University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE NOT “FORGOT.”

Few things are more gratifying to a benevolent
person than to know that a charity has proved effective;
and to the Aikins, to whom charities were
luxuries which their straitened circumstances forbade
them often to indulge in, it was a happiness
hardly to be estimated by those who have it in
their power to give away every day. Little Juliet
had appeared from the first a gentle-tempered, loving,
and interesting child; but nothing could be
more desultory than her habits, nor more discouraging
than her condition. She had, as she said,
been taught to read by her real mother; but, in her
present protectress's various removings, her books
had been lost, and her little learning forgotten, so
that she could not form a letter, and she even read
stumblingly.

She was, at first, a constant hinderance to the
little Aikins, and a constant trial of their mother's
inexhaustible patience. Her ear was caught by
every passing sound in the street, and her eye by
every occurrence in the apartment. But she was
most grateful for the kindness extended to her, and
most desirous to profit by it. Habits in children
are, like young plants, of rapid growth, and in a
few weeks Juliet's character underwent a transformation

similar to that of her dress, where substantial,
neat, warm, and lasting garments had been
substituted for dirty finery.

Mrs. Aikin was not one of those selfish parents
who make it a sort of duty to cast aside whatever
can possibly interfere with the advancement
of their own offspring. She was willing to take
something from their abundant portion to give to
this little orphan in the human family. She sometimes
feared Juliet might exhaust Mr. Barlow's
patience; but he seemed rather to pity her ignorance
and carelessness than to be irritated by
them. He was drawn to her by some resemblance
in their fate. Both seemed dropped links
from the chain of humanity; both to have been
the objects of the intervention of Providence, and
both to have been cast upon the same charity.
In speaking of Juliet to Mrs. Aikin, Mr. Barlow
adverted to the reasons for the interest he felt in
the child; and “yet,” he said, “this is not all; her
look, when she suddenly turns her eye, or that imploring
expression when she fears she has displeased
me, put me so in mind of one that's gone:
her voice, too, when she speaks low, Mistress
Aikin, it makes my heart throb, and the perspiration
stand in the hollow of my hand.”

“You have not gained your strength yet,” replied
Mrs. Aikin, “and a little matter affects you.”

“It is not a little matter, my good friend; I have
thought there was a possibility—but that is foolish,
and I will not talk about it. It will cost me much
to part from her, as well as the rest of you; but
now there is no reason I should encumber you any
longer, for the old rule does not always hold good

—`where there's room in the heart there's room in
the house.”'

We have omitted to mention, that Aikin had obtained
the place of assistant teacher in a classical
school for Mr. Barlow.

“I know, sir,” replied Susan, “that you can
now get much more comfort elsewhere than we
can give you; but a grief and loss it will be to us
to part with you. I have been looking forward to
your taking the little back room, for Juliet told me
to-day—and, poor child, she was crying when she
said it—that her mother was about to move.”

“Juliet going too?” exclaimed the children,
“that is too bad.”

A bustling step in the entry was heard, and immediately
after an imperative voice at Mrs. Smith's
door, calling out—“Open the door—I say I must
speak with you.” The door opened, and Juliet's
voice was heard in reply, but so low that not
a word could be distinguished. The response
was sufficiently audible—“Don't cry, child—I'm
not going to hurt you, but I must speak with your
mother. The house is not mine,” continued the
stranger, now evidently addressing Mrs. Smith;
“and I have no authority to grant indulgences.
You are behind-hand for the last three weeks, and
if you don't pay Saturday, you must clear out—
good day, ma'am.”

An opportunity was now offered, as the landlord's
agent repassed the door, to speak for the room for
Mr. Barlow; but he and all the rest were absorbed
in their interest for little Juliet, whose soft footsteps
were soon heard on the stairs. Anne sprang
to the door, and opening it, asked Juliet to come in.

“She will not,” said Anne, as Juliet went out at
the street door; “she blushed as red as fire, and
seemed to have something under her cloak—what
can it mean?”

Mrs. Aikin guessed what it meant; for, more
than once, she had observed Juliet going out on
secret expeditions; and once, when she had looked
her full in the face, the poor child's downcast
eye and burning cheek betrayed her secret to Mrs.
Aikin. Truth is stamped with innocence on the
soul; there they blend, or are effaced together.
Now, Mrs. Aikin thought, she must no longer
scruple to interfere; and, when Juliet returned, she
went into the entry, and closing the door after her,
said—

“What have you there, Juliet?”

“She told me not to tell, ma'am.”

“You need not, my child, I know what it is.”
The fumes of the gin had already betrayed the secret.
“Does she take this stuff every day, Juliet?”

“No, Mrs. Aikin, not now, since she has such a
fever and cough—she only takes it when she feels
awfully. My own mother never took it, though she
had dreadful feelings, too.”

While Juliet spoke, she seemed in a flutter of
impatience and timidity—all eye and ear—as if
expecting a summons; or, what was still worse,
fearing a suspicion of betraying the miserable
woman's secret. In the meantime, Susan Aikin
was considering what she had best do. That Mrs.
Smith's disease must be aggravated, and her death
hastened, by the means she took for present relief,
was certain; and Susan was not of a temper to
fold her hands and say—“It is no business of mine”

—when she could help a fellow-creature, it was
her business.

