by T. S. Arthur
The young woman made no reply to this, but stood with her eyes drooping to the floor, and her hands leaning hard upon the counter to support herself.
Berlaps then commenced examining the shirts. The result of this examination seemed to soften him a little. No wonder; they were made fully equal to those for which regular shirt-makers receive from seventy-five cents to a dollar a piece.
“Don’t you think you can make five such as these in a week—or even six?” he asked, in a somewhat changed tone.
“I’m afraid not,” was the reply. “There’s a good day’s work on each one of them, and I cannot possibly sit longer than a few hours at a time. And, besides, there are two or three hours of every day that I must attend to other duties.”
“Well, if you can’t I suppose you can’t,” said the tailor, in a disappointed, half-offended tone, and turned away from the counter and walked back to his desk, from which he called out to his salesman, after he had stood there for about a minute—
“Pay her for them, Michael, and if you have any more ready give her another lot.”
Since the sharp rebuke given by Mr. Perkins, Michael had treated Lizzy with less vulgar assurance. Sometimes he would endeavor to sport a light word with her, but she never replied, nor seemed to notice his freedom in the least. This uniform, dignified reserve, so different from the demeanor of most of the girls who worked for them, coupled with the manner of Perkins’s interference for her, inspired in his mind a feeling of respect for the stranger, which became her protection from his impertinences. On this occasion, he merely asked her how many she would have, and on receiving her answer, handed her the number of shirts she desired.
As she turned to go out, Mrs. Gaston, who had just entered, stood near, with her eyes fixed upon her. She started as she looked into her face. Indeed, both looked surprised, excited, then confused, and let their eyes fall to the floor. They seemed for a moment to have identified each other, and then to have become instantly conscious that they were nothing but strangers—that such an identification was impossible. An audible sigh escaped Lizzy Glenn, as she passed slowly out and left the store. As she reached the pavement, she turned and looked back at Mrs. Gaston. Their eyes again met for an instant.
“Who is that young woman?” asked Mrs. Gaston.
“Her name is Lizzy Glenn,” replied Michael.
“Do you know any thing about her?”
“Nothing—only that she’s a proud, stiff kind of a creature; though what she has to be proud of, is more than I can tell.”
“How long has she been working for you?”
“A couple of months or so, if I recollect rightly.”
“Where does she live?” was Mrs. Gaston’s next question.
“Michael gave her the direction, and then their intercourse had entire reference to business.”
After the subject of this brief conversation between Mrs. Gaston and Michael left the store of Mr. Berlaps, she walked slowly in the direction of her temporary home, which was, as has before been mentioned, in an obscure street at the north end. It consisted of a small room, in an old brick house, which had been made by running a rough partition through the centre of the front room in the second story, and then intersecting this partition on one side by another partition, so as to make three small rooms out of one large one. These partitions did not reach more than two-thirds of the distance to the ceiling, thus leaving a free circulation of air in the upper and unobstructed portion of the room. As the house stood upon a corner, and contained windows both in front and on the end, each room had a window. The whole were heated by one large stove. For the little room that Lizzy Glenn occupied including fire, she paid seventy-five cents a week. But, as the house was old, the windows open, and the room that had been cut up into smaller ones a large one; and, moreover, as the person who let them and supplied fuel for the stove took good care to see that an undue quantity of this fuel was not burned she rarely found the temperature of her apartment high enough to be comfortable. Those who occupied the other two rooms, in each of which, like her own, was a bed, a couple of chairs, and a table, with a small looking-glass, were seamstresses, who were compelled, as she was, to earn a scanty subsistence by working for the slop-shops. But they could work many more hours than she could, and consequently earned more money than she was able to do. Her food—the small portion she consumed—she provided herself, and prepared it at the stove, which was common property.
On returning from the tailor’s, as has been seen, she laid her bundle of work upon the bed, and seated herself with a thoughtful air, resting her head upon her hand. The more she thought, the more she seemed disturbed; and finally arose, and commenced walking the floor slowly. Suddenly pausing, at length she sighed heavily, and went to the bed upon which lay her work, took it up, unrolled the bundle, and seating herself by the table, entered once more upon her daily toil. But her mind was too much disturbed, from some cause, to permit her to pursue her work steadily. In a little while she laid aside the garment upon which she had begun to sew, and, leaning forward, rested her head upon the table, sighing heavily as she did so, and pressing one hand hard against her side, as if to relieve pain. A tap at the door aroused her from this state of abstraction. As she turned, the door was quietly opened, and the woman she had seen at the tailor’s a short time before, entered. She started to her feet at this unexpected apparition, and gazed, with a look of surprise, inquiry, and hope, upon her visitor.
