On the day after Dr. R—had promised to go to Lexington to look after Mrs. Gaston’s little boy, the mother’s anxious desire to see her child, from whom she had heard not a word for nearly three months, became so strong that she could with difficulty compose herself so far as to continue her regular employments. She counted the hours as they slowly wore away, thinking that the moment would never come when her eyes should rest upon her dear boy. As the doctor had not said at what hour he would return from Lexington, there was no period in the day upon which she could fix her mind as that in which she might expect to see her child; but she assumed that it would not be until the after part of the day, and forward to that time she endeavored to carry her expectations.
When Doctor R—parted with her, as has been seen, on the day previous, he was exquisitely pained under the conviction that the child he had met with in Lexington in so deplorable a condition was none other than the son of Mrs. Gaston, who had been put out to Mr. Sharp at his instance. Hastily visiting a few patients that required immediate attention, he, very soon after parting with Mrs. Gaston, started in a sleigh for the town in which Henry had been apprenticed. On his arrival there, and before he had proceeded far along the main street, he observed the child he had before met, toiling along under a heavy burden. His clothes were soiled and ragged, and his hands and face dirty—indeed, he presented an appearance little or nothing improved from what it was a short time before. Driving close up to the sidewalk upon which the boy was staggering along under his heavy load, he reined up his horses, and called out, as he did so—
“Henry!”
The lad stopped instantly, and turned toward him, recognizing him as he did so.
“Don’t you want to see your mother, Henry?” asked the doctor.
The bundle under which he was toiling fell to the ground, and he stood in mute surprise for a moment or two.
“What is your name?” Doctor R—asked.
“Henry Gaston,” replied the child.
“Then jump in here, Henry, and I will take you to see your mother.”
The boy took two or three quick steps toward the doctor, and then stopped suddenly and looked back at the load which had just fallen from his shoulders.
“Never mind that. Let Mr. Sharp look after it,” said Doctor R—.
“But he will—,” and Henry hesitated.
“Jump in, quick, my little fellow; and say good-bye in your heart to Mr. Sharp! You shall never go back there again.”
The child sprang eagerly forward at this, and clambered into Doctor R—’s sleigh. A word to the horses, and away they were bounding toward Boston. When Doctor R—arrived there, his mind was made up, as it had been, indeed, before he started, not to take Henry home to his mother that day. He saw that it would be too cruel to present the child to her in the condition he was; and, besides, he felt that, after having procured for him the situation, he could not look the mother in the face with her abused child in all the deformity of his condition before them. He, therefore, took Henry to his own home; had him well washed, and dressed in a suit of comfortable clothing. The change produced in him was wonderful. The repulsive-looking object became an interesting boy; though with a pale, thin face, and a subdued, fearful look. He was very anxious to see his mother; but Doctor R—, desirous of making as great a change in the child’s appearance and manner as possible, kept him at his house all night, and until the afternoon of the next day. Then he took him to his eagerly expectant mother.
Mrs. Gaston had waited and waited with all the patience and fortitude she could summon, hour after hour, until the afternoon had advanced far toward evening. So anxious and restless had she now become, that she could no longer sit at her work. She had been standing at the window looking out and watching each approaching vehicle for some time, until she felt sick from constantly awakening hope subsiding in disappointment, when she turned away, and, seating herself by the bed, buried her face despondingly in the pillow. She had been sitting thus only a minute or two, when a slight noise at the door caused her to lift her head and turn in that direction. There stood a boy, with his eyes fixed upon her. For an instant she did not know him. Suffering, and privation, and cruel treatment had so changed him, even after all the doctor’s efforts to eradicate their sad effects, that the mother did not at first recognize her own child, until his plaintive voice, uttering her name, fell upon her ear. A moment more, and he was in her arms, and held tightly to her bosom. Her feelings we will not attempt to describe, when he related in his own artless and pathetic manner, all and more than the reader knows in regard to his treatment at Mr. Sharp’s, too sadly confirmed by the change im the whole expression of his face.
While her mind was yet excited with mingled feelings of joy and pain, Eugenia came in from her regular visit to her father. Her step was quicker, her countenance more cheerful and full of hope.
“Oh, Mrs. Gaston!” she said, clasping her hands together, “my father is so much better to-day, and they begin to give me great hopes of his full restoration. But who is this? Not your little Henry?”
“Yes, this is my poor, dear boy, whom I have gotten back once more,” Mrs. Gaston said, the tears glistening upon her eyelids.
After a few words to, and in relation to Henry, the thoughts of Eugenia went off again to her father, and she spoke many things in regard to him, all of which bore a highly encouraging aspect. For the three or four days succeeding this, Mr. Ballantine showed stronger and stronger indications of returning reason; his daughter was almost beside herself with hope and joy.
Earlier than usual, one day about the second week in February, she went over to the asylum to pay her accustomed visit. She was moving on, after having entered the building, in the direction of the apartment occupied by her father, when an attendant stepped up, and touching her arm in a respectful manner, said—
“This direction, if you please.”
There was something in the manner of the attendant that seemed to Eugenia a little mysterious, but she followed as he led the way. He soon paused at the door of an apartment, and half whispering in her ear said—
“Your father is in this room.”
Eugenia entered alone. Her father was standing near the fire in an attitude of deep thought. He lifted his eyes as she entered, and looked her inquiringly in the face for some moments. She saw in an instant that he was greatly changed—that reason had, in fact, again assumed her sway over the empire of his mind.
“My dear, dear father!” she instantly exclaimed, springing toward him.
“Eugenia! Eugenia!” he ejaculated, in turn, as he held her from him for a moment or two. “Can this be my own Eugenia? Surely we are both dreaming! But it is! It is!” and he drew her to his bosom, and held her there in a long-strained embrace.
“But what does all this mean, my dear child? Why are we here? What place is it? Why am I so unlike myself that I doubt my own identity? Why am I so changed? Surely! surely! I am not Hubert Ballantine!”
“Be composed, dear father!” said Eugenia, with an instinctive feeling of concern. “We will go from here at once, and then we will talk over all that seems strange to you now.”
As she said this, Eugenia pulled a bell, and requested the attendant who answered to call the principal of the institution. He came immediately, and she had a brief interview with him in regard to the propriety of removing her father instantly. He acquiesced, and ordered a carriage to be brought to the door. In this she entered with him, and directed the driver to take them to the Tremont House in Boston. There handsome rooms were ordered, and every effort was made by her to cause external circumstances to assume a character similar to what he had been accustomed to in former years. But her own appearance—her plain, worn, meagre garments, and above all, her changed face, so pale, so thin, so careworn, so marred by years of intense suffering—sadly perplexed him. Still he had a faint glimpse of the truth, and as his mind’s eye turned intently toward the point from whence light seemed to come, he more than suspected the real facts in the case—at least the leading fact, that he had been out of his mind for a long time. He could remember distinctly the burning of the vessel at sea, and also the days and nights of suffering which were spent in open boats after leaving the vessel. But all from that time was dim and incoherent, like the vagaries of a dream.