elderly person, rich as
Vanderbilt, almost, and not so very old. He admired
me greatly; I could see it in the twinkle of his eyes, in
the smile that flitted across his lips. But only as a
last resort—only as a last resort.”
CHAPTER XXI. A HUNGRY HEART.
It was the last day of the Burns family in that tenement-house.
The landlady was breaking her heart over
their departure. She felt as if she had driven them
from beneath her roof, with unjust suspicions, and
lamented her fault with noisy grief, that distressed that
dear old lady, and brought the kindest assurance from
Anna, who came out of her own sorrows to comfort her
old friend.
280“I wouldn’t care about the rent, Mrs. Burns,” protested
the good woman. “You know as well as I do
that I could have got more money for the rooms, and
can now; but it was like home having you about me.
It was respectable; and them children, maybe I ain’t
made as much on ’em as I oughter; but it’ll be so lonesome
not hearing ’em going up and down stairs, especially
Joseph. I don’t say it to praise myself, but I
never saw a big, red apple in the market that I didn’t
buy it for that boy; and I’d have given you any thing,
when the tough times came on you, if I’d only known
how.”
“You were kind to us—very kind; we shall never
forget it,” said old Mrs. Burns. “The children love
you dearly.”
“And will be agin, if you’ll let me. If these silk-gown
friends of yours should ever get tired of being
kind, I’m on hand here, just as good as ever. This
steel thimble ain’t more faithful to my finger than I
will be to you and yours.”
Here the good woman fairly broke down, and burying
her face in the sailor’s jacket she was making, sobbed
violently.
“I wont let the rooms yet, though I am back in the
rent. Who knows what may happen?” she said, at
last, wiping the tears from her eyes. “This ain’t the
last time you’ll be under my roof. As for Joseph——Well,
I ain’t got words to express my feelings for him!”
“He will never forget you,” said the old lady, reaching
out her hand, which shook a little—for that hard-faced
woman had been a friend to her when she had no
other. “And I shall never think of you without a
281warmer feeling at the heart. But it is not far off. We
will come and see you often, and—and——”
Here the old lady found herself clasped in the landlady’s
arms, and lost her breath in that sudden embrace.
“And I’ll come to see you. I hope it’s a palace you’re
going to; and then it wouldn’t be good enough.”
Mrs. Burns left that commonplace-room with tears in
her eyes. She did not know how dear it had been to
her. Anna, too, was very sad. She had heard nothing
from old Mr. Gould; and her life was so far removed
from that of Savage that he might have been dead, and
she ignorant of it. Georgiana Halstead was the only
human link between her and her lover; but that young
lady never even mentioned his name. She was just as
kind as ever; came to see them, and took a deep interest
in every thing about their little household; but the
name which Anna Burns so longed to hear never passed
her lips.
So the last night had come; all their little effects
were packed up ready for moving. The boys had gone
over to the new house, which they had not yet seen.
Joseph had walked by the house with a bundle of newspapers
under his arm, and came home that night in
wonderful spirits, leaping up the stairs two steps at a
time. When Robert asked him what it was all about,
he answered,
“Balconies, vines, garden, and snow-balls, with something
like a house back of it. Stupendous!”
So Robert had gone with his brother that evening,
with a candle, and box of matches, to see what was
behind the snow-balls and vines, leaving those two
females alone in the rooms.
282“Grandmother,” said Anna, sitting down by the old
lady, “you have been crying.”
“Yes, child. She was so kind, and so sorry, I could
not help it.”
“Grandmother?”
“Well, darling?”
“Do you think we shall ever be happy again? That
is, happy as we were before this prosperity came upon us?”
“Are you so very miserable, my darling?”
“Yes, so miserable, so dreadfully miserable. Oh,
grandma, grandma! my heart is breaking.”
“My child! Anna Burns! There, there, lay your
head on my bosom. I thought it was hard to see you
hungry, dear; but this is worse, a thousand times worse.”
“Oh, grandmother! my heart is hungry, now.”
“I know it; God help us, I know it!”
“Oh! what can I do? What can I do?”
“Have patience, child.”
“I have tried to have patience; but it is killing me.”
“Pray to God, child—pray to God; he alone can feed
a hungry heart.”
“I have prayed, but he will not hear me,” cried Anna,
giving way to a passion of grief.
“Yes, Anna, he heard me when I cried out to him in
the depths of a sorrow deep as yours.”
“Deep as mine! Oh, grandmother! tell me what it
was. Have you ever suffered so?”
“I will tell you, Anna; God forbid that I should keep
back even my own sorrow, if the telling will help you to
bear that which is upon you. I was older than you,
dear, some two or three years, when I was married to
your grandfather. How dearly I loved him no human
283being will ever guess, Anna, dear. It was wicked to
love any one as I worshipped your grandfather; as I
worship him yet; for such feelings live through old age.”
“Do they—do they? When love becomes a pain,
does it ache on through the whole life?” cried Anna,
trembling with agitation. “Does nothing even quiet it?”
“Yes, darling; God can turn pain into resignation.”
“But must I wait to be old for that, grandmother?”
cried Anna, bursting into tears.
“Hush, darling, hush! I did not say that.”
“Go on, grandmother,” said Anna, drawing a deep
breath, “I will not interrupt you again. You were telling
about grandfather?”
“Yes, dear. We had a son, your father. We were
not rich; but had enough, and were very, very happy.
I know he loved me, then, and I tried to be a good wife
and a kind mother.”
“The best mother that ever lived; my father always
said that,” cried Anna.
Mrs. Burns kissed her cheek and went on.
“But your grandfather was ambitious. He had great
business talent, which was cramped and of little avail
in the old country, so he resolved to come to America
and build up a fortune here. My husband was afraid
to make his first venture burdened with a family. None
but very enterprising men left home for this new country
in those days; and few of them ever took their
families—it was considered too hazardous.
“I and the boy were left behind. It was a great
struggle, for he loved us dearly. I know he loved us
with all his heart—nothing will ever convince me that
he did not. He divided his property, leaving us enough
284to live on for some years; the rest he took with him as
capital to aid in any new enterprise that might present
itself. I was very lonely after he went. The parting
from my husband took away half my life. But for the
boy, Anna, I think that I should have died.”
Mrs. Burns was interrupted by two trembling lips
upon her cheek, and a broken voice murmured, “Poor,
poor grandfather!”
“He wrote me by every vessel during the first year.
‘New York had not answered his speculations,’ he said,
but there was an opening for fur dealers in the West,
and he was thinking of that very seriously.’
“He went to that great indefinite place called the
West, and then his letters came less frequently—not
month by month, but yearly, and sometimes not then.
Seven years went by, Anna. I had heard nothing of
my husband during thirteen months, when a man came
to the town where we lived, and told me that he had
seen my husband in Philadelphia, where he had established
a lucrative business, and was prospering beyond
all his expectations. My husband had told him that he
had written to England for his wife and child, but had
received no answer to his letter. Anna, I had been
more than seven years separated from the man I loved
better than my own life when this news came. He was
waiting for me, he had written, and I had never received
his letter. In less than two weeks I had sold out every
thing, and was on my way to Liverpool. In two
months I landed in New York, after a wretched voyage,
which, it seemed to me, would last forever. From New
York I went to Philadelphia, and found my husband’s
warehouse without trouble. I went in quietly and
285inquired for him; they told me that he had gone West,
and would not be back for months. While I stood, sick
at heart, wondering what I should do next, a lady
entered the store—one of the handsomest women I ever
saw—she was richly dressed, and swept by me like a
queen.
“‘No letters, yet?’ she said, addressing the clerk.
‘He promised to write from every station.’
“Yes, madam, here is a letter—two, in fact. Those
western mails are so uncertain.”
“She fairly snatched at the letters, tore one open,
and then the other. I saw the handwriting. It was
my husband’s.
“‘Madam,’ I said, in a low voice, for my throat was
husky, ‘who are those letters from? I, too, have friends
in the West.’”
She lifted her eyes from the letters, for both were in
her hand at once, and turned them on my face.
“‘Poor lady! I was anxious as you are half an
hour ago. Who is this letter from? My own husband.
He is safe—he is well. I hope you will have good news
also. But excuse, me, I must go. These letters will not
be half mine till I read them alone. Good-morning!’
“‘Who is that lady?’ I inquired of the clerk, breathless
with strange apprehension.
“‘That? Oh! she is Burns’s wife; lately married;
an English lady with whom he was in love years ago.
She followed him over, I believe—that is, he sent for
her. Splendid woman! Don’t you think so?’
“I did not answer. Every thing turned dark around
me, and I went out of the store like a blind woman.
What was I to do? How could I act? My husband!
286my husband! Oh, Anna! my heart is sore now, when
I think of the anguish which seized upon it then. He
was away, or I should have sought him out and
demanded why he had dealt with me so treacherously.
What had I done that his love and his honor should be
taken from me? I knew that both he and that proud
lady were in my power. But what was vengeance to a
woman who was seeking for love? ‘No,’ I said, in the
depths of my desolation; ‘though he gave her up and
came back to me to-morrow, through force or fear, it
would not be the same man, or the old love. He may
have wronged this lady as he has wronged me. She
looked too bright and loyal for a guilty woman. Then
why should I wound her as I have been wounded? His
child she cannot take from me. God help us both!’”
“No wonder you are crying, Anna—I could not cry.
But now, now I am getting old, and the very memory
of those days makes a child of me. Don’t cry, Anna—don’t
cry.”
The old lady’s voice died off into sobs, and her tears
came down like rain.
“Oh, grandmother! how sorry I am. But we love
you—love you better than all the world.”
“I know it—I know it. You see how much love can
spring out of a desert. I could not stay in the same
city with that woman. I left Philadelphia. My son
was ten years old. He had been delighted with the
thoughts of seeing his father; and we had talked our
happiness over so often that he seemed a part of my
own being. I would have kept the truth from him had
that been possible; but it was not—so I told him the
truth. His young spirit was terribly aroused, a feeling
287of sharp resentment possessed him. He could not understand
all the legal injustice that had been done us;
but he felt for me as no man could have felt. ‘Leave
him, mother,’ he said. ‘I am only a little boy, but I
will take his place, love you, work for you, worship you.
