“He is young, I know, Mrs. Gaston. But, then, it is vain to think of being able to keep him with you. It is a cruel necessity, I know. But it cannot be avoided.”
“Perhaps not. But, even if I should consent to put him out, I know of no one who would take him. And, above all, I dread the consequences of vicious association in a city like this.”
“That matter, I think, can all be arranged to your satisfaction. I saw a man yesterday from Lexington, who asked me if I knew any one who had a lad ten or twelve-years old, and who would like to get him a good place. I thought of you at once. He said a friend of his there, who carried on the hatting business, wanted a boy. I inquired his character and standing, and learned that they were good. Now, I think this an excellent chance for you. I have already mentioned your little boy to the man, and promised to speak to you on the subject.”
“But think, doctor,” said Mrs. Gaston, in a trembling voice, “Henry is but ten. To put a child out for eleven years is a long, long time.”
“I know it is, madam. But he has to live the eleven years somewhere, and I am sure he will be as comfortable in this place as you can make him; and, indeed, even more so.”
“In some respects he may, no doubt. But a child like him is never happy away from his mother.”
“But suppose it is out of his mother’s power to get him food and comfortable clothing?”
“True—true, doctor. It is a hard fate. But I feel that I have only one way before me—that of submission.”
And submit she did, though with a most painful struggle. On the following day, the friend of the hatter called upon Mrs. Gaston, and it was settled between them that little Henry should be called for by the man who was to become his master on the morning of the next day but one. The best that the mother could do for her son, about to leave his home and go out among strangers, was to get him a pair of shoes, upon which she paid forty cents, promising to settle the balance in a couple of weeks. His thin, scanty clothes she mended and washed clean—darned his old and much-worn stockings, and sewed on the torn front of his seal-skin cap. With his little bundle of clothes tied up, Henry sat awaiting on the morning of the day appointed for the arrival of his master, his young heart sorrowful at the thought of leaving his mother and sister. But he seemed to feel that he was the subject of a stern necessity, and therefore strove to act a manly part, and keep back the tears that were ready to flow forth. Mrs. Gaston, after preparing her boy to pass from under her roof and enter alone upon life’s hard pilgrimage, sat down to her work with an overburdened heart. At one moment she would repent of what she had done, and half resolve to say “No,” when the man came for her child. But an unanswerable argument against this were the coarse shirts in her hands, for which she was to receive only seven cents a-piece!
At last a rough voice was heard below, and then a heavy foot upon the stairs, every tread of which seemed to the mother to be upon her heart. Little Henry arose and looked frightened as a man entered, saying as he came in—
“Ah, yes! This is the place, I see. Well, ma’am, is your little boy ready?”
“He is, sir,” replied Mrs. Gaston, almost inaudibly, rising and handing the stranger a chair. “You see he is a very small boy, sir.”
“Yes, so I see. But some small boys are worth a dozen large ones. Come here, my little fellow! What is your name?”
The child went up to the man, telling him his name as he did so.
“That’s a fine little fellow! Well, Henry! do you think you and I can agree? Oh, yes. We’ll get along together very well, I have no doubt. I suppose, ma’am,” he continued, addressing Mrs. Gaston, “that the better way will be for him to stay this winter on trial. If we like each other, you can come out to Lexington in the spring and have him regularly bound.”
“That will be as well, I suppose,” the mother replied. Then, after a pause, she said—
“How long will it be, Mr. Sharp, before I can see Henry?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. How long before you think you can come out to Lexington?”
“Indeed, sir, I don’t know that I shall be able to get out there this winter. Couldn’t you send him in sometimes?”
“Perhaps I will, about New Year’s, and let him spend a few days with you.”
“It is a good while to New Year’s day, sir. He has never been from home in his life.”
“Oh no, ma’am. It’s only a few weeks off. And I don’t believe he’ll be homesick for a day.”
“But I shall, Mr. Sharp.”
“You?”
“Yes, sir. It is hard to let my child go, and not see him again before New Year’s day.”
“But you must act the woman’s part, Mrs. Gaston. We cannot get through life without some sacrifice of feeling. My mother had to let me go before I was even as old as your boy.”
As Mr. Sharp said this, he arose, adding as he did so—
“Come, my little man. I see you are all ready.”
Holding back her feelings with a strong effort, Mrs. Gaston took hold of Henry’s small, thin hand, bent over him, and kissed his fair young cheek, murmuring in an under tone—
“God be with you, and keep you, my boy!”
Then, speaking aloud, she said—
“Be a good and obedient child, and Mr. Sharp will be kind to you, and let you come home to see me at New Year’s.”
“Oh, yes. He shall come home then,” said the man half indifferently, as he moved toward the door.
Henry paused only to kiss his sister, and then followed after, with his little bundle in his hand. As he was about descending the steps, he turned a last look upon his mother. She saw that his eyes were filled with tears. A moment more, and he was gone.
Little Emma had stood looking wonderingly on while this scene was passing. Turning to her mother with a serious face, as the door closed upon Henry, she said—
“Brother gone, mamma?
“Yes, dear! Brother is gone,” sobbed the mother, taking the last child that remained to her, and hugging it passionately to her bosom. It was a long time before she could resume her work, and then so deep was her feeling of desolation, that she could not keep back from her eyelids the blinding tear-drops.
CHAPTER VI.
PERKINS’ NARRATIVE.
THE efforts made by Perkins to find the residence of the stranger proved unavailing. Half suspecting that Michael had deceived him, he returned to the shop of Mr. Berlaps, and asked the direction anew. It was repeated precisely as at first given.
“But I have been there.”
“Well, wasn’t she at that number?”
“No.”
“I don’t know any thing about her, then. It often happens that these sewing girls deceive us as to their whereabouts?”
Perkins turned away disappointed, but with his interest in the stranger more than ever excited.
“Who and what can she be? and why do I feel so deep an interest in a perfect stranger, who cannot possibly be any thing to me?” were involuntary questions which the young man endeavored, but in vain, to answer.
That night, as he sat alone in his room, his friend Milford came in and found him with the miniature before alluded to in his hand.
“Whose sweet face is that? Bless me! But she is a lovely creature!” said Milford, as his eye caught a glimpse of the picture which Perkins made a movement to conceal. “Aha! Mr. Sober-sides! have I found you out at last?”
But seeing that his remarks had the effect to disturb, even agitate his friend, he said, in a changed tone—
“Forgive me if I have thoughtlessly jarred a string that vibrates painfully! I knew not that you carried in your heart an unhealed wound.”
“And yet I do, my friend. A wound that, I fear, will never cicatrize. Five years have passed since I parted with the living original of this picture. The parting was to be only for a few months. We have never met since, and never will, in this world! The sea gives not up its dead!”