The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No 3, September, 1862

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One day, late in summer, toward the close of those four years,
John--that was his name--came to her, his face beaming all over with
joy, and said:

'O Fanny! I am going--going to Boston. Father [he was a richer man than
her father] has got me into a great store there--a great store, and I'm
to stay till I'm twenty-one--they won't pay me hardly any thing--only
fifty dollars the first year, and twenty-five more every other year--but
father says it's a great store, and it'll be the making of me.' And he
danced and sung for joy, but she wept in bitter grief.

Well, five more years rolled away--this time they were not winged as
before--and John came home to spend his two weeks of summer vacation. He
had come every year, but then he said to her what he had never said
before--that which a woman never forgets. He told her that the old
Quaker gentleman, the head of the great house he was with, had taken a
fancy to him, and was going to send him to Europe, in the place of the
junior partner, who was sick, and might never get well. That he should
stay away a year, but when he came back, he was sure the old fellow
would make him a partner, and then--and he strained her to his heart as
he said it--'then I will make you my little wife, Fanny, and take you to
Boston, and you shall be a fine lady--as fine a lady as Kate Russell,
the old man's daughter.' And again he danced and sung, and again she
wept, but this time it was for joy.

He staid away a little more than a year, and when he returned he did not
come at once to her, but he wrote that he would very soon. In a few days
he sent her a newspaper, in which was a marked notice, which read
somewhat as follows:

'The co-partnership heretofore existing under the name and style of
RUSSELL, ROLLINS & Co., has been dissolved by the death of
DAVID GRAY, Jr.

'The outstanding affairs will be settled, and the business
continued, by the surviving partners, who have this day admitted
Mr. JOHN HALLET to an interest in their firm.'

The truth had been gradually dawning upon me, yet when she mentioned his
name, I sprang involuntarily to my feet, exclaiming:

'John Hallet! and were _you_ betrothed to _him_?'

The sick woman had paused from exhaustion, but when I said that, she
made a feeble effort to raise herself, and said in a stronger voice than
before:

'Do you know him--sir?'

'Know him! Yes, madam;' and I paused and spoke in a lower tone, for I
saw that my manner was unduly exciting her; 'I know him well.'

I did know him _well_, and it was on the evening of the day that notice
was written, and just one month after David had followed his only son to
the grave, that I, a boy of sixteen, with my hat in my hand, entered the
inner office of the old counting-room to which I have already introduced
the reader. Mr. Russell, a genial, gentle, good old man, was seated at
his desk, writing; and Mr. Rollins sat at his, poring over some long
accounts.

'Mr. Russell and Mr. Rollins,' I said very respectfully, 'I have come to
bid you good-by. I am going to leave you.'

'Thee going to leave!' exclaimed Mr. Russell, laying down his
spectacles; 'what does thee mean, Edmund?'

'I mean, I don't want to stay any longer, sir,' I replied, my voice
trembling with emotion.

'But you must stay, Edmund,' said Mr. Rollins, in his harsh, imperative
way. 'Your uncle indentured you to us till you are twenty-one, and you
can't go.'

'I _shall_ go, sir,' I replied, with less respect than he deserved. 'My
uncle indentured me to the old firm; I am not bound to stay with the
new.'

Mr. Russell looked grieved, but in the same mild tone as before, he
said:

'I am sorry, Edmund, very sorry, to hear thee say that. Thee can go if
thee likes; but it grieves me to hear thee quibble so. Thee will not
prosper, my son, if thee follows this course in life.' And the moisture
came into the old man's eyes as he spoke. It filled mine, and rolled in
large drops down my cheeks, as I replied:

'Forgive me, sir, for speaking so. I do not want to do wrong, but I
_can't_ stay with John Hallet.'

'Why can't thee stay with John?'

'He don't like me, sir. We are not friends.'

'Why are you not friends?'

'Because I know him, sir.'

'What do you know of him?' asked Mr. Rollins, in the same harsh, abrupt
tone. I had never liked Mr. Rollins, and his words just then stung me to
the quick, I forgot myself, for I replied:

'I know him to be a lying, deceitful, hypocritical scoundrel, sir.'

Some two years before, Hallet had joined the church in which Mr. Rollins
was a deacon, and was universally regarded as a pious, devout young man.
The opinion I expressed was, therefore, rank heterodoxy. To my surprise,
Mr. Rollins turned to Mr. Russell and said:

'I believe the boy is right, Ephraim; John professes too much to be
entirely sincere; I've told you so before.'