Indeed, indeed I will.’”
Anna was sobbing as if her heart would break. She
remembered her father’s parting with his mother when
he went to the wars to die. The old lady held her
close.
“Hush, darling! He is in heaven!”
“Oh! if we were only with him, all of us—all of us!”
Anna cried out.
“In God’s own time, dear. He knows best.”
After a few moments of quiet weeping Mrs. Burns
went on.
“We went back to New York. I had a little money,
and opened a small store with the name of Burns on the
sign. We would not use his name—he had taken it
from us.”
“Did not the name of Burns belong to you, grandmother?”
“It was my own mother’s maiden name.”
“Then my——This, I mean your husband, has another
name?”
“Yes; he has another name.”
“Do not tell it me, grandmother. I do not want to
hate him, or know him. My father did not wish it, or
he would have told us.”
“No, your father wished that name buried—and it
was. We never mentioned it, but lived for each other.
My business supported us and occupied my mind. My
288boy had a good education, you know that; and a better
man than he never breathed. He had the talent of an
artist, and, as the most direct way of earning money,
learned wood-engraving. Then he married your mother.
She was an orphan, pretty and good. I loved her
dearly; and when she died, her little children became
mine. We all lived together; I gave up my little store,
for your father earned money enough to support us.
We were content. Indeed, we were happy, in a way;
living so close together, loving each other so dearly—how
could we help it? Anna, dear, God always brings
contentment to the patient worker.”
“Grandmother, I understand; you mean this for
me!”
The old lady’s feeble arms tightened around the girl,
and she went on.
“Before your father went to the army, here the living
was cheaper; and, perhaps, he had some other reason.
It was his wish, and I made no opposition. We had a
hard life, darling; sometimes we were hungry and cold,
too. It came with cruel force on you children; I tried
to save you—tried to be all that your father was; but
a poor old woman has but little power. Still, still, look
back, child, and see how the good Lord has helped us;
so many friends—such bright, bright prospects; the
boys doing so well. Hark! they are coming. Wipe
your eyes, dear, they must not think we have been crying.
Here they come, so happy.”
The old woman wiped her tears away and looked
toward the door, smiling. Anna caught the sweet
infection, and she too looked bright and hopeful when
289the boys came in clamorous with praises of their new
home.
CHAPTER XXII. A MYSTERIOUS APPOINTMENT.
Mrs. Savage was in a state of continual unhappiness.
When a really good-hearted woman swerves from the
right path, either from policy or interest, she is sure to
be the greatest sufferer of all the parties in interest. She
saw her son come in and go out with that restless,
dejected air which often follows a great disappointment.
He took no interest in his old pursuits; and all the
sweet confidence which had existed between the mother
and son was swept away from their lives. This sprung
mostly out of her own self-consciousness. She knew
that her own ruthless influence had broken up the best
hope of his young life; and remembering that cruel interview
with Anna Burns, would not look her son
squarely in the face, or soften his melancholy with sweet
caresses, as a good mother loves to give while comforting
her son. Horace felt this, and it made him feel still
more desolate. He congratulated himself that his
mother was ignorant of the humiliating attachment he
had formed, and gathered up all the strength of his
manhood to meet the life which lay before him divested
of half its bloom.
Better than he thought Mrs. Savage understood all
this. She saw that it was no capricious liking that her
son had to deal with; and, spite of herself, the sweet
290face of Anna Burns, in its sad, pleading humility, which
was, after all, more dignified than pride, would present
itself to her memory; and in spite of the intellect which
still protested that she had done right, the heart in her
bosom rose up against her, and called her a household
traitor, an unnatural mother, a hard woman, and some
other harsh names, that she would have been glad to
forget.
Then there was the certainty that Georgiana Halstead
never would be her son’s wife. Mrs. Savage had loved
this bright-faced girl with unusual tenderness; and this
conviction was a bitter disappointment. Altogether,
things were taking an unsatisfactory course with her—and
she was a most unhappy woman.
One day when Horace came in from business, and
was going, as usual, to his own room, Mrs. Savage
called to him with a quiver of suffering in her voice,
that made him pause half way up the stairs and turn
back.
“Is there any thing the matter, mother?” he said,
entering her pretty sitting-room, stiffly, as if he had
been a stranger.
Mrs. Savage remembered the time when he would
have come in with a laugh, thrown himself on the stool
at her feet, and with both arms folded on her lap, told
her of any thing that was uppermost in his heart. She
sighed heavily, and a weary look of pain came into
her eyes.
“Oh, Horace! why is it that we seem so strange to
each other?”
“Strange are we? I had not thought of it, mother.”
He was surprised and touched by her manifest unhappiness.
291Absorbed in his own thoughts, he had
scarcely noticed that she was not as cheerful as usual.
“Dear old pet,” he said, making a strained effort at
playfulness, “what has come over you? Is it because
her inhuman son has been making a wretch of himself?
Come, give him a kiss, he is sadly in want of it.”
Mrs. Savage kissed him on the forehead with quivering
lips; and flinging herself back in the chair burst
into a passion of tears.
The startled son threw his arms around her.
“Why, mother, mother! what is the meaning of
this?”
Mrs. Savage, superior woman as she was, answered
like the most commonplace female in the world.
“Oh, Horace! I am sure you hate me!”
“Hate you? Why, mother, what have I have done?”
“Nothing! Nothing in the world! It is I that am
to blame!”
“But there is no blame between us. If all this is
about Georgiana Halstead, do understand, once for all,
she does not want me, and never cared for me in the
least, only as a playmate and sort of brother. In fact,
she is almost engaged to young Gould.”
“I know it, I know it! She told me. Every thing
goes wrong! I am the most unhappy woman in the
world!”
“Who makes you so unhappy, dear mother?”
She looked at him earnestly through her tears, gave
a hysterical sob, and sat upright in her chair, resolute
and proud of look as he had seen her of old.
“Horace, do you love that girl, Anna Burns?”
Savage started up, and his face flushed scarlet.
292“Mother!”
“I knew all about it almost from the first, Horace.”
“You? And said nothing. That was kind. Is it
this which has troubled you so much?”
“Yes, it has troubled me—I am so sorry.”
“Do not reproach me, mother. It is the first time I
ever went against what I knew would be your wishes.
You are right, there can be no happiness in going
beneath our own grade in life; but she seemed so refined,
so innocent, and good. I think a wiser man than I ever
was would have been interested. I had hoped that this
little shame of my life would never reach you or my
father.”
“He does not know it; but I do—I do! Tell me,
Horace, for you have not answered my question yet.
Do you love this girl?”
“I did love her dearly—better than my own life!”
“And now?”
“If you know all, mother, why wound me with that
question?”
“Because I wish to know—because I must know.”
“She has the power to give me terrible pain, mother;
beyond that I will say nothing.”
“But you did love her?”
“I have said so.”
“And but for her unworthiness would love her yet?”
“We need not speak of what will be. There is misery
enough in what is.”
“Sit down, my son, in the old place, at my feet; then
turn your eyes away. I do not like you to look at me
so. Now say, if this girl were all you first thought her
to be, would you marry her?”
293“What! against your consent, mother?”
“I did not say that. Ask your own heart, Horace;
was the love you felt for this girl such as runs through
a man’s whole life; such as leads him to make all sacrifices
in its attainment?”
“Yes; if ever a man loved honestly and devotedly I
did. But it is all over now.”
“But you are very unhappy?”
“Very.”
“Will you never forget her? Oh, Horace! will the
old times never come back to us?”
“I cannot tell, mother. When the heart has been
betrayed into giving itself up entirely, the reaction, if
it ever comes, must be slow and painful.”
“Horace!”
“Mother!”
“I—I wish to see you happy. My heart aches for
you. I would do any thing rather than see you looking
so dispirited.”
“But you can do nothing. Yes, yes; I should not
say that. Love me, and bear with me awhile; this cannot
last forever.”
“With you, perhaps, not; but with me it will last
forever. My son, it is your mother who has done this.
She is the person you ought to hate. Anna Burns is
guiltless as an angel. I, your mother, says this; and
you must believe it.”
“Mother, mother! are you getting insane?”
“No, Horace; I heard of this attachment, and condemned
it. My pride was wounded, my ambition thwarted.
I thought Georgiana loved you, and that this girl
had come in her way to cause all sorts of unhappiness.
294I appealed to her generosity. I told her that nothing
on this earth should win our consent to your marriage
with her. She told me how young Ward had persecuted
her; and I, unwomanly, ungenerous woman that I
was, bade her leave you in doubt, that you might be
shocked out of your love. She pleaded, she wept, she
protested, but gave way at last, and pledged her word
to avoid you, and leave the suspicions in your mind to
rest there.”
“Oh, mother, mother! this is terrible!”
“I know it, boy; but it is all true. God forgive me!”
Savage was standing before his mother, white as
death, but with a glow of deep thoughtfulness in his
eyes.
“And she is innocent?”
“As an angel, I do believe. Innocent even of guessing
the evil thoughts you had of her. The worst she
dreamed of was, that you supposed her capable of
marrying that young scapegrace.”
“Thank heaven for that! She will not have felt the
insult so deeply! But I was cruel with her, the innocent
darling.”
“No, it was I who was most cruel. I, who forbade
her to explain; I, who left her, broken-hearted, to struggle
against her honest affection, and the shame of which
she was unconscious. Can you ever forgive me, Horace?”
“Forgive you! mother? Is that a question which you
should ask of your son? The question is, will Anna
Burns ever forgive me?”
“She will—she must. I will go to her. I will humble
myself as is befitting one who has given way to her
295pride cruelly as I have. But first, Horace, say that you
will forget this, and love me in the old way?”
Bright tears were in those fine eyes, the sympathetic
mouth worked with emotion. That look of yearning
entreaty went to the son’s heart; he knelt by her side,
kissed her hands, her forehead, and the eyes which were
still heavy with repentant dew.
“Forget it? Oh, mother! how can I forget this nobility
of soul which gives back the bloom to my life. It
was love for me that made you, for a time, less than
yourself. That I will forget.”
“And love me dearly, as of old?”
“Indeed, and indeed, I will.”