“Leave the mug here, Juliet,” she said, “and
tell your mother I wish to speak with her.”

“Oh, I dare not, Mrs. Aikin—she'll be so angry
with me; she does not mind speaking with other
people, but she seems to hate to see any of your
family. I'm sure I don't know what the reason is
—there—I hear her—pray let me go!” and Juliet
seized the mug, which Mrs. Aikin had set on the
stair, and disappeared.

In a few moments Mrs. Aikin followed her and
tapped at the door; Juliet opened it, and stood
aghast, while Mrs. Aikin said—“Mrs. Smith, I
know you are sick, and in trouble—let me come
in, and see if something cannot be done for you.”

The door, evidently at a sign from within, was
closed in Mrs. Aikin's face; but, through the crevices,
Mrs. Aikin heard a voice that seemed familiar
to her, half scolding and half crying.

She again tapped at the door, and Juliet opened
it a crack, and said, in a voice whose tremulous softness
contrasted with the rudeness of her words—

“She says, ma'am, she won't be bothered.”

“Well, Juliet, I'll go away now. She may feel
differently by-and-by.”

Mrs. Aikin's persevering kindness and forbearance
touched the heart of the miserable woman;
but the fumes of the liquor were mounting to her
brain, and she drew the bed-clothes over her head
and fell into a heavy sleep, from which she was
awakened late in the evening by the stealthy entrance
of a man, who brought her a note from her
nominal husband. This threw her into violent

hysterics, during which the man disappeared; and
Juliet, who, wearied and hungry, had fallen asleep
across the foot of the bed, awakened. She was
terrified by Mrs. Smith's apparent unconsciousness
and convulsive sobs, and she, obeying her first
impulse, ran down to the Aikins. Harry and his
wife, without any false scruples, went to Mrs.
Smith's apartment, bidding Juliet to remain with
Aunt Lottie. They found Mrs. Smith in hysterics,
partly the effect of the gin, and partly of a sudden
distress which had been communicated to her by
the open letter she held in her clinched hand. A
filthy lace cap stuck on the side of her head; her
hair hung over her face; a tattered French cape
and a soiled silk gown served to make more disgusting,
but not to hide, the rags and dirt beneath
them.

Our friends had scarcely seen the woman when
they exchanged significant glances, for they both
recognised in the wretched person before them,
in spite of the dropsical cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and
sharpened features, the playmate of their childhood—the
beauty of their youthful days, Paulina
Clark! Grieved and shocked were they: but they
thought only of administering aid; and this being
most judiciously done, Paulina soon after opened
her eyes, and, recognising her old acquaintances,
a new burst of emotion and a violent shrieking
ensued.

No disease is so completely under the control
of moral treatment as hysterics.[1] Harry Aikin's

energetic voice, and his wife's gentle, calm manner,
soon subdued the spasm and restored their patient
to a degree of rationality.

“Oh! I know you, Susan; and you, too, Harry
Aikin!” she said.

“And we know you, Paulina,” replied Susan;
“and would be glad to do any thing we can for
you.”

The kindness of Susan's tone brought a flood of
tears from Paulina. This seemed to relieve her,
and she said, in her natural voice—

“But you don't know, you don't know—” her utterance
was choked.

“We don't know,” said Susan, “but we can
guess.”

“And can you speak so kindly to me?”

“There is no reason we should not be kind to
you; kindness is what you want, and we have to
give, so it may be a comfort to us both.”

“Oh! indeed, I do want it,” said Paulina, recurring
to her present and pressing troubles. “See
here, Harry Aikin,” she added, picking up the note
she had dropped; “do you advise me what to do;
this comes from my hus—” She hesitated: she
felt this was no time for deception, and she added,
“from him I called my husband.”

Aikin read the note, which was as follows:—

“I am blown, and must make a voyage up the
river to Lockport—save yourself—the police dogs
are on the scent—look to the black trunk.”

“You must tell me the truth, Paulina, or I can
be of no service to you. How long have you lived
with this man?”

“Six months.”

“How long have you known him?”

“The same time, Harry Aikin,” she replied,
without raising her eyes; for, with the companions
of her innocent days, came the feeling of shame.

“Do you know what he is taken up for?”

“I don't; but I guess for passing counterfeit
bills.”

“Have you been concerned with him? Answer
truly, Paulina.”

“Well—he has given me money to spend, and
told me to ask no questions, and he would tell me
no lies. I never knew a true note from a false
one.”

“Did you not believe you were passing counter
feit money?”

“I did not know that I was, and that is the most
I can say, Harry Aikin; but, as true as I live, I
have pawned my ear-rings and my finger-rings
rather than offer this money, and I did not use it
till I had nothing more the pawnbrokers would
take; that is the truth, Harry. I have not long
to live, I am sure I have not. Take pity on me,
Harry Aikin, and save me from finishing my
wretched life in the state prison! Susan! Susan!
beg him! Oh! think of old times in Essex!”