'I can't think so, Thomas; but it's too late to alter things now. We
shall see. Time will prove him.'

I soon left, but not till they had shaken me warmly by the hand, wished
me well, and tendered me their aid whenever I required it. In
after-years they kept their word.

Yes, I did know John Hallet. The old gentleman never knew him, but time
proved him, and those whom that good old man loved with all the love of
his large, noble heart, suffered because he did not know him as I did.

After I had given her some of the cordial, and she had rested awhile,
the sick girl resumed her story.

In about a month Hallet came. He pictured to her his new position; the
wealth and standing it would give him, and he told her that he was
preparing a little home for her, and would soon return and take her with
him forever.

[When he said that, he had been for over a year affianced to another--a
rich man's only child--a woman older than he, whose shriveled, jaundiced
face, weak, scrawny body, and puny, sickly soul, would have been
repulsive even to him, had not money been his god.]

The simple, trusting girl believed him. He importuned her--she loved
him--and she fell!

About a month afterward, taking up a Boston paper, she read the marriage
of Mr. John Hallet, merchant, to Miss ----. 'Some other person has
his name,' she thought. 'It can not be he, yet it is strange!' It _was_
strange, but it was _true_, for there, in another column, she saw that:
'Mr. John Hallet, of the house of Russell, Rollins & Co., and his
accomplished lady, were passengers by the steamer Cambria, which sailed
from this port yesterday for Liverpool.'

The blow crushed her. But why need I tell of her grief, her agony, her
despair? For months she did not leave her room; and when at last she
crawled into the open air, the nearest neighbors scarcely recognized
her.

It was long, however, before she knew all the wrong that Hallet had done
her. Her aunt noticed her altered appearance, and questioned her. She
told her all. At first, the cold, hard woman blamed her, and spoke
harshly to her; but, though cold and harsh, she had a woman's heart, and
she forgave her. She undertook to tell the story to her brother. He had
his sister's nature; was a strict, pious, devout man; prayed every
morning and evening in his family, and, rain or shine, went every Sunday
to hear two dull, cast-iron sermons at the old meeting-house, but he had
not her woman's heart. He stormed and raved for a time, and then he
cursed his only child, and drove her from his house. The aunt had forty
dollars--the proceeds of sock-knitting and straw-braiding not yet
invested in hymn-books, and with one sigh for the poor heathen, she gave
it to her. With that, and a small satchel of clothes, and with two
little hearts beating under her bosom, she went out into the world.
Where could she go? She knew not, but she wandered on till she reached
the village. The stage was standing before the tavern-door, and the
driver was mounting the box to start. She thought for a moment. She
could not stay there. It would anger her father, if she did--no one
would take her in--and besides, she could not meet, in her misery and
her shame, those who had known her since childhood. She spoke to the
driver; he dismounted, opened the door, and she took a seat in the coach
to go--she did not know whither, she did not care where.

They rode all night, and in the morning reached Concord. As she stepped
from the stage, the red-faced landlord asked her if she was going
further. She said, 'I do not know, sir;' but then a thought struck her.
It was five months since Hallet had started for Europe, and perhaps he
had returned. She would go to him. Though he could not undo the wrong he
had done, he still could aid and pity her. She asked the route to
Boston, and after a light meal, was on the way thither.

She arrived after dark, and was driven to the Marlboro Hotel--that
Eastern Eden for lone women and tobacco-eschewing men--and there she
passed the night. Though weak from recent illness, and worn and wearied
with the long journey, she could not rest or sleep. The great sorrow
that had fallen on her had driven rest from her heart, and quiet sleep
from her eye-lids forever. In the morning she inquired the way to
Russell, Rollins & Co.'s, and after a long search found the grim, old
warehouse. She started to go up the rickety old stairs, but her heart
failed her. She turned away and wandered off through the narrow, crooked
streets--she did not know for how long. She met the busy crowd hurrying
to and fro, but no one noticed or cared for her. She looked at the neat,
cheerful homes smiling around her, and she thought how every one had
shelter and friends but her. She gazed up at the cold, gray sky, and oh!
how she longed that it might fall down and bury her forever. And still
she wandered till her limbs grew weary and her heart grew faint. At last
she sank down exhausted, and wept--wept as only the lost and the utterly
forsaken can weep. Some little boys were playing near, and after a time
they left their sports, and came to her. They spoke kindly to her, and
it gave her strength. She rose and walked on again. A livery-carriage
passed her, and she spoke to the coachman. After a long hour she stood
once more before the old warehouse. It was late in the afternoon, and
she had eaten nothing all day, and was very faint and tired. As she
turned to go up the old stairway, her heart again failed her, but
summoning all her strength, she at last entered the old counting-room.