“This love of Anna Burns must not make you forget
me.”
The lady said this with a piteous smile. It was hard
to give him up.
“Mother, do you love my father less because of me?”
“No, no! How should I?”
“Love, like mercy, is not strained, mother. The
heart that can feel it at all in its perfection, grows
larger and grander with each new object of affection.”
The mother’s face became luminous with one of those
smiles which flood all the features with sunshine. She
fell forward upon her son’s bosom, sighing away the
last remnants of her unhappiness.
“God bless you, my son! I will love Anna Burns
dearly for your sake!”
“May I go to her now, mother?”
“Not yet. Wait a little till I have prepared your
father. He knows nothing. When you see her again
it must be with full authority.”
296“You are right, mother. I am happy and I can
wait!”
A servant opened the door, bringing in a card.
“Mr. Gould—what can he want of me, I wonder?”
exclaimed the lady, looking at the card.
“I will leave you to find out,” answered Horace, kissing
his mother’s hand.
Scarcely had the son disappeared from one door,
when old Mr. Gould came in through another. He was
grave and quiet, not to say stern, in his manner toward
the lady who came forward to receive him. With that
old-fashioned formality which is so pleasant in a gray-headed
man, he led Mrs. Savage back to the seat she
had left, and drew a chair close to it. Then he began
conversing with her in a low, earnest voice. She heard
him at first with a little surprise; then her interest
deepened, the hot color came and went in her face; and
more than once she broke out into exclamations that
seemed half pleasure, half disappointment. When the
old gentleman arose she gave him her hand, which he
bowed over with a reverence which was not without
grace.
“I rejoice that you come too late,” she said, smiling
upon him.
“And so do I. Such things bring back one’s old
trust in human nature.”
“I, at least, ought to be thankful that all the atonement
in my power was made in time,” she said, graciously.
“You will all be punctual. I am an old business
man, remember, and shall expect you at the moment.”
“You can depend on us.”
297They shook hands at the door with great cordiality,
and the old man smiled as he went down the steps.
CHAPTER XXIII. AN ENGAGEMENT.
The Burns family had moved into that pretty cottage,
and were all assembled in the little dining-room which
opened on the flower-garden, and from which it was festooned
in by a drapery of vines, which filled the balconies
with delicious green shadows. There was nothing
very splendid about this new home; but it was, for
all that, the prettiest little place you ever set eyes upon—and
the scene within that dining-room a picture in
itself. There sat the old lady, at the head of the table,
with a pretty china tea-set before her, and the whitest
of linen cloths falling from beneath the tray toward her
lap. Opposite her sat Anna Burns, looking pale and
sweetly sad, for the heartache never left her for a moment;
but with a smile always ready for little Joseph,
when he told her of some episode in his active young
life, or boasted, in his bright, childish way, of the papers
he had sold. Robert listened to him with a paternal
smile on his young lips; and the dear old lady had a
gentle word to say with every cup of tea that her little
hand served out so daintily.
While they were occupied at the tea-table, Georgiana
Halstead came up the garden-walk, treading lightly as
an antelope, and smiling to herself only as the happy
298can smile. She snatched at some of the flowers as she
passed, and came up to the window forming them into
a bouquet, with which she knocked lightly on the glass.
Anna arose from the table, and went out to meet her
friend with a wan smile on her lips, which seemed but
the shadow of that which beamed over Georgie’s whole
face.
“Come this way, Anna, I have something to tell you.
Out here, where this pyramid of white roses can hide
us from the window. I would not have them think
there was any thing particular for the world.”
The two girls went down the walk, and sheltered
themselves behind the rose-bushes as they talked together.
“Anna, I have something to tell you. Don’t look
frightened; it’s nothing bad—at least I don’t think it
is; but—but things will turn out so. You know about
young Mr. Gould, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes! He has been so good to our Robert. I
have seen him, too.”
“Don’t you think him very—that is, rather handsome?”
“Indeed, I do—very handsome.”
“I am glad; that is, I thought you would think so.”
Here Georgie began to blush, and pluck at a branch
of the rose-bush with great energy. Anna saw that the
secret, whatever it was, struggled in her throat; and,
with that gentle tact which is the very essence of refinement,
went on with the conversation.
“Mr. Gould has been so very considerate about our
Robert. It was only yesterday he doubled his weekly
pay,” she said.
299“Oh! he’s generous as a prince! Look here, Anna.”
Georgie took off her glove, and extended a little hand
which blushed to the finger-tips as it exhibited a ring,
in which was a single diamond limpid as water, and
large as a hazel-nut.
“Why, that is the engagement-finger!” exclaimed
Anna, surprised.
“Yes, it is the engagement-finger. He put it on!”
Anna turned white as snow.
“He! Who?—Mr. Savage?”
She spoke with sharp agony, forgetting even that
young Gould had been mentioned.
“Mr. Savage? No, indeed! He never cared a fig for
me. This ring—a beauty, isn’t it?—was put on my
finger last night by Mr. Gould.”
“And are you really engaged?”
“That is exactly what I came to tell you. No one
else has been told as yet; but I could not exist without
having some one wish me joy—so I came to you.
Papa and dear old grandma will give consent this
morning.”
“Are you certain of that?” asked Anna, with a sigh.
“Oh, yes; every thing is right there. Asking is only
a form.”
“I—I am glad, very glad,” said Anna; but her voice
trembled, and she felt ready to burst into tears.
Georgiana looked at her earnestly. She had a vague
idea that something had gone wrong between her and
Savage, but was all in the dark regarding the particulars.
“But you look so sorrowful, Anna. I thought to give
you pleasure.”
300“I am not sorrowful—at least not very. About you
and Mr. Gould I am glad as glad can be; indeed, indeed
I am! Only you know one gets a sorrowful look
after—after so much trouble.”
“But your troubles are all over now.”
“Are they? Oh, yes! we are very well off. You
don’t know the difference. Sometimes, when I awake
in the morning and see such hosts of leaves trembling
about my window, it seems unbelievable. There is a
taria that has climbed up the balconies to the third
story, leaving wreaths of purple blossoms all the way.
Sometimes it seems impossible that such things can be
for us.”
“But they are, and better things are coming, I feel
sure of it; only get that sad look off your face, Anna.
I cannot bear to be so happy, and see you going about
like a wounded bird. Now kiss me, dear, and then we
will go tell grandma.”
Anna kissed the sweet mouth bent to hers, and the
two girls went into the house. One smiling like a June
morning, the other smiling, too, but with a look of suppressed
tears about the eyes. Mrs. Burns had left the
breakfast-table, and was waiting for their visitor in the
little parlor, framed in by the open window like one of
those delicious old German home-pictures, that seem so
real that you feel the poetry in them, but cannot for the
life of you, tell where it lies. She came forward to
meet Georgiana, with her hand held out, ready for the
good news so eloquent in that beautiful young face.
“I know it is something pleasant,” she said, smoothing
the pretty hand that lay in hers, warm and fluttering;
“tell me, dear.”
301“Yes, grandma, I come for that; but—but how to
begin.”
She laughed sweetly, blushed, and looked appealingly
to Anna. The secret was harder to tell than she
thought for.
“Grandmother, she is going to be married; only it
is a secret with us, remember. It is to young Mr.
Gould.”
“Young Mr. Gould!” repeated the old lady. “What,
the young gentleman who came here? No, it was to
the other house.”
“Yes, grandma,” said Georgie, smiling afresh amid
the crimson of her blushes, “I—I am sure you like him.”
“Indeed, I do,” answered the old lady. “Why should
any one doubt it?”
She spoke seriously, and with a certain intonation
which surprised both the girls.
“And he thinks so much of you,” cried Georgie.
“As for Robert, I really believe no brother ever loved
a little fellow better.”
“He is very kind,” answered the old lady, and, for
the first time in their lives, those two girls saw a shade
of sarcasm on that dear old face. It was very faint, but
they did not like it.
“I—I am almost afraid that you do not like him,”
faltered Georgie.
“It would be unjust if I did not,” answered the old
lady, sadly. “He was not to blame.”
“Not to blame, grandma?” repeated Georgie, amazed.
“Did I say that? Well, of course, he is not to
blame for any thing, especially for loving our own home-angel!”
302“There, that is a dear, blessed, darling old grandma
again! Why, you haven’t kissed me yet, or wished
me joy, or any thing?”
“But I will—I do. There!”
The soft lips of the old lady were pressed to Georgie’s
forehead, those old arms folded her close.
“God bless you, dear! God forever bless both you
and him!”
“Thank you, grandma—thank you a thousand times;
that was just what I wanted to make my joy complete.
Ah! here comes Robert, with his face all in a glow.
What! are those flowers for me?”
“I should like to make them prettier; but time is up,
and I must be off. Here is some of grandma’s rose-geraniums,
and all the blossoms from my own heliotrope.
Good-by, Miss Georgie. Young Mr. Gould
raised my salary last week. Isn’t he splendid.”
Georgiana caught his face between her two hands
and kissed him on the spot. It would be difficult to
decide which of those two young faces was the rosiest
when those hands were withdrawn. The truth was, if
Robert had an earthly divinity it was the young lady
who had just kissed him. So he went away with a glow
upon his face, and a warmer one in his heart, wondering
if there was another boy in all Philadelphia who could
have been so honored, and wishing the whole earth
were covered with rose-geraniums, heliotrope, cape jasmines,
and blush-roses, that he might scatter them
under her feet and catch the perfume as she walked
over them.
Georgie, rather ashamed of herself, went home, wondering
what it was which gave that sad, wistful look to
303Anna Burns’s eyes; and coming generously out of her
own happiness, far enough to wish that every thing had
gone right with young Savage, that Anna might have
been married on the same day with herself. She wondered
if nothing could be done to bring this about.
Why was it that Savage had said nothing to her of late?
It saddened her to think that Anna was given up to
such depression of spirits when she was so happy.
“But it will not last,” she said to herself. “Only
think how miserable I was only a little while ago. Why,
it was like wrenching at my own heart when young
Savage came with his confidence, and wanted me to
help him. But there was a difference. He did not love
me, and he did love her. I wasn’t to go on adoring him
after that, it would have been wrong; and, after all, I
wasn’t exactly the girl to degrade myself in that way.