“Can it be Mrs. Gaston? But no! no!” and the young creature shook her head mournfully.
“Eugenia!” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, springing forward, and instantly the two were locked in each other’s arms, and clinging together with convulsive eagerness.
“But no, no! It cannot be my own Eugenia,” said Mrs. Gaston, slowly disengaging herself, and holding the young woman from her, while she read over every feature of her pale, thin face. “Surely I am in a strange dream!”
“Yes, I am your own Eugenia Ballantine! my more than mother! Or, the wreck of her, which a wave of life’s ever restless ocean has heaved upon the shore.”
“Eugenia Ballantine! How can it be! Lost years ago at sea, how can she be in this room, and in this condition! It is impossible! And yet you are, you must be, my own dear Eugenia.”
“I am! I am!” sobbed the maiden, leaning her head upon the bosom of Mrs. Gaston, and weeping until tears fell in large drops upon the floor.
“But the sea gives not up its dead,” said Mrs. Gaston, in a doubting, bewildered tone.
“True—but the sea never claimed me as a victim.”
“And your father?”
The maiden’s face flushed a moment, while a shade of anguish passed over it.
“At another time, I will tell you all. My mind is now too much agitated and confused. But why do I find you here? And more than all, why as a poor seamstress, toiling for little more than a crust of bread and a cup of water? Where is your husband? Where are your children?”
“Three years ago,” replied Mrs. Gaston, “we removed to this city. My husband entered into business, and was unsuccessful. He lost every thing, and about a year ago died, leaving me destitute. I have struggled on, since then, the best I could, but to little purpose. The pittance I have been able to earn at the miserable prices we are paid by the tailors has scarcely sufficed to keep my children from starving. But one of them”—and the mother’s voice trembled—”my sweet Ella! was not permitted to remain with me, when I could no longer provide things comfortable for my little ones. A few short weeks ago, she was taken away to a better world. It was a hard trial, but I would not have her back again. And Henry, the dear boy, you remember—I have been forced to let him go from my side out into the world. I have neither seen nor heard from him since I parted with him. Emma alone remains.”
Mrs. Gaston’s feelings so overcame her at this relation, that she wept and sobbed for some time.
“But, my dear Eugenia!—my child that I loved so tenderly, and have so long mourned as lost,” s
he said, at length, drawing her arm affectionately around Miss Ballantine, “in better and happier times, we made one household for more than five pleasant years. Let us not be separated now, when there are clouds over our heads and sorrow on our paths. Together we shall be able to bear up better and longer than when separated. I have a room, into which I moved a week since, that is pleasanter than this. One room, one bed, one fire, and one light, will do for two as well as one. We shall be better able to contend with our lot together. Will you come with me, Eugenia?”
“Will I not, Mrs. Gaston? Oh, to be once more with you! To have one who can love me as you will love me! One to whom I can unburden my heart—Oh, I shall be too happy!”
And the poor creature hung upon the neck of her maternal friend, and wept aloud.
“Then come at once,” said Mrs. Gaston. “You have nothing to keep you here?”
“No, nothing,” replied Eugenia.
“I will get some one to take your trunk.” And Mrs. Gaston turned away and left the room. In a little while, she came back with a man, who removed the trunk to her humble dwelling-place. Thence we will follow them.
“And now, my dear Eugenia,” said Mrs. Gaston, after they had become settled down, and their minds had assumed a more even flow, “clear up to me this strange mystery. Why are you here, and in this destitute condition? How did you escape death? Tell me all, or I shall still think myself only in the bewildering mazes of a dream.”
CHAPTER X.
LIZZY GLENN’S NARRATIVE TO MRS. GASTON.
