The Lights and Shadows of Real Life Part 43

"Why, you see, I pay that girl a good price for doing a certain kind of work for me, and the money is always ready for her, the moment her work is done. But, not satisfied with that, she wanted me, just now, to advance her the price of three weeks' work. If I had been foolish enough to have done it, it would have been the last I ever should have seen of either money, work, or seamstress."

"Perhaps not," Mrs. Harwood ventured to remark.

"You don't know these kind of people as well as I do, Mrs. Harwood.

I've been tricked too often in my time."

"Of course not," was the quiet reply. Then after a pause,

"What kind of sewing did she do for you, Mrs.--?"

"Nothing very particular; only a little fine work. I employ her, more out of charity, than anything else."

"Do you know anything about her?"

"She's old Graham's daughter, I believe. I'm told he died in the Alms-house, a few weeks ago."

"What old Graham?" Mrs. Harwood asked, in a quick voice.

"Why, old Graham, the rich merchant that was, a few years ago. Quite a tumble-down their pride has had, I reckon! Why, I remember when nothing in my store was good enough for them. But they are glad enough now to work for me at any price I choose to pay them."

For a few moments, Mrs. Harwood was so shocked that she could not reply. At length she asked--

"Which of the girls was it that I saw here, just now?"

"That was Mary."

"Do you know anything of Anna?"

"Yes. She stands in a store in Second-street."

"And Ellen?"

"Married to a drunken, worthless fellow, who abuses and half starves her. But that's the way; pride must have a fall!"

"Where do they live?" pursued Mrs. Harwood.

"Indeed, and that's more than I know," Mrs.--replied, tossing her head.

Unable to gain any further information, Mrs. Harwood left the store, well convinced that the richly-wrought cape, for which she had paid Mrs.--fifteen dollars, had been worked by the hands of Mary Graham, for which she received but a mere pittance.

Poor Mary returned home disappointed and deeply troubled in mind.

She had about three dollars in money, besides the two which Mrs.--had paid her. If the six she had asked for had only been advanced, as she fondly hoped would be the case, the aggregate sum, eleven dollars, added to three which Anna had saved, would have enabled them to purchase a coat and hat for their brother, who would be ready in a few days to go out. They were anxious to do, this, under the hope, that by providing him with clothes of a more respectable appearance than he had been used to wearing, he would be led to think more of himself, seek better company, and thus be further removed from danger. At her first interview with Mrs.--, Mary's heart had failed her--and it was only after she had left the store and walked some squares homeward, that she could rally herself sufficiently to return and make her request. It was refused, as has been seen.

"Did Mrs.--grant your request?" was almost the first question that Anna asked of her sister that evening, when she returned from the store.

"No, Anna, I was positively refused," Mary replied, the tears rising and almost gus.h.i.+ng over her cheeks.

"Then we will only have to do the best we can with what little we have. We shall not be able to get him a new coat; but we can have his old one done up, with a new collar and b.u.t.tons,--I priced a pair of pantaloons at one of the clothing-stores, in Market-street, as I came up this evening, and the man said three dollars and a half.

They looked pretty well. There was a vest, too, for a dollar. I heard one of the young men in the store say, two or three days ago, that he had sold his old hat, which was a very good one, to the hatter, from whom he had bought a new one--or rather, that the hatter had taken the old one on account, valued at a dollar. I asked him a question or two, and learned that many hatters do this, and sell the old hats at the same that they have allowed for them. One of these I will try to get,--even if a good deal worn; it will look far better than the one he has at present."

"In that case, then," Mary said, brightening up, "we can still get him fitted up respectably. O, how glad I shall be! Don't you think, sister, that we have good reason to hope for him?"

"I try to think so, Mary. But my heart often trembles with fearful apprehensions when I think of his going out among his old a.s.sociates again. It will be little less than a miracle if he should not fall."

"Don't give way to desponding thoughts, sister. Let us hope so strongly for the best, that our very hope shall compa.s.s its own fruition. He cannot, he must not, go back!"