Now I really do wonder how it happened that I cared
for him so much. Certainly he’s handsome and gentlemanly;
but Mr. Gould—— Dear me! it’s fortunate
that I’m alone, or people might read what I think of
him in my face; but, as Robert says, he is splendid.”
Georgiana went home with such thoughts as these
fluttering through her head, like humming-birds among
roses. In the hall she met Miss Eliza, who seemed in a
great flutter of excitement.
“Come in here,” said the spinster, leading the way
into a half-darkened drawing-room. “What do you
think has happened? Old Mr. Gould is here closeted
with mother. What could it be about? Have you
any idea, Georgie? Just feel my hands how they
tremble. Isn’t it thrilling when a young girl like
me feels that two people are settling a destiny
304of love for her in a close room? Tell me, dear,
which is it do you think? Has the elder gentleman
struggled against the passion in his bosom, and resigned
me, with the wrench of the heart which will be felt
through his whole life, to the intense adoration of his
nephew—or has he come to plead for himself? Heavens,
how the doubt agitates me!”
“Is old Mr. Gould with grandmamma now?” inquired
Georgie, glad that the half light concealed the expression
of her face.
“Yes, yes! Hark! he opens the door; his tread is
in the upper hall—on the stairs. It comes nearer. Support
me, Georgiana.”
Miss Eliza curved downward, and hid her face on
Georgie’s shoulder.
“Oh, Georgie! do not let him come in. This emotion—this
wild, young heart will betray itself; and he
must not know how I adore him.”
“Which?” questioned Georgie.
“Which—which? Why, the one that has proposed.
How can you ask such questions? Thank heaven! this
heart has strength and breadth, and—and capacities;
but what is the use of talking to a child to whom love
is, as yet, a mystery folded in the bud—while with me
it is a full-blown flower? Ah, Georgie! congratulate me.”
Again Miss Eliza threw herself slantwise on to
Georgie’s neck, and heaved a billowy sigh.
“Oh, Aunt Eliza, please! you are so heavy,” pleaded
the poor girl.
“Heavy! When my whole being is one bright wave
of bliss; when this great love rises, full-fledged, from
my heart, like a bird of paradise, with all its golden
305plumage full of sunlight. Go, child, go! this full soul
must seek sympathy elsewhere. I will seek my mother,
kneel at her feet, and seek the maternal blessing, while
she tells me which it is.”
Away Miss Eliza sailed into her mother’s room,
which she entered with clasped hands.
“Oh, mother! have you no news for me?” she cried,
falling on her knees before the old lady, who would
have been surprised, if any thing about Miss Eliza
could surprise her—“spare these blushes, and tell me at
once.”
“Well, Eliza, it can make no difference; though, perhaps,
it would have been best to have consulted with
your brother first.”
“Then it is positively true; he is to be consulted;
that point is settled. Oh, my heart! my heart! Forgive
me, mother. You said that he was to be consulted;
just have pity on a poor young creature, who sees her
fondest hopes vibrating in the balance, and tell me all.
Come now.”
“There is not much to tell, Eliza; nothing, indeed,
which you must not have expected.”
“I did—I did.”
“Mr. Gould came to ask my consent.”
“Yes, yes. Go on.”
“How impatient you are, Eliza! He came to ask my
consent to the marriage of his nephew with Georgiana.”
Miss Eliza fell forward, with her face in the old lady’s
lap. She shook her head violently, her shoulders
heaved, and smothered sobs broke out of all this commotion,
like gusts of wind in a storm. All at once she
started up and pushed the hair back from her face.
306“I see—I see,” she cried, “he has done this to clear
the path—to get rid of a dangerous rival. Noble man!
Splendid diplomacy! How could I have doubted him?
Dear mother, do not look so astonished. I understand
all this better than you can. Wait a little—wait a little,
and you will know all.”
She arose, after delivering this mysterious speech,
and went into her own room, where the pendant cupid
was vibrating with sudden spasms of motion, as a current
of wind swept over it from an open window.
Do.n Miss Eliza sat in her cozy chair, and, clasping
her hands, looked upward, murmuring—
“Yes, yes; I understand it all. He saw the devotion
of this young man, and sought to evade rather than
oppose the result. He knew that such feelings as
absorbed that young heart would endanger his own
domestic peace when we were once married; for how
could this young man look on me, the happy and fondly
cherished bride of another, and not allow his feelings of
disappointment and regret to break forth? Besides,
there must have been great dread of his success—not
that Mr. Gould, the elder, need have feared. My soul
always lifted itself above mere youth and good looks;
but he was wise to sweep this young man from his path.
Poor Georgiana! compelled to take up with the rejected
suitor of another! Of course, it will be a marriage of
convenience—the bridegroom will always have his memories;
but I will keep out of the way; far be it from me
to render him unhappy by forcing the contrast between
what he has lost and what he has married upon him.
As his uncle’s wife I will be forbearing, generous, and
dignified. If he should ever attempt to allude to the
307hopes that his uncle has just quenched by this masterly
stroke of policy, I will assert all the womanly grandeur
of my nature, and wither him with a look half of pity,
half of indignation.”
Here Miss Eliza leaned back in her chair, folded both
hands over her bosom, and, closing her eyes, fell into
one of those soft, sweet reveries, which poets have called
“Love’s Young Dream;” her feet rested on the ottoman
cushion which usually performed a prominent part in
these solitary tableaux. The cupid sailed to and fro
over her head; the crimson cushions of her chair would
have reflected the color on her cheeks but for a counter
tint, a little less vivid, but quite as permanent, which
baffled what might have been an artistic effect. In this
position we leave Miss Eliza rich in expectations, which
no disappointment could extinguish.
Meantime, Georgie ran up to her grandmother’s room,
threw herself into those outstretched arms and began to
cry, one would think just to be hushed and comforted
with those soft words, and soft kisses, which came from
the old lady’s lips like dew upon a flower.
“What did he say, grandmamma?”
“Every thing that was sweet and kind, darling!”
“And you told him——”
“That I would ask my grandchild if she loved this
young man dearly with all her heart and soul.”
“With all her heart, and her soul of souls, tell him
she said that, grandmamma.”
“And that she loves no one else?”
“No one, grandmamma, in this wide, wide world.”
“Shall I say that she has never loved any one else,
dear?”
308Georgie’s face was crimson when she lifted her head
and looked clearly into that rather anxious face.
“He will not ask that, because I told him all about it
myself.”
The old lady kissed that beautiful, honest face.
“That is right, my dear.”
“And he did not care in the least; said the first love
of a girl was usually half fancy and half nonsense; that
a heart was sometimes like fruit, which is never really
ripe till the frost gives it a bloom; and a good deal more
which I cannot repeat, but love to remember.”
“Then I have nothing to do but ask God to bless you
both!”
“But you have told me nothing. Is the old gentleman
pleased?”
“Yes, delighted. I never saw him so well satisfied
in my life.”
“You! Why, grandmamma, did you ever see him
before?”
The old lady smiled, but answered nothing to the
purpose. She only said, “Yes, indeed, he is greatly
pleased; and says that there is not a girl in Philadelphia
that he would have preferred to my little granddaughter.”
“Did he say that? How very kind of him! But,
grandmamma, what do you think Aunt Eliza——”
“Ah, yes! I know, my dear. She is so apt to make
these mistakes; but I have told her.”
“Oh, I am glad of that! Did she want to kill me?”
“Far from that, Georgie; but we will not talk of her.
It makes me sad.”
309“But you will not think of any thing which can do
that; for I want you to be splendid when, when——”
“When you are married?”
“Yes, grandmamma.”
After the blushes had left Georgie’s face, a shade of
sadness stole over it, which the old lady observed.
“What is the matter, darling?”
“Nothing, grandmamma. Only I am so sorry for
Anna Burns.”
“Indeed! What about her?”
“She seems so unhappy!”
“Why?”
“Ah! I had forgotten. It is not my place to talk
about Anna Burns; perhaps she is not so very unhappy,
after all. Only—only I do wish somebody who knows
how would comfort her; that is, advise with her.”
“What if I call upon them in their new house,
Georgie? How would that do?”
“Splendid! I am sure she would tell you every
thing. When will you go?”
“Well, suppose we say to-morrow evening?”
“That is capital! I will go with you and talk with
Mrs. Burns, while you take up Anna.”
“That will do, perhaps. I shall invite a few friends
to visit them in their new house. What if we give them
a surprise party?”
“Oh, how delightful!”
“Invite all their friends, and give them a little
feast!”
“Oh, grandmamma! they haven’t but one friend in
the world beside us and the Savage family; and I’m
afraid it would be unpleasant for them to meet.”
310“Still we must invite them. I will send a note to
Mrs. Savage, and ask her to bring Horace.”
“It might do; but I should not dare myself.”
“Very likely. So leave that to me. Mistakes in an
old woman are soon forgiven!”
“Yes, I will leave it to you. Nobody ever did things
so nicely.”
“Now about this other woman, for I suppose it is a
woman whom you speak of as their friend?”
“Yes, of course, it is a woman. Such a strange creature,
too, I’m sure you would be surprised to see her,
knowing how good she is. When Anna and her grandmother
were so very poor, she let the rent run on,
month after month, never asking for it, but growing
kinder and kinder every day. More than that, she
seemed to find out by magic when they had nothing to
eat in the house, and sent up money and a wholesome
meal when they were almost crying with hunger.”
“Georgiana,” said Mrs. Halstead, “that was a good
woman. Invite her.”
“But she is rough as a chestnut-bur.”
“No matter.”
“And used to scold them sometimes.”
“No matter.”
“She takes in slop-work.”
“All the better.”
“And fries her own dinner on the little stove in her
room. I have heard it simmering twenty times.”
“But when these good people needed it, she divided
her dinner with them.”
“Indeed, she did; though the agent was tormenting
311her about the rent all the time; and she is heavily in
debt to him now.”
“Georgiana, invite that woman—I admire her. I
respect her, coarse or not, ugly or handsome, I respect
her.”
“And so do I, grandmamma. Only I thought it best
to tell you. Besides, she dresses so, and has such
coarse hair, that anybody but you might not see the
good through it all—Mrs. Savage particularly.”