WITHOUT venturing the remotest allusion to her parting with her lover, Miss Ballantine commenced her narrative by saying—
“When I left New York with my father, for New Orleans, no voyage could have promised fairer. Mild, sunny weather, with good breezes and a noble ship, that scarcely seemed to feel the deep swell of the ocean, bore us pleasantly on toward the desired port. But, when only five days out, an awful calamity befel us. One night I was awakened from sleep by a terrific crash; and in a little while the startling cry of ‘The ship’s on fire!’ thrilled upon my ear, and sent an icy shudder to my heart. I arose from my berth, and put on my clothes hastily. By this time my father had come, dreadfully agitated, into the cabin; and while his own lips quivered, and his own voice trembled, he endeavored to quiet my fears, by telling me that there was no danger; that the ship had been struck with lightning; but that the fire occasioned thereby would readily be put out.
“When I ascended to the deck, however, I saw that we had little to hope for. While the masts and rigging were all enveloped in flame, a dense smoke was rising from the hold, indicating that the electric fluid, in its descent through the ship, had come in contact with something in the cargo that was highly combustible. Passengers and crew stood looking on with pale, horror-stricken faces. But the captain, a man of self-possession, aroused all from their lethargy by ordering, in a loud, clear voice, the masts and rigging to be cut away instantly. This order was obeyed. Over went, crashing and hissing, three noble masts, with their wealth of canvas, all enveloped in flames, quenching the heaven-enkindled fires in the ocean. Then all was breathless and silent as the grave for some moments, when a broad flash lit up the air, and revealed, for an instant, the dismantled deck upon which we stood, followed by a pealing crash that made the ship tremble. The deep silence that succeeded was broken by the voice of the captain. His tones were cheerful and confident.
“‘All will now be well!’ he cried. ‘We are saved from fire, and our good hull will bear us safely up until we meet a passing ship.’
“‘But there is fire below, captain,’ said one.
“‘It cannot burn without air,’ he replied, in the same tone of confidence. ‘We will keep the hatches closed and sealed; and it must go out.’
“This took a load from my bosom. I saw that what he said was reasonable. But when daylight came, it showed the smoke oozing out through every crevice in the deck. The floors, too, were hot to the feet, and indicated An advanced state of the fire within. All was again terror and confusion, but our captain still remained self-possessed. He saw that every hope of saving the ship was gone; and at once ordered all the boats made ready, and well stored with provisions. To the first and second mates, with a portion of the crew, he assigned two of the boats, and in the third and largest he embarked himself with four stout men and the passengers, twelve in all. The sky was still overcast with clouds, and the sea rolled heavily from the effects of the brief but severe storm that had raged in the night. Pushing off front the doomed vessel, we lingered near for a couple of hours to see what her fate would be. At the end of that time, the dense smoke which had nearly hidden her from our view, suddenly became one enveloping mass of flame. It was a beautiful, yet appalling sight, to see that noble vessel thus burning upon the breast of the sea! For nearly an hour her form, sheeted in fire, stood out distinctly against the face of the sky, and then she went down, and left only a few charred and mutilated fragments afloat upon the surface to tell of her doom.
“During the night that followed, it stormed terribly, and in it our boat was separated from the other two. We never met again, and for all I have ever learned to the contrary, those that were saved in them from the burning ship perished from hunger, or were overwhelmed by some eager wave of the ocean.
“The four men of the ship’s crew, with the captain and male passengers, labored alternately at the oars, but with little effect. Heavy seas, and continued stormy weather, rendered of little avail all efforts to make much headway toward any port. Our main hope was that of meeting with some vessel. But this hope mocked us day after day. No ship showed her white sails upon the broad expanse of waters that stretched, far as the eye could reach, in all directions. Thus ten days passed, and our provisions and water were nearly exhausted. Three of the passengers had become already very ill, and all of us were more or less sick from exposure to the rain and sea. On the twelfth day, two of our number died and were cast overboard. Others became sick, and by the time we had been floating about thus for the space of twenty days, only four of the twelve remained. Most of them died with a raging fever. The captain was among the number, and there was now no one to whom we could look with confidence. My father still lived though exceedingly ill. Our companions were now reduced to a young man and his sister.