Anna did not reply. Her own feelings were inclined to droop and despond, but she did not wish to have her sister's droop and despond likewise. One reason for her saddened feelings arose from the fact, that she had a painful consciousness that she should not long be able to retain her present situation. Her health was sinking so rapidly, that it was only by the aid of strong resolutions, which lifted her mind up and sustained her in spite of bodily weakness, that she was at all enabled to get through with her duties. This she was conscious could not last long.

On the next morning, when she attempted to rise from her bed, she became so faint and sick that she was compelled to lie down again.

The feeling of alarm that instantly thrilled through her bosom, lest she should no longer be able to minister to the wants of her mother, and especially of her brother at this important crisis in his life, acted as a stimulant to exhausted nature, and endowed her with a degree of artificial strength that enabled her to make another and more successful effort to resume her wearying toil.

But so weak did she feel, even after she had forced herself to take a few mouthfuls of food at breakfast time, that she lingered for nearly half an hour longer than her usual time of starting in order to allow her system to get a little braced up, so that she could stand the long walk she had to take.

"Good by, brother," she said in a cheerful tone, coming up to the bed upon which Alfred lay, and stooping down and kissing him. "You must try and sit up as much as you can to-day."

"Good by, Anna. I wish you didn't have to go away and stay so long."

To this, Anna could not trust herself to reply. She only pressed tightly the hand she held in her own, and then turned quickly away.

It was nearly three quarters of an hour later than the time the different clerks were required to be at the store, when Anna came in, her side and head both paining her badly, in consequence of having walked too fast.

"It's three quarters of an hour behind the time," the storekeeper said, with a look and tone of displeasure, as he drew out his watch.

"I can't have such irregularity in my store, Miss Graham. This is the third time within a few days, that you have come late."

A reply instantly rose to Anna's tongue, but she felt that it would be useless--and would, perhaps, provoke remarks deeply wounding to her feelings. She paused, therefore, only a moment, with a bowed head, to receive her rebuke, and then pa.s.sed quickly, and with a meek, subdued air, to her station behind the counter. There were some of her fellow-clerks who felt for and pitied Anna--there were others who experienced a pleasure in hearing her reproved.

All through that day, with only the respite of some ten or fifteen minutes, when she retired to eat alone the frugal repast of bread and cold meat that she had brought with her for her dinner, did Anna stand behind the shop-man's counter, attending to his customers with a cheerful air and often a smiling countenance. She spoke to no one of the pain in her breast, back, and side; and none of those around her dreamed that, from extreme la.s.situde, she could scarcely stand beside the counter.

To her, suffering as she did, the hours pa.s.sed slowly and heavily away. It seemed as if evening would never come--as if she would have to yield the struggle, much as she strove to keep up for the sake of those she loved.

But even to the weary, the heavy laden, and the prisoner, the slow lingering hours at length pa.s.s on, and the moment of respite comes.

The shadows of evening at last began to fall dimly around, and Anna retired from her position of painful labour, and took her way homeward. But not even the antic.i.p.ation of speedily joining those she loved, had power so to buoy up her spirits, that her body could rise above its depressed and weakened condition. Her weary steps were slowly taken, and it seemed to her that she should never be able to reach home. Many, very many depressing thoughts pa.s.sed through her mind as she proceeded slowly on her homeward way. The condition of her sister Ellen troubled her exceedingly. About one-third of her own and Mary's earnings were required to keep her and her little ones from absolute suffering; and Mary, like herself, she too plainly perceived to be rapidly sinking under her burdens.

"What is to be done when we fail, heaven only knows!" she murmured, as a vivid consciousness of approaching extremity arose in her mind.

As she said this, the idea of her brother presented itself, with the hope that he would now exert for them a sustaining and supporting energy--that he would be to them at last a brother. But this thought, that made her heart leap in her bosom, she put aside with an audible--

"No,--no,--Do not rest on such a feeble hope!"

At last her hand was upon the latch, and she lifted it and entered.

"I am glad to see you home again, Anna," Alfred said, with an expression of real pleasure and affection; as she came in.

"And I am glad to see you sitting up and looking so well, brother,"

Anna replied, her gloomy thoughts at once vanis.h.i.+ng. "How do you feel now?"

"O, I feel much better, sister. In a few days I hope I shall be able to go out. But how are you? It seems to me that you do not look well."