“She would. Mrs. Savage is a noble woman.”
“I am glad to hear you say that for Anna’s sake.”
“And this person you speak of is a noble woman;
such people always get together somehow.”
“I hope so. Of course, if you say it.”
“There now, dear, go to this woman and give our invitation.
Here is money for the entertainment. Let it
be perfect. She will help you, I dare say. If any thing
is left, she must keep it, understand. Now good-morning.
Go at once.”
Georgie ran up stairs for her bonnet, and was soon in
the old tenement-house talking with the landlady, whom
she found hard at work, with a clothes-basket half full
of unfinished work by her side, and a heap of sailor’s
jackets piled up on the table close at hand. She had a
well-worn press-board lying across her lap, and was
pressing a stubborn seam upon it with a heavy flat-iron,
upon which she leaned resolutely with one elbow, while
she held the seam open with two fingers of her other
hand. This was hot work, and the perspiration was
pouring off her face as she worked.
“Yes,” she said, with curt good humor, “hard at
work as ever; hot though, and dragging on the strength;
312especially when one sets at it steady from daylight till
eleven o’clock at night.”
“But why do you work so hard, there is only yourself
to support?”
“That’s what every lady says; but, law, what do they
know about it? Debt cries louder than children; they
do give up sometimes, but agents never do, especially
them as let tenement-houses for men who are too refined
to crush out the poor with their own hands, but
take the money without asking how it has been wrung
out of our hard earnings, piling the extra per centage—which
pays the agent for oppressing his tenants—on us.
Then they talk about heavy taxes, as if we did not pay
them and all the rest with our hard work. When the
Common Council, and the State, or Congress, put taxes
on them, they sit still in their comfortable parlors, and
meet it all by raising the rents, which we pay like this.”
The woman swept the perspiration from her forehead
with one hand, which she held out, all moist and trembling
from the pressure it had given to the iron. The
front finger was honey-combed by the point of her
coarse needle; the palm was coarse and hard from constant
toil.
“These are tax-marks,” she said, bitterly; “some of
our people don’t understand it—but I do; for, poor or
not, I will take the newspaper. It’s oppression—that’s
what it is. If the agent would have been a little easy
with me, I might have done a world of good in this
identical house; but it wasn’t in me to turn a family
out of doors when they couldn’t pay up to the minute;
and so, in trying to save them, I got in debt. If he
turns me out—and he threatened that this very morning—who
313will stand between him and the poor families
in my rooms? I tell you what, Miss, it wasn’t to make
money I took the house, but to keep it respectable and
help my poor fellow-creturs along. There never was
any profit in it; and now I’m likely to be turned out
myself. It’s hard, miss—it is hard!”
“Indeed, it does seem very cruel; but I suppose the
man who has money can be a tyrant if he likes, in spite
of the law. I’ll talk with grandmamma about this; perhaps
she can help you. Just now I come to ask, that
is, to invite you, to join us in a little party we are going
to give the Burns family.”
“What! they give a party?”
“No—we; that is, grandmamma and a friend or two
are going to surprise them.”
“Big-bugs—that is, gentlemen and ladies?”
“Yes, I—I believe so,” said Georgie, with great
humility.
“Then I can’t go—I shouldn’t feel at home.”
“But I want your help in getting things ready.
Grandmamma has left every thing for you and I to arrange.
Here is plenty of money, but I have no idea
how to go about spending it.”
“Oh! if that’s what you want of me, I’m on hand.
Haven’t had a play spell these ten years. It’ll do me
good.”
“I own it will—can you spare the time now?”
“I’ll put on my things right off,” cried the landlady,
standing her press-board in a corner, and planting the
hot iron in a safe place. “Just wait a minute while I
comb out my hair and put on another dress.”
With this, the good woman let down a hank of coarse
314hair, and hatcheled it vigorously with a coarse horn-comb;
then she gathered it up in a hard twist, and proceeded
to change her dress, for which she substituted a
gorgeous delaine, and a blanket-shawl warmed up with
stripes of scarlet.
“Now,” she said, tying the strings of an immense
straw bonnet, that stood up from her face like a horse-shoe,
“I’m ready for any thing you want of me.”
Georgie arose, took up her parasol of silk point-lace
and carved ivory, of which she felt a little ashamed,
and followed the landlady out.
“There is one thing,” she said, when they reached the
side-walk, “which you must help me arrange; while we
are making preparations in the house, they must be got
away.”
“Oh! I’ll mange that easy enough,” answered the
woman. “I’ll tell them that I am obliged to go out,
and can’t spare the time from my work. They’ll both
offer to come round and help me through. It wont be
the first time—just leave that to me. I think they’ll
like to sit in the old room; some of their things are
there yet.”
This being decided on, Georgie and her companion
entered upon the business in hand with great energy;
and the young girl went home at dusk perfectly satisfied
with the progress of things, as regarded the surprise party.
CHAPTER XXIV. CONCLUSION.
315
The next day old Mrs. Burns sat in the little family-room
up stairs, quite alone, for Anna had gone round to
their old home to see their kind friend, and the boys
proceeded to their work, as usual, immediately after
breakfast. She was reading; for the necessity of constant
toil had been taken from her, and with this
pleasant home, many of her old lady-like wants had
come back, asking for a place in her life.
So the old lady sat reading near the window, looking
neat and tranquil, as if care had never visited her.
Quantities of soft, fine muslin were folded over her
bosom, and softer lace fell over her calm, old forehead,
from which the hair was parted in all its snowy whiteness.
Her dress of black alpaca, bright as silk, and of
voluminous fulness, swept down from the crimson
cushions of the easy-chair, and covered the stool on
which her foot rested. She formed a lovely picture of
old age, sitting in that cool light, with the leaves twinkling
their shadows around her, and softening the whole
picture into perfect quiet.
As she sat thus absorbed in her book, the gate opened,
and an old man came up the garden-walk. She lifted
her head and looked out, but her glasses were on, and
she could only see some figure moving through the flowers
with dreamy indistinctness. Then she heard the
door open, and a step in the hall—a step that made her
heart leap till the muslin stirred like snow on her bosom.
Who could it be? Not one of the boys, the step was
316too heavy for that; perhaps, that is, possibly, it might
be young Savage, coming to explain conduct that she
much feared was breaking poor Anna’s heart. The possibility
that it might be him kept her still. After neglecting
them so long, she would not compromise Anna’s
pride, by appearing eager to meet him; so she sat, with
book in hand, gazing wistfully at the door through her
spectacles.
The door opened slowly, and old Mr. Gould stood on
the threshold, where he paused a moment gazing on her.
The old woman answered the gaze with a half-frightened
look through her spectacles, then drew them slowly
off, as if that could help her vision, and stood up.
“Mary!” said the old man, coming toward her.
“Mary!”
The old woman sat down again, helpless and trembling.
“Mary, will you not speak to me?”
“Yes, James, yes. I—I wish to speak, but—but I
cannot.”
“And why, Mary? What have I done? What did
I ever do that should make you hate and avoid me so?”
“Hate! I never hated you, James. At the worst, I
never hated you!”
“But you left me—hid yourself; kept my son from
me all his life. How could you find the heart to do
that?”
The old lady sat upright in her chair; a faint red
came into her face—she trembled from head to foot.
“You speak as if I had done wrong, James; as if you
were an innocent man.”
“I speak as I feel, Mary—as I am. What fault had
317I committed which warranted the separation of a lifetime?”
He questioned her almost sternly; but there was a
quiver of wounded tenderness in his voice which made
that gentle old bosom swell with gathering tears.
“Was it nothing,” she said, faltering, in spite of herself,
“that you left me and married another woman?”
“Mary Gould, are you a sane woman?”
“I saw her with my own eyes; heard her speak;
watched her when she read your letters. Nothing short
of that would have driven me from you.”
“You saw all this? When—how?”
“At your warehouse in H——. She kissed your
letter; she told me that you were her husband—all the
time I held our boy by the hand; he heard it. What
could I do? Arraign my husband before the courts—disgrace
him? Kill an innocent woman, perhaps? I
loved you too well for that; so went away with my
child. I wished myself dead, but even wretched women
cannot die when they wish. I was young and healthy;
grief tortured me, but it could not quite kill the strong
life in my bosom. I had the boy, and struggled for his
sake. We went away into another State, and in the
heart of a great city buried ourselves. I gave you up.
I gave up your name and worked on through life alone.
But God kept my son, and gave me grandchildren; the
wound in my life was almost healed. Why come at this
late day to shake the last sands of a hard life with old
memories? I have forgiven you long ago, James—long
ago.”
The old man listened to her patiently. Once or
twice he started and checked some eager words as they
318sprang to his lips; but he restrained himself and heard
her through. Then he reached forth a trembling hand
and drew a chair close to her side, bending toward her
as he seated himself.
“Mary, did you believe this base thing of me?”
“Believe it? God help me, I knew it!”
“Mary Gould, it is false, every word of it. I have
never loved any woman but you. I never had, and
never will have another wife.”
The little old woman held out her two hands in pitiful
appeal.
“Oh, James, don’t! I am an old woman and cannot
bear it. Only ask me to forgive you, and I will. Indeed,
I will.”
“Mary, my poor deceived wife, there is nothing between
us to forgive. I do not know how this terrible
idea has been fastened on your mind; but, as God is my
judge, no husband was ever more faithful to a wife than
I have been to you.”
He held her two hands firmly. She lifted her eyes to
his and found them full of tears.
“James, James, is it I that have done wrong?” The
old woman fell down upon her knees before him, and
pressed her two withered hands on his bosom. “Have
I done wrong—and is it you who must forgive me? Oh,
my husband! I am so thankful that it is me!”
He lifted her back to the easy-chair, and drew that
sweet, old face, with its crown of snowy hair, to his
bosom; his tears fell over her; his hands shook like
withered leaves as they tenderly folded her to his
heart.
319She believed in his truth; and that sweet, solemn
love, which is so beautiful in old age, filled her heart
with a joy that no young bride may even hope to
know.
“We are old and close to the end of our lives, Mary;
but God has given us to each other again, and the best
part of our existence will be spent together.”