A tall, spare, pleasant-faced man, was standing at the desk, and she
asked him if Mr. John Hallet was there.

'No, madam, he's in Europe.'

'When will he come back, sir?'

'Not for a year, madam;' and David raised his glasses and looked at her.
He had not done it before.

Her last hope had failed, and with a heavy, crushing pain in her heart,
and a dull, dizzy feeling in her head, she turned to go. As she
staggered away a hand was gently placed on her arm, and a mild voice
said:

'You are ill, madam; sit down.'

She took the proffered seat, and an old gentleman came out of the inner
office.

'What! what's this, David?' he asked. 'What ails the young woman?'

(She was then not quite seventeen.)

'She's ill, sir,' said David.

'Only a little tired, sir; I shall be better soon.'

'But thee _is_ ill, my child; thee looks so. Come here, Kate!' and the
old gentleman raised his voice as if speaking to some one in the inner
room. The sick girl lifted her eyes, and saw a blue-eyed, golden-haired
young woman, not so old as she was.

'She seems very sick, father. Please, David, get me some water;' and the
young lady undid the poor girl's bonnet, and bathed her temples with the
cool, grateful fluid. After a while the old gentleman asked:

'What brought thee here, young woman?'

'I came to see John--Mr. Hallet, I mean, sir.'

'Thee knows John, then?'

'Oh! yes, sir.'

'Where does thee live?'

She was about to say that she had no home, but checking herself, for it
would seem strange that a young girl who knew John Hallet, should be
homeless, she answered:

'In New-Hampshire. I live near old Mr. Hallet's, sir. I came to see John
because I've known him ever since I was a child.'

She drank of the water, and after a little time rose to go. As she
turned toward the door, the thought of going out alone, with her great
sorrow, into the wide, desolate world, crossed her mind, the heavy,
crushing pain came again into her heart, the dull, dizzy feeling into
her head, the room reeled, and she fell to the floor.

It was after dark when she came to herself. She was lying on a bed in a
large, splendidly furnished room, and the same old gentleman and the
same young woman were with her. Another old gentleman was there, and as
she opened her eyes, he said:

'She will be better soon; her nervous system has had a severe shock; the
difficulty is there. If you could get her to confide in you, 'twould
relieve her; it is _hidden_ grief that kills people. She needs rest,
now. Come, my child, take this,' and he held a fluid to her lips. She
drank it, and in a few moments sank into a deep slumber.

It was late on the following morning when she awoke, and found the same
young woman at her bedside.

'You are better, now, my sister. A few days of quiet rest will make you
well,' said the young lady.

The kind, loving words, almost the first she had ever heard from woman,
went to her heart, and she wept bitterly as she replied:

'Oh! no, there is no rest, no more rest for me!'

'Why so? What is it that grieves you? Tell me; it will ease your pain to
let me share it with you.'

She told her, but she withheld his name. Once it rose to her lips, but
she thought how those good people would despise him, how Mr. Russell
would cast him off, how his prospects would be blasted, and she kept it
back.

'And that is the reason you went to John? You knew what a good,
Christian young man he is, and you thought he would aid you?'

'Yes!' said the sick girl.

Thus she punished him for the great wrong he had done her; thus she
recompensed him for robbing her of home, of honor, and of peace!

Kate told her father the story, and the good old man gave her a room in
one of his tenement houses, and there, a few months later, she gave
birth to a little boy and girl. She was very sick, but Kate attended to
her wants, procured her a nurse, and a physician, and gave her what she
needed more than all else--kindness and sympathy.

Previous to her sickness she had earned a support by her needle, and
when she was sufficiently recovered, again had recourse to it. Her
earnings were scanty, for she was not yet strong, but they were eked out
by an occasional remittance from her aunt, which good lady still adhered
to her sock-knitting, straw-braiding habits, but had turned her back
resolutely on her benighted brethren and sisters of the Feejee Islands.

Thus nearly a year wore away, when her little girl sickened and died.
She felt a mother's pang at first, but she shed no tears, for she knew
it was 'well with the child;' that it had gone where it would never know
a fate like hers.

