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diff --git a/75522-0.txt b/75522-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4c91245 --- /dev/null +++ b/75522-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11103 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75522 *** + + + + + + THE + SOLDIER’S ORPHANS. + + 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. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + CHAPTER I. PAGE + A FRIEND IN NEED 21 + CHAPTER II. + PREPARING FOR THE FAIR 41 + CHAPTER III. + THE OLD MAID 52 + CHAPTER IV. + THE FAIR 61 + CHAPTER V. + AN UNEXPECTED PERFORMER 75 + CHAPTER VI. + THE SOLDIER’S DEATH 88 + CHAPTER VII. + THE UNCLE FLEECED 97 + CHAPTER VIII. + BRAVE YOUNG HEARTS 109 + CHAPTER IX. + THE NEWSBOY 121 + CHAPTER X. + ROBERT GETS A SITUATION 127 + CHAPTER XI. + AN INTRUDER 134 + CHAPTER XII. + AN ECCENTRIC DRIVE 148 + CHAPTER XIII. + AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 155 + CHAPTER XIV. + LOVE AND MALICE 171 + CHAPTER XV. + A HARD-HEARTED VILLAIN 195 + CHAPTER XVI. + THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 206 + CHAPTER XVII. + A NEW LIGHT 220 + CHAPTER XVIII. + A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 231 + CHAPTER XIX. + A DECLARATION OF LOVE 248 + CHAPTER XX. + A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND 265 + CHAPTER XXI. + A HUNGRY HEART 279 + CHAPTER XXII. + A MYSTERIOUS APPOINTMENT 289 + CHAPTER XXIII. + AN ENGAGEMENT 297 + CHAPTER XXIV. + CONCLUSION 315 + + + + + THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + A FRIEND IN NEED. + + +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 and 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 lap, 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. + +“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, Robert, 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 +disappointment, 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.” + +“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. He 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. + +“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. + +“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!” + +“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 a 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. + +“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 should 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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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. “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, and 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 young 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 +only 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.” + +“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?” + +“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 bloom 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!” + +“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?” + +“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 she 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 off 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 longed 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. + + +“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, when 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 scarlet 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, driving 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 flowers 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, throwing 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.” + +“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?” + +“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. + +“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. + + +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 profusion. 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 into 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 after 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 atonement, +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, and 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 the 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! Why, 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.” + +“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 creature, 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; “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 little 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 tasted 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. + +“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. + +“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 poverty 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 azure 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 diamond 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 a 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. + +“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 by 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 clenched 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, you 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!” + +Eliza 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 said. “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 that 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 stag 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, Horace. 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!” + +As 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 dress 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. + +Anna 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. + +“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, Anna! 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 bonnet. 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 faintly; 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.” + +The 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. + + +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. What 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.” + +“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.” + +“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, eager 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.” + +With 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 glass, 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. + +“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 you’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.” + +“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 hand 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 never 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 dishonesty. “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.” + +“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 on 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 though 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.” + +“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 boys 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.” + +“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! A 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 shut 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 caught 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!” + +“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 away 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. + + +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 boldness, 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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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 me, 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, dear; 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. Where 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 very 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.” + +“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 paroxysm 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?” + +“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. + +“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. + + +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, gently; “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 Miss 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 when 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 +troubled 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.” + +“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. His 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 that 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!” + +Robert 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?” + +The 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.” + +“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, and 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 done, 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 was 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 pair 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 +Eliza 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 that,” 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 leisure 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 +pale 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. It 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 upon 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. + +“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 arms 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.” + +“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. + +“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 sweet 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 a 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?” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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 thoughts 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, which 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 toward 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,” said 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 the 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 the 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. + +Georgiana 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.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +Georgiana 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, I 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. + +“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; but 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.” + +“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?” + +“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? But 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. +Over 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 folds 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!” + +Miss 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 all 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 in 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 she 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. “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. + +“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 gardiniere, 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. + +Miss 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 where 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 took 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 little 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 the 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 toady, 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 chilled 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?” + +Anna’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 you 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 her 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?” + +“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. + +Ward 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.” + +“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 be 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? Silks 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 months’ 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 her 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. + + +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 over 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, hopes, 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. She 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 I 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 disturb 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 gracefully. “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 a 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 from 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 mention 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 warning 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. + +“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——” + +“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. + +“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. + + +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 of 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?” + +“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 son 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.” + +“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 impression, 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 room, 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. + +“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 queen, 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.” + +“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.” + +“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 world 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?” + +“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 had 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 Georgie, 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 child. 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 and 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 you, 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 like 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 an 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 not 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 landlady, 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 speaking. “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, with 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.” + +“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.” + +“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, and 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; but 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. + + +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. + +“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 strode 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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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 covered 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 she 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 exhaustion, 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. + +“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?” + +“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 young 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.” + +“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 name 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 confession 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. + +“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 have 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 faithful 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.” + +“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?” + +A 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 suffered 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, he 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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Miss 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 sweep 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?” + +“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 pity! 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.” + +She 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.’ + +Mr. 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. + +“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 warmer +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. + +“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 being 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 +to 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 inquired 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! my 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 of 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 boy 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 the 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 face 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. Absorbed 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. + +“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?” + +“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. I +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 pride 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.” + +“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.” + +They 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 can 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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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 Anna 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 of 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 plumage 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. + +“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. + +Down 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 +hopes 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?” + +Georgie’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.” + +“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.” + +“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 her 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; especially 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 will 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 hair, 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. + + +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 too 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 I 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 sprang 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. + +She 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 good 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 you 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. Now 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 her 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 came 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 which 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. + +“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 inherit +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 finger 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!” + +Robert 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 the 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 + Dombey 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 + Dombey 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 + Dombey 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 + Dombey 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. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + ● Enclosed bold or blackletter font in =equals=. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75522 *** |