“But I have cast away our youth, trampled down
your mid-age; hid our son away from you, and now he
is dead—he is dead!” she cried, with anguish, the more
piteous because her utterance was choked by the tremor
of old age.
“But you have suffered more than I have, for, during
all this time till the war commenced, I thought both
you and my son dead; while you, knowing me alive,
thought me a guilty man. Poor Mary! your unhappiness
has been greater than mine.”
“Thank God for that!” she said, meekly.
“And now it must be my pleasure to lead you down
the path which is lost in the valley and shadow. You
need me now more than ever, and I need you, Mary, as
we grow weaker and older; such companionship as you
and I can give each other becomes the sweetest and
most precious thing in life. Do not cry, Mary; but
rather let me see if the old smile lives for me yet.”
She looked up, and the wrinkles about her mouth
softened into the sweetest expression you ever saw on
a human face.
“God has been very good to us,” she said; “but for
our son’s death I could, indeed, smile. Now I feel as
if I had robbed you of him.”
“Never think that again. But remember that it is a
320good thing to have loved ones waiting for us on the
other side. I shall see our son; of that be certain.”
“Yes, yes, we shall both see him; and his children—have
you seen them?”
“Yes; the lad Robert is with me—a fine little
fellow.”
“Anna, too?”
“Pretty as you were long ago, and I think as good.”
“But Joseph, dear little Joseph, you must love him
above all; he is the very image of his father.”
“I have seen him, too. I saw you all sitting in a
picture together.”
“And recognized us?”
“At the first glance; for then I knew that my wife
was alive. More—after our son went to the war, he
wrote to me, told me that his mother was living, and
besought me to find her, should he fall, and save his
family from want. He gave no name but his own—no
address; but referred me to a gentleman in New York,
who would tell me where to find you. This letter was
sent from the army, and met with the usual delays before
it reached me. Only two days before I saw you in
that picture did I know of your existence. I telegraphed
to the person who held your address, and was
answered that he was away from home. Then I saw
you for that one moment, and you were lost to me
again. I searched for you for days to no avail. Then
I went to New York; the man I sought had gone to
Europe. I followed him, learned the name you have
borne, and where you could be found—learned that our
grandchild was already under my care. But I am an
old man, Mary, and have learned how to wait. Did
321you know that this house is mine—that I sent you here;
that Anna is my friend; and that little Joseph has made
a small fortune in selling me papers?”
“I know that I am this moment the happiest old
woman that ever lived.”
“I am glad of that. If I can help it, Mary, you shall
never be unhappy again. We will enter on our second
childhood with tranquil hearts; knowing so well what
loneliness is, we shall feel the value of loving companionship
as few old people ever did. Now tell me
how it was that the terrible mistake which separated us
arose.”
She told him all, exactly as she had related the facts
to Anna only a short time before.
“I can understand now,” he said, thoughtfully.
“This lady was my brother’s wife; he had just come
over from England, and took the western trip with me.
The poor young man never came back, but died in the
wilderness. It was his wife you saw; his letters she
was reading.”
“Oh, foolish, wicked woman that I was, so readily to
believe ill of you!” cried the old lady.
“Do not blame yourself. The evidence, false as it
was, might have deceived any one. You did not know
that my brother was in the country, for he came on me
unannounced. It was a natural mistake, and you acted
nobly. It has cost us dear, but we will not spend the
precious time left to us in regretting it.”
“Thank heaven! I had no bitterness; it was for your
sake I hid myself.”
“Bitterness! No, no! It was for me—and when
you thought me unworthy. I shall never forget that.
322Now let us put all these things aside and think only of
the present.”
“Oh! that is so beautiful!” she said, looking around,
but turning her eyes on him at last. “After all, James,
you do not look so very old.”
He laughed gayly, and would have smoothed her hair
in the old fashion, but feeling the lace of her cap, desisted,
ending off his laugh with a little sigh, which she
heard with a sad sort of feeling, as if the ghost of her
youth were passing by.
“This is a pleasant place,” said the old man, looking
out into the balcony, where gleams of sunshine were at
play with the leaves. “Do you know, Mary, I have
never seen a place that seemed so like home since we
parted in England.”
She smiled pleasantly, and holding out her withered
little hand, and blushing like a girl, said,
“Then stay here with us. It is so pleasant here.”
“And my old castle is so gloomy. Yes, Mary, I am
coming home to help take care of the grandchildren.
But I must go now, or they will catch me here earlier
than I wish. Yes, yes; it is a pleasant little home.”
He went out suddenly, the old lady thought with
tears in his eyes, and she stole into the balcony to watch
him as a girl of twenty might. She saw him pick a rosebud
and put it into his buttonhole, smiling to himself
all the while. Then she stole away and went into her
bedroom; and there Anna found her, when she came
home, upon her knees, and with such benign joy on her
face that the young girl closed the door, and went off
on tiptoe, as if she had disturbed an angel.
After awhile the old lady came out; but judging of
323her husband’s wishes by that intuition which needs no
instruction, she said nothing of his visit, but waited for
him to explain, as best pleased him.
“Grandmother,” said Anna, “you and I are wanted
at the old house. Our friend is driven beyond any
thing with her work, but must go out especially this
afternoon. Will you go with me and help her sewing
forward. I have set out the boy’s supper.”
The old lady consented at once, and put on that soft
woollen shawl with a smile, knowing who it was that had
given it to her. It was rather warm for the season, but
she would not have gone without it for the world.
That night there was a great commotion in the cottage,
in which the boys joined, in high excitement, without
understanding any thing about it, except that a
surprise was intended for grandmamma and Anna. A
long table was spread in the dining-room; china, glass,
and silver, unknown to the house before, glittered and
sparkled upon it; flowers glowed up from the sparkling
glass, and flung their rich shadows across the snow-white
tablecloth; fruit lay bedded in the flowers, filling
the vases with a rich variety, which Robert and
Joseph kept rearranging every instant. Then came plates
full of plump little birds, partridges, and so many dainties,
that the boys got tired of naming them. But when
the table was entirely spread, the effect was so magnificent
that they danced around it, clapping their hands
in an ecstasy of delight. Up stairs the rooms were
radiant with flowers, and a rich perfume came up from
the gardens, scenting every thing as with the breath of
paradise.
Scarcely were the rooms ready when the company
324came in. First, Georgie greeted her stately grandmother,
Miss Eliza, and a fine-looking gentleman, whom
she introduced as her father. Then came another
stately-looking person, who walked in with Mrs. Savage
on his arm; and after them appeared Horace Savage,
natural and pleasant as ever, chatting merrily with
young Gould, with whom he walked up the garden arm-in-arm,
while Georgie was peeping at them from one of
the balconies. When these persons were all assembled,
our landlady of the tenement-house proclaimed her determination
of going home at once and bringing Mrs.
Burns and Anna up to their surprise. Just twenty
minutes from the time she left the door they were to
turn every light in the house down, except that in the
hall. Robert and Joseph were to take their posts in
the parlors and take charge of the chandeliers. In
short, every thing was ready, and the little parlors took
a festive aspect exhilarating to behold.
Just as Mrs. Burns and Anna came in sight of the
house, following the landlady, who insisted on seeing
them home, old Mr. Gould joined them, and quietly
gave his arm to the old lady. Anna was a little surprised,
but they were close by the gate, and she had
not much time to notice it.
“The boys have got tired of waiting and have gone
out,” she said, regretfully. “I wish we had come home
before dark.”
They were in the hall now, the house was still as
death. There seemed something strange about this,
which made Anna look anxious as she took off her
things.
“Walk in,” she said, opening the parlor door, through
325which Mr. Gould led the old lady. That instant a blaze
of light broke over the room, revealing bewildering
masses of flowers, and a group of smiling faces all
turned upon the new-comers.
Robert and Joseph jumped down, after turning on
the light, and softly clapped their hands, unable to restrain
the exuberance of their spirits. But Anna saw
nothing of this. A voice was whispering in her ear; a
hand clasped hers with a force that sent the blood up
from her heart in rosy waves.
“My mother has told me all; they have consented,”
he whispered.
She did not answer; for Mr. Gould had led her grandmother
into the midst of the room, and was welcoming
all these people as if the house had been his own.
“This lady,” he said, gently touching the little hand
on his arm, “is a little agitated just now, and leaves me
to welcome you; but first let me present her. She is
my wife, and has been rather more than forty years
These boys and that girl yonder are my grandchildren.
Their father, my only son, was killed in battle. For
many years, by no fault on either side, I have been
separated from my family. Thank God! we are united
now. Gould, come and kiss your aunt. Anna, have I
performed my promise?”
Anna sprang toward him, and threw both arms
around his neck.
“My own, own grandfather!” she cried, lavishing
such kisses on him as fatherly old men love to receive
from rosy lips.
He returned her kisses, patting her on the head as he
gently put her away.
326“James, James, I have seen that face before. Who
is this lady?” said Mrs. Burns, clinging to his arm, as
old Mrs. Halstead came up with her congratulations.
“Yes, Mary, this lady was my brother’s wife—not
the mother of this young fellow. His father came over
later; but she is the lady whom you once saw.”
“And one who hopes to see her many a time after
this; especially as she has been the means of reconciling
me with this unreasonable man, who never would
have forgiven me for marrying again, but for the
interest I took in this family. For years and years,
dear lady, we had been strangers to each other. This
is, in all respects, a family reunion.”
With this little speech, the handsome old lady held
out her hand; but Mrs. Gould, remembering all she had
done for her, instead of shaking the hand reached forth
her arms, and the two old women embraced with tender
dignity, which filled more than one pair of bright eyes
with mist.
The old man stood by well pleased and smiling. He
saw that young Gould had retreated toward Georgiana;
and that Savage was bending over the chair to which
Anna had gone.
“There is no objection in that quarter, I fancy!” he
said, looking at Mrs. Halstead, and nodding toward the
young couple.
“He already has our consent,” answered Mrs. Halstead,
smiling.
“As for these young people,” said the old man, approaching
Anna, “it is but just to say that Horace
Savage had his parents’ sanction to his marriage with
my granddaughter, before they knew that she would
327inherit one fourth of my fortune; the other portion
going in equal parts, to my nephew and grandsons.