The watching with it, added to her other labors, again undermined her
health. The remittance from her aunt did not come as usual, and though
she paid no rent, she soon found herself unable to earn a support. The
Russells had been so good, so kind, had done so much for her, that she
could not ask them for more. What, then, should she do? One day, while
she was in this strait, Kate called to see her, and casually mentioned
that John Hallet had returned. She struggled with her pride for a time,
but at last made up her mind to apply to him. She wrote to him; told him
of her struggles, of her illness, of her many sufferings, of her little
boy--his image, his child--then playing at her feet, and she besought
him by the love he bore her in their childhood, not to let his once
affianced wife, and his poor, innocent child STARVE!

Long weeks went by, but no answer came; and again she wrote him.

One day, not long after sending this last letter, as she was crossing
the Common to her attic in Charles street, she met him. He was alone,
and saw her, but attempted to pass her without recognition. She stood
squarely in his way, and told him she _would_ be heard. He admitted
having received her letters, but said he could do nothing for her; that
the brat was not _his_; that she must not attempt to fasten on _him_ the
fruit of her debaucheries; that no one would believe her if she did; and
he added, as he turned away, that he was a married man, and a Christian,
and could not be seen talking with a lewd woman like her.

She was stunned. She sank down on one of the benches on the Common, and
tried to weep; but the tears would not come. For the first time since he
so deeply, basely wronged her, she felt a bitter feeling rising in her
heart. She rose, and turned her steps up Beacon Hill toward Mr.
Russell's, fully determined to tell Kate all. She was admitted, and
shown to Miss Russell's room. She told her that she had met her seducer,
and how he had cast her off.

'Who is he?' asked Kate. 'Tell me, and father shall publish him from one
end of the universe to the other! He does not deserve to live.'

His name trembled on her tongue. A moment more, and John Hallet would
have been a ruined man, branded with a mark that would have followed him
through the world. But she paused; the vision of his happy wife, of the
innocent child just born to him, rose before her, and the words melted
away from her lips unspoken.

Kate spoke kindly and encouragingly to her, but she heeded her not. One
only thought had taken possession of her: how could she throw off the
mighty load that was pressing on her soul?

After a time, she rose and left the house. As she walked down Beacon
street, the sun was just sinking in the West, and its red glow mounted
midway up the heavens. As she looked at it, the sky seemed one great
molten sea, with its hot, lurid waves surging all around her. She
thought it came nearer; that it set on fire the green Common and the
great houses, and shot fierce, hot flames through her brain and into her
very soul. For a moment, she was paralyzed and sank to the ground; then
springing to her feet, she flew to her child. She bounded down the long
hill, and up the steep stairways, and burst into the room of the good
woman who was tending him, shouting:

'Fire! fire! The world is on fire! Run! run! the world is on fire!'

She caught up her babe and darted away. With him in her arms, she flew
down Charles street, across the Common, and through the crowded
thoroughfares, till she reached India Wharf, all the while muttering,
'Water, water;' water to quench the fire in her blood, in her brain, in
her very soul.

She paused on the pier, and gazed for a moment at the dark, slimy flood;
then she plunged down, down, where all is forgetfulness!

She had a dim recollection of a storm at sea; of a vessel thrown
violently on its beam-ends; of a great tumult, and of voices louder than
she ever heard before--voices that rose above the howling of the tempest
and the surging of the great waves--calling out: 'All hands to clear
away the foremast!' But she knew nothing certain. All was chaos.

The next thing she remembered was waking one morning in a little room
about twelve feet square, with a small grated opening in the door. The
sun had just risen, and by its light she saw she was lying on a low,
narrow bed, whose clothing was spotlessly white and clean. Her little
boy was sleeping by her side. His little cheeks had a rosier, healthier
hue than they ever wore before; and as she turned down the sheet, she
saw he had grown wonderfully. She could hardly credit her senses. Could
that be _her_ child?

She spoke to him. He opened his eyes and smiled, and put his little
mouth up to hers, saying, 'Kiss, mamma, kiss Fanky.' She took him in her
arms, and covered him with kisses. Then she rose to dress herself. A
strange but neat and tidy gown was on the chair, and she put it on; it
fitted exactly. Franky then rolled over to the front of the bed, and
putting first one little foot out and then the other, let himself down
to the floor. 'Can it be?' she thought, 'can he both walk and talk?'
Soon she heard the bolt turning in the door. It opened, and a pleasant,
elderly woman, with a large bundle of keys at her girdle, entered the
room.

'And how do you do this morning, my daughter?' she asked.