“A bag of biscuit still remained, and a small portion of water. Of this, none but myself could eat. The rest were too sick. Three days more passed, and I was alone with my father! The brother and his sister died, and with my own hands I had to consign them to their grave in the sea. I need not attempt to give any true idea of my feelings when I found myself thus alone, with my father just on the brink of death, afar in the midst of the ocean. He was unconscious; and I felt that I was on the verge of delirium. A strong fever made the blood rush wildly through my veins, causing my temples to throb as if they would burst. From about this time consciousness forsook me. I can recollect little more until I found myself lying in a berth, on board of a strange vessel. I was feeble as an infant. A man, with the aspect of a foreigner, sat near me. He spoke to me, but in a foreign tongue. I understood, and could speak French, Spanish, and Italian; but I had never studied German, and this man was a Hollander. Of course, I understood but a word here and there, and not sufficient to gain any intelligence from what he said, or to make him comprehend me, except when I asked for my father. Then he understood me, and pointing across the cabin, gave me to know that my father was with me in the the ship, though very sick.
“Small portions of nourishing food were now offered at frequent intervals; and, as my appetite came back keenly, and I took the scanty supply that was allowed me, I gradually gained strength. In a week I was able to leave my berth, and to walk, with the assistance of the captain of the vessel, for he it was whom I had first seen on the restoration of consciousness, to the state-room in which my father lay. Oh! how he had changed! I hardly recognized him. His face had grown long and thin, his eyes were sunken far back in his head, and his hair, that
had been scarcely touched with the frosts of age when we left New York, was white! He did not know me, although he looked me feebly in the face. The sound of my voice seemed to rouse him a little, but he only looked at me with a more earnest gaze, and then closed his eyes. From this time I was his constant nurse, and was soon blessed with finding him gradually recovering. But as health came back to his body, it was too appallingly visible that his reason had been shattered. He soon came to know me, to speak to me, and to caress me, with more than his usual fondness; but his mind was—alas! too evidently—imbecile. As this state of mental alienation showed itself more and more distinctly, on his gradually acquiring physical strength, it seemed as if the painful fact would kill me. But we are formed to endure great extremes of bodily and mental anguish. The bow will bend far before it breaks.
“After I had recovered so as to leave my berth entirely, and when, I suppose, the captain thought it would be safe to question me, he brought a map, and indicated plainly enough that he wished me to point out the country I was from. I laid my hand upon the United States. He looked surprised. I glanced around at the ship, and then pointed to the map with a look of inquiry. He placed his finger near the Island of St. Helena. It was now my turn to look surprised. By signs I wished him to tell me how we should get back; and he indicated, plainly enough, that he would put us on board of the first vessel he met that was returning either to Europe or the United States, or else would leave us at the Cape of Good Hope. But day after day passed, and we met no returning vessel. Before we reached the Cape, a most terrific storm came on, which continued many days, in which the ship lost two of her masts, and was driven far south. It seemed to me as if my father and I had been doomed to perish in the ocean, and the sea would not, therefore, relinquish its prey. It was ten or twelve days before the storm had sufficiently abated to leave the vessel manageable in the hands of the captain and crew, and then the captain’s reckoning was gone. He could get his latitude correctly, but not his longitude, except by a remote approximation. His first observation, when the sky gave an opportunity, showed us to be in latitude forty-five degrees south. This he explained to me, and also the impracticability of now making the Cape, pointing out upon the map the Swan River Settlement in Australia as the point he should endeavor first to make. A heavy ship, with but one mast, made but slow progress. On the third day another storm overtook us, and we were driven before the gale at a furious rate. That night our vessel stuck and went to pieces. Six of us escaped, my father among the rest, and the captain, in a boat, and were thrown upon the shore of an uninhabited island. In the morning there lay floating in a little protected cove of the island barrels of provisions, as pork, fish, bread, and flour, with chests, and numerous fragments of the ship, and portions of her cargo. The captain and sailors at once set about securing all that could possibly be rescued from the water, and succeeded in getting provisions and clothing enough to last all of us for many months, if, unfortunately, we should not earlier be relieved from our dreadful situation. My father had become strong enough to go about and take care of himself, but his mind was feebler, and he seemed more like an old man in his second childhood than one in the prime of life as he was. He was not troublesome to any one, nor was there any fear of trusting him by himself. He was only like an imbecile old man—and such even the captain thought him.