Where have the little fellows hid themselves?”
“I am here, grandfather,” said little Joseph, lifting
his beautiful eyes to the old man’s face, and stealing a
hold on his grandmother’s hand as he spoke; “and so
is Robert, only he’s so surprised.”
“I’m so glad, you mean,” said Robert, coming into
the light; “for now Josey can go to school; and Anna—hurra
for sister Anna!”
When the bustle, which followed this speech, died
away, it was followed by a hysterical sob, piteous to
hear, which came from a sofa in the little parlor, on
which Miss Eliza had thrown herself.
“What is the matter?” cried half a dozen voices—and
the sofa was instantly surrounded. “What is the
cause of this?”
“Oh! leave me alone! leave me alone to my desolation!”
she cried; “the last link is broken; there is no
truth—no honor—no chivalry in the world!”
Old Mr. Gould, as master of the house, felt himself
called upon to offer some consolation for the disappointment,
which he supposed had sprung out of her unreasonable
hopes regarding his nephew; but as he came close to
her, she sprang up and pushed him violently backward.
“Touch me not, ingrate! household fiend! traitor!
You have broken my heart, trifled with the affections of
an innocent, loving, confiding, transparent nature. Do
not dare to touch me. Turn those craven eyes on the
antiquated being that you have preferred to my youth
and confiding innocence.”
She sat down, panting for breath, still pointing her
328finger at the astonished old man; while her brother
stood appalled, and old Mrs. Halstead sat down in pale
consternation.
“I do not understand this,” said old Mr. Gould,
looking dreadfully perplexed.
“I do,” whispered the nephew, laughing. “It wasn’t
me, but another chap she was after.”
Just then a sharp ring came to the door. Robert
opened it, and there stood his early friend, the newsboy,
with a torn hat in his hand.
“Excuse me for coming when you’ve got company,
old fellow; but I’m awfully stuck—had my pockets
picked. Look a-there! lost every cent I’ve got in the
theatre jest as that new tragedy chap was a-dying beautifully!
Broke up, if you can’t lend me something to
start on in the morning.”
The boy hauled out a very dirty pocket, and shook
its emptiness in proof of the reality.
“I haven’t got a dollar myself.”
“Jest so. Can’t be helped. I’m up a stump this
time and no mistake. Good-night, old fellow.”
“Stop, stop a minute; I’ll ask my grandfather. Come
back, I say.”
The boy came back, and stood with one hand in the
rifled pocket, waiting.
“Grandfather! grandfather!” said Robert, breathless
and eager, “I want some of those funds of my quarter
in advance. I’ve got a friend out there in distress.”
The old man laughed, everybody laughed except
Miss Eliza, who stopped sobbing to listen, and Joseph,
who said, “Oh, Robert! how can you! He hasn’t been
our grandfather more than an hour!”
329Robert heeded nothing of this, but drew his grandfather
to the door, and pointed out his friend.
“He was good to me once, sir—good as gold. It was
he who took me to your counting-room, and recommended
me.”
The old man was feeling in his pocket. He recognized
the boy.
“How much will do, my boy?” he said, in high good
humor.
“Say five—that’ll set me up tip-top.”
The old man handed him a bank-note.
“Twenty dollars, by golly!” cried the boy, putting
his hat on with a swing of the arm. “Old gentleman,
you’re a trump, and he’s a right bower! Good evening!
I’m set up for life, I am!”
As Mr. Gould was turning to go in again, the mistress
of the tenement-house passed him.
“Every thing is right,” she said. “You wont want
me.”
“But I want you,” said Mr. Gould. “No woman
who has been the friend to my wife that you have, must
pass me without thanks. Tell me, what can I do for
you?”
“Nothing, sir; that is, nothing in particular; only
if you would just tell that agent of yourn not to be
quite so hard about the rent of that house. I shall
have to give it up if he is.”
“What! do you live in a house of mine?”
“Yes, sir; and have these six years.”
“Where is it?”
She told him.
“What! that old tenement? Come to my office in
330the morning, and I’ll give you a deed for it. Don’t
forget.”
“Oh, sir!”
“Don’t forget. You know the place.”
“Never fear, sir; I wont let her forget,” said Robert,
rejoicing in his heart.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the old man,
entering the parlor, “let us see what the fairies have
brought us for supper. Mr. Halstead, will you take
Mrs. Gould? Your mother and I are good friends now—I
will take her.”
“Miss Eliza, shall I have the honor?”
It was young Gould, prompted by Georgiana.
“No, no! I am faint—I am ill; pray leave me!”
“Oh, do come!” said Robert, who was everywhere
that night. “Such birds! Such partridges! Such
chicken-salad!”
“Mr. Gould, to oblige you, I will make an effort,”
said Miss Eliza. “Sometimes a mouthful of chicken-salad
brings me to when nothing else will. Forgive me
if I lean heavily.”
She did lean heavily; and beside that one mouthful of
chicken-salad, there was considerable devastation among
the birds in her neighborhood, to say nothing of the
breast of a partridge that disappeared altogether. Then
came champagne in large glasses, which gave light to
Miss Eliza’s tearful eyes, color to cheeks that did not
need it, and warmth to that poor heart, just broken for
the twentieth time. That is all I have to say on the
subject.
THE END.
T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS.
NEW BOOKS ISSUED EVERY WEEK.
Comprising the most entertaining and absorbing works published, suitable for the Parlor, Library, Sitting Room, Railroad or Steamboat reading, by the best writers in the world.
☞ Orders solicited from Booksellers, Librarians, Canvassers, News Agents, and all others in want of good and fast selling books, which will be supplied at Low Prices. ☜
☞ TERMS: To those with whom we have no monthly account, Cash with Order. ☜
CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS.
Cheap edition, paper cover.
This edition is published complete in twenty-seven largo octavo volumes,
in paper cover, as follows:
Our Mutual Friend,
$1.00
Great Expectations,
75
Lamplighter’s Story,
75
David Copperfield,
75
Do.bey and Son,
75
Nicholas Nickleby,
75
Pickwick Papers,
75
Christmas Stories,
75
Martin Chuzzlewit,
75
Old Curiosity Shop,
75
Barnaby Rudge,
75
Dickens’ New Stories,
75
Bleak House,
75
Joseph Grimaldi,
75
Sketches by “Boz,”
75
Oliver Twist,
75
Little Dorrit,
75
Tale of Two Cities,
75
New Years’ Stories,
75
Dickens’ Short Stories,
75
Message from the Sea,
75
Holiday Stories,
75
American Notes,
75
Pic-Nic Papers,
75
Somebody’s Luggage
25
Tom Tiddler’s Ground,
25
The Haunted House,
25
ILLUSTRATED OCTAVO EDITION.
Each book being complete in one volume.
Our Mutual Friend,
Cloth, $2.50
Pickwick Papers,
Cloth, 2.50
Nicholas Nickleby,
Cloth, 2.50
Great Expectations,
Cloth, 2.50
Lamplighter’s Story,
Cloth, 2.50
Oliver Twist,
Cloth, 2.50
Bleak House,
Cloth, 2.50
Little Dorrit,
Cloth, 2.50
Do.bey and Son,
Cloth, 2.50
Sketches by “Boz,”
Cloth, 2.50
David Copperfield,
Cloth, 2.50
Barnaby Rudge,
Cloth, 2.50
Martin Chuzzlewit,
Cloth, 2.50
Old Curiosity Shop,
Cloth, 2.50
Christmas Stories,
Cloth, 2.50
Dickens’ New Stories,
Cloth, 2.50
A Tale of Two Cities,
Cloth, 2.50
American Notes and Pic-Nic Papers,
Cloth, 2.50
Price of a set, in Black cloth, in eighteen volumes
$44.00
Price of a set, in Full Law Library style
53.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, sprinkled edges
63.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, marbled edges
68.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, antique
78.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, full gilt backs, etc.
78.00
PEOPLE’S DUODECIMO EDITION.
Each book being complete in one volume.
Our Mutual Friend,
Cloth, $2.50
Pickwick Papers,
Cloth, 2.50
Nicholas Nickleby,
Cloth, 2.50
Great Expectations,
Cloth, 2.50
Lamplighter’s Story,
Cloth, 2.50
David Copperfield,
Cloth, 2.50
Oliver Twist,
Cloth, 2.50
Bleak House,
Cloth, 2.50
A Tale of Two Cities,
Cloth, 2.50
Little Dorrit,
Cloth, 2.50
Do.bey and Son,
Cloth, 2.50
Christmas Stories,
Cloth, 2.50
Sketches by “Boz,”
Cloth, 2.50
Barnaby Rudge,
Cloth, 2.50
Martin Chuzzlewit,
Cloth, 2.50
Old Curiosity Shop,
Cloth, 2.50
Message from the Sea,
Cloth, 2.50
Dickens’ New Stories,
Cloth, 2.50
Price of a set, in Black cloth, in eighteen volumes
$44.00
Price of a set, in Full Law Library style
50.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, sprinkled edges
60.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, marbled edges
65.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, antique
72.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, full gilt backs, etc.
72.00
ILLUSTRATED DUODECIMO EDITION.
Each book being complete in two volumes.
Our Mutual Friend,
Cloth, $4.00
Pickwick Papers,
Cloth, 4.00
Tale of Two Cities,
Cloth, 4.00
Nicholas Nickleby,
Cloth, 4.00
David Copperfield,
Cloth, 4.00
Oliver Twist,
Cloth, 4.00
Christmas Stories,
Cloth, 4.00
Bleak House,
Cloth, 4.00
Sketches by “Boz,”
Cloth, 4.00
Barnaby Rudge,
Cloth, 4.00
Martin Chuzzlewit
Cloth, 4.00
Old Curiosity Shop,
Cloth, 4.00
Little Dorrit,
Cloth, 4.00
Do.bey and Son,
Cloth, 4.00
The following are each complete in one volume.
Great Expectations,
Cloth, $2.50
Lamplighter’s Story,
Cloth, 2.50
Dickens’ New Stories,
Cloth, 2.50
Message from the Sea,
Cloth, 2.50
Price of a set, in thirty-two volumes, bound in cloth,
$64.00
Price of a set, in Full Law Library style
80.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, antique
125.00
Price of a set, in Half calf, full gilt backs, etc.