'Very well, ma'am. Where am I, ma'am?'

'You ask where? Then you _are_ well. You haven't been for a long, long
time, my child.'

'And _where_ am I, ma'am?'

'Why, you are here--at Bloomingdale.'

'How long have I been here?'

'Let me see; it must be near fifteen months, now.'

'And who brought me?'

'A vessel captain. He said that just as he was hauling out of the dock
at Boston, you jumped into the water with your child. One of his men
sprang overboard and saved you. The vessel couldn't put back, so he
brought you here.'

'Merciful heaven! did I do that?'

'Yes. You must have been sorely troubled, my child. But never mind--it
is all over now. But hasn't Franky grown? Isn't he a handsome boy? Come
here to grandma, my baby.' And the good woman sat down on a chair, while
the little fellow ran to her, put his small arms around her neck, and
kissed her over and over again. Children are intuitive judges of
character; no really bad man or woman ever had the love of a child.

'Yes, he _has_ grown. You call him Franky, do you?'

'Yes; we didn't know his name. What had you named him?'

'John Hallet.'

As she spoke those words, a sharp pang shot through her heart. It was
well that her child had another name!

She was soon sufficiently recovered to leave the asylum. By the kind
offices of the matron, she got employment in a cap-factory, and a plain
but comfortable boarding-place in the lower part of the city. She worked
at the shop, and left Franky during the day with her landlady, a
kind-hearted but poor woman. Her earnings were but three dollars a week,
and their board was two and a quarter; but on the balance she contrived
to furnish herself and her child with clothes. The only luxury she
indulged in was an occasional _walk_, on Sunday to Bloomingdale, to see
her good friend the kind-hearted matron.

Thus things went on for two years; and if not happy, she was at least
comfortable. Her father never relented; but her aunt wrote her often,
and there was comfort in the thought that, at least, one of her early
friends had not cast her off. The good lady, too, sent her now and again
small remittances, but they came few and far between; for as the pious
woman grew older, her heart gradually returned to its first love--the
poor heathen.

To Kate Russell Fanny wrote as soon she left the asylum, telling her of
all that had happened as far as she knew, and thanking her for all her
goodness and kindness to her. She waited some weeks, but no answer came;
then she wrote again, but still no answer came, though that time she
waited two or three months. Fearing then that something had befallen
her, she mustered courage to write Mr. Russell. Still she got no reply,
and she reluctantly concluded--though she had not asked them for
aid--that they had ceased to feel interested in her.

'They had not, madam. Kate has often spoken very kindly of you. She
wanted to come here to-day, but I did not know this, and I could not
bring her _here_!'

She looked at me with a strange surprise. Her eyes lighted, and her face
beamed, as she said: 'And you know _her_, too!'

'Know her! She is to be my wife very soon.'

She wept as she said: 'And you will tell her how much I love her--how
grateful I am to her?'

'I will,' I replied. I did not tell the poor girl, as I might have done,
that Hallet had at that time access to Mr. Russell's mails, and that,
knowing her hand-writing, he had undoubtedly intercepted her letters.

After a long pause, she resumed her story.

At the end of those two years, a financial panic swept over the country,
prostrating the great houses, and sending want and suffering into the
attics--not homes, for they have none--of the poor sewing-women. The
firm that employed her failed, and Fanny was thrown out of work. She
went to her good friend the matron, who interested some 'benevolent'
ladies in her behalf, and they procured her shirts to make at
twenty-five cents apiece! She could hardly do enough of them to pay her
board; but she could do the work at home with Franky, and that was a
comfort, for he was growing to be a bright, intelligent, affectionate
boy.

About this time, her aunt and the good matron died. She mourned for them
sincerely, for they were all the friends she had.

The severe times affected her landlady. Being unable to pay her rent,
she was sold out by the sheriff, and Fanny had to seek other lodgings.
She then took a little room by herself, and lived alone.

The death of the matron was a great calamity to her, for her
'benevolent' friends soon lost interest in her, and took from her the
poor privilege of making shirts at twenty-five cents apiece! When this
befell her, she had but four dollars and twenty cents in the world. This
she made furnish food to herself and her child for four long weeks,
while she vainly sought for work. She offered to do any thing--to sew,
scrub, cook, wash--any thing; but no! there was nothing for
her--NOTHING! She must drain the cup to the very dregs, that the
vengeance of God--and He would not be just if He did not take terrible
vengeance for crime like his--might sink John Hallet to the lowest hell!

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