125.00
☞ No Library is complete without a set of these Books, and either
Edition of Charles Dickens’ Works will be sent to any address, free of
transportation, on receipt of Retail Price.
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS’ WORKS.
The Gold Brick,
1 50
Silent Struggles,
1 50
The Wife’s Secret,
1 50
The Rejected Wife,
1 50
The Heiress,
1 50
Fashion and Famine,
1 50
Mary Derwent,
1 50
The Old Homestead,
1 50
The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.
FREDRIKA BREMER’S WORKS.
Father and Daughter,
1 50
The Four Sisters,
1 50
The Neighbors,
1 50
The Home,
1 50
The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.
Life in the Old World; or, Two Years in Switzerland and Italy, by Miss Bremer, in two volumes, cloth, price,
$4.00
MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS.
The Fortune Seeker,
1 50
Allworth Abbey,
1 50
The Bridal Eve,
1 50
The Fatal Marriage,
1 50
Haunted Homestead,
1 50
The Lost Heiress,
1 50
Lady of the Isle,
1 50
The Two Sisters,
1 50
The Three Beauties,
1 50
Vivia; Secret Power,
1 50
Love’s Labor Won,
1 50
Deserted Wife,
1 50
The Gipsy’s Prophecy,
1 50
The Mother-in-Law,
1 50
The Missing Bride,
1 50
Wife’s Victory,
1 50
Retribution,
1 50
India. Pearl of Pearl River,
1 50
Curse of Clifton,
1 50
Discarded Daughter,
1 50
The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.
Hickory Hall,
50
Broken Engagement,
25
MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS.
The Planter’s Northern Bride,
1 50
Linda; or, the Young Pilot of the Belle Creole,
1 50
Robert Graham. The Sequel to “Linda,”
1 50
Courtship and Marriage,
1 50
Ernest Linwood,
1 50
Marcus Warland,
1 50
Rena; or, the Snow-bird,
1 50
The Lost Daughter,
1 50
Love after Marriage,
1 50
Eoline; or, Magnolia Vale,
1 50
The Banished Son,
1 50
Helen and Arthur,
1 50
Forsaken Daughter,
1 50
Planter’s Daughter,
1 50
The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.
WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS.
Flirtations in Fashionable Life,
1 50
The Lost Beauty,
1 50
The Rival Belles,
1 50
The Lost Love,
1 50
The Woman in Black,
1 50
The Pride of Life,
1 50
The Roman Traitor,
1 50
Saratoga. A Story of 1787,
1 50
The Queen’s Favorite,
1 50
Married at Last,
1 50
False Pride,
1 50
Out of the Depths. The Story of a Woman’s Life,
1 50
The Coquette; or, Life and Letters of Eliza Wharton,
1 50
A Woman’s Thoughts about Women,
1 50
Self-Love,
1 50
Cora Belmont,
1 50
The Devoted Bride,
1 50
The Initials. A Story of Modern Life. By Baroness Tautphœus,
1 50
Love and Duty,
1 50
Bohemians in London,
1 50
The Man of the World,
1 50
High Life in Washington,
1 50
The Jealous Husband,
1 50
Self-Sacrifice,
1 50
Belle of Washington,
1 50
Courtship and Matrimony,
1 50
Family Pride,
1 50
Family Secrets,
1 50
Rose Douglas,
1 50
The Lover’s Trials
1 50
Beautiful Widow,
1 50
Brother’s Secret,
1 50
The Matchmaker,
1 50
Love and Money,
1 50
The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.
The Story of Elizabeth. By Miss Thackeray. In one duodecimo volume,
full gilt back. Price $1.00 in paper, or $1.50 in cloth.
MADAME GEORGE SAND’S WORKS.
Consuelo,
75
Countess of Rudolstadt,
75
First and True Love,
75
The Corsair,
50
Jealousy, paper,
1 50
Do. cloth,
2 00
Fanchon, the Cricket, paper,
1 00
Do. do. cloth,
1 50
Indiana, a Love Story, paper,
1 50
Do. cloth,
2 00
Consuelo and Rudolstadt, both in one volume, cloth,
2 00
WILKIE COLLINS’ BEST WORKS.
The Crossed Path, or Basil,
1 50
The Dead Secret. 12mo.
1 50
The above are in paper cover, or each one in cloth, price $2.00 each.
Hide and Seek,
75
After Dark,
75
The Dead Secret. 8vo
75
Above in cloth at $1.00 each.
The Queen’s Revenge,
75
Sight’s a-Foot; or, Travels Beyond Railways,
50
Mad Monkton, and other Stories,
50
The Stolen Mask,
25
The Yellow Mask,
25
Sister Rose,
25
MISS PARDOE’S WORKS.
The Jealous Wife,
50
Confessions of a Pretty Woman,
75
The Wife’s Trials,
75
Rival Beauties,
75
Romance of the Harem,
75
The five above books are also bound in one volume, cloth, for $4.00.
The Adopted Heir. One volume, paper, $1.50, or cloth, $2.00.
The Earl’s Secret. By Miss Pardoe, one vol., paper $1.50, or cloth, $2.00.
G. P. R. JAMES’S BEST BOOKS.
Lord Montague’s Page,
1 50
The Cavalier,
1 50
The above are in paper cover, or each one in cloth, price $2.00 each.
The Man in Black,
75
Mary of Burgundy,
75
Arrah Neil,
75
Eva St. Clair,
50
BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED.
Mrs. Goodfellow’s Cookery as it Should Be,
2 00
Petersons’ New Cook Book,
2 00
Miss Leslie’s New Cookery Book,
2 00
Widdifield’s New Cook Book,
2 00
Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for the Million,
2 00
Miss Leslie’s New Receipts for Cooking,
2 00
Mrs. Hale’s New Cook Book,
2 00
Francatelli’s Celebrated Cook Book. The Modern Cook. With Sixty-two illustrations, 600 large octavo pages,
5 00
CHARLES LEVER’S BEST WORKS.
Charles O’Malley,
75
Harry Lorrequer,
75
Jack Hinton,
75
Tom Burke of Ours,
75
Knight of Gwynne,
75
Arthur O’Leary,
75
Con Cregan,
75
Davenport Dunn,
75
Above are in paper, or in cloth, price $2.00 a volume.
Horace Templeton,
75
Kate O’Donoghue,
75
☞ Books sent, postage paid, on receipt of the Retail Price, by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.
GET UP YOUR CLUBS FOR 1867!
THE BEST AND CHEAPEST IN THE WORLD!
PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.
This popular Monthly contains more for the money than any Magazine
in the world. In 1867, it will have nearly 1000 pages, 14 steel plates, 12 double-sized
mammoth colored steel fashion plates, and 900 wood engravings—and all
this for only TWO DOLLARS A YEAR, or a dollar less than magazines of its class.
Every lady ought to take “Peterson.” In the general advance of prices, it is
the only Magazine that has not raised its Price. It is, therefore, emphatically,
THE MAGAZINE FOR THE TIMES.
In addition to the usual number of shorter stories, there will be given
in 1867, Four Original Copy-righted Novelets, viz:
RUBY GRAY’S REVENGE, by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
A LONG JOURNEY, by the Author of “Margaret Howth.”
CARRY’S COMING OUT, by Frank Lee Benedict.
A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND, by Ella Rodman.
In its Illustrations also, “Peterson” is unrivalled. The Publisher challenges
a comparison between its
SUPERB MEZZOTINTS & other STEEL ENGRAVINGS
And those in other Magazines, and one at least is given in each number.
DOUBLE-SIZE COLORED FASHION PLATES
Each number will contain a double-size Fashion plate, engraved on steel and
handsomely colored. These plates contain from four to six figures each, and
excel anything of the kind. In addition, wood-cuts of the newest bonnets, hats,
caps, head dresses, cloaks, jackets, ball dresses, walking dresses, house dresses,
&c., &c., will appear in each number. Also, the greatest variety of children’s
dresses. Also diagrams, by aid of which a cloak, dress, or child’s costume can
be cut out, without the aid of a mantua-maker, so that each diagram in this way
alone, will save a year’s subscription. The Paris, London, Philadelphia and New
York fashions described, in full, each month.
COLORED PATTERNS IN EMBROIDERY, CROCHET, &c.
The Work-Table Department of this Magazine Is Wholly Unrivaled.
Every number contains a dozen or more patterns in every variety of Fancy work;
Crochet, Embroidery, Knitting, Bead-work, Shell-work, Hair-work, &c.,
&c., &c. Superb Colored Patterns for Slippers, Purses, Chair Seats, &c.,
given—each of which at a retail store would cost Fifty cents.
“OUR NEW COOK-BOOK.”
The Original Household Receipts of “Peterson” are quite famous. For 1867
our “Cook-Book” will be continued: Every One of these Receipts has been
Tested. This alone will be worth the price of “Peterson.” Other Receipts for
the Toilette, Sick-room, &c., &c., will be given.
New and Fashionable Music in every number. Also, Hints on Horticulture,
Equestrianism, and all matters interesting to ladies.
TERMS—ALWAYS IN ADVANCE.
1
Copy, for one year.
$2.00
3
Copies, for one year.
4.50
4
Copies, for one year.
6.00
5
Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.)
8.00
8
Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.)
12.00
14
Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.)
20.00
A CHOICE OF PREMIUMS. Where a person is entitled to an
extra copy for getting up a club, there will be sent, if preferred, instead of the
extra copy, a superb premium mezzotint for framing, (size 27 inches by 20,)
“Washington parting from his Generals,” or a Lady’s Illustrated Album,
handsomely bound and gilt, or either of the famous “Bunyan Mezzotints,” the
same size as the “Washington.” Always state whether an extra copy or one of
these other premiums is preferred: and notice that for Clubs of three or four, no
premiums are given. In remitting, get a post-office order, or a draft on Philadelphia
or New York: if neither of these can be had, send greenbacks or bank
notes.
Address, post-paid,
CHARLES J. PETERSON,
No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.
☞ Specimens sent to those wishing to get up clubs.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.