“Be sure, be sure, Paulina, Harry will do all
he can for you.”

“Yes, that I will; no time must be lost: stay
with her, Susan, till I return.”

“You ain't going to inform against me?” said
the miserable woman, springing after him; but,
before he could reply, she shrunk back, self-condemned,
and burst into tears.

“It's so long,” she said, “since I have had any

thing to do with anybody I could believe in! I am
a poor creature, Susan! I can remember the time
when I felt above you; and now it seems too much
for you to speak to such as me!”

It seemed a great relief to her to confess her
faults; to retrace the past, and, looking through
the dark way she had trodden, to catch now and
then a glimpse of her early days. With a sprinkling
of kind words from Susan, she went on as
follows:—

“Oh, Susan Aikin, you that have an honest
husband, and good children, and are content to be
poor, you don't know the feelings of the fallen.
Don't you think it's some excuse for me that I had
such a poor bringing up? The first I can remember
was my mother talking about my pretty eyes,
and so on, and curling my hair; and the main
thing was to get me handsome outside-things;
how I used to despise your clothes and Lottie's;
it was all, all of a piece. Mother said she could
not afford to send me to the subscription-school;
but, when that dancing-school was set up in Essex,
I was sent to that. Do you remember I begged
Uncle Phil to let you go, but he would not hear to
it: he said `you danced about your work, and you
danced to school, and that was the dancing for
poor folks.”'

“Father was right,” said Susan, with a smile at
the characteristic reply she had forgotten.

“Yes, he was indeed right. Uncle Phil was
always reckoned simple-minded; but I have known
all sorts of people, and I can tell you, Susan, that
those who set their minds to do the right thing, be
they ever so simple, go straight ahead—while

your bright folks slump on the right hand and on
the left. But where was I—oh, looking back—a
dreary prospect! I grew up a poor, ignorant,
thoughtless, vain thing—but, Susan, I was not
hard-hearted; even then, had I got into good hands
—had I married a solid man, and had children to
take care of, I should have been, not such a wife
and mother as you are, but I might have been a
decent woman—and that was what I had secret
cravings to be, even when I had a carriage at my
command, and elegant rooms and furniture.”

“Poor Paulina!”

“Yes, Susan, most to be pitied then; for then
I was most blinded to all good; I can see it now,
even from these depths. You know mother married
a rich old man, what we thought rich, and we
moved to New-York; I had always lots of young
men after me; I lived at the theatre, and the public
balls, and such places, and cared for nothing but
dress and flattery. Morris Finley courted me—I
always liked him—and if I had married him then
—but there's no use in looking back; I wonder
if his conscience would be easy if he could see me
the poor ruined wretch I am now. Hark!—what
noise is that?”

“It's only my children and Juliet, playing.”

“Poor Juliet!—do you think Harry will get me
clear, Susan?”

“I hope so; but had you not better compose
yourself, and try to get a little sleep?”

“Sleep! I cannot. If you knew what a relief
it is to me to unburden my heart—to have a good
person willing to sit down by me as you do. As I
was saying, when my stepfather died, and we had

nothing left, and Morris Finley felt he was going
ahead in the world, he left me. We went to Essex,
and then came back to New-York; mother set
up the milliner's business—temptation was on every
side; and no wonder that such a poor weak creature
as I fell. There was nothing to bind me to
virtue. My mother, poor soul, died; and her
death set me to thinking; and then, if a hand had
been stretched out to me in kindness, it would
have saved me; but the good set their faces against
the bad—they do, Susan—I mean common good
folks. You cannot tell what it is to have the eye
of your fellow-creature look on you with scorn, or
turned from you as if you were too vile to look
upon: I have felt this, and I went from bad to
worse.”

“Why did not you come to us, Paulina? We
would have done what we could for you.”

“I was afraid to, Susan; I did not suppose there
was anybody on earth good enough to pity me,
because I was wicked; and, for that, most needed
their pity.”

“Then, Paulina, you must have concluded
there were no true followers of Him who came to
seek and save those that were lost?”

“Maybe I have my own evil courses, in part, to
thank for such thoughts, Susan; but, then, is it not
strange that human creatures don't make more
allowance for one another? They say sick folks
feel for sick folks. Sin is the worst of sickness,
and are there any quite free from it?”

“You are right, Paulina; the strong should
uphold the weak—the well should look after the
sick.”

“That's what I mean, Susan, and I believe you
are so very good you practise it; but it is not
strange I dreaded to see your face; and all that
Juliet told me of you and your children, bringing
up to be a blessing and honour to the land, made
me more and more ashamed of myself. Thank
God, I never had a child. I do love Juliet—you
see I am not fit to take care of her—but I did not
always tyrannise over her—not when—”

“Not when you were yourself, Paulina.” Paulina
nodded assent: she had not courage in words
to confess her intemperance. “Juliet was true to
you,” continued Susan; “she seems grateful for
your kindness to her.”

“Does she—does Juliet feel grateful to me?”

“She does, Paulina; and that ought to be a
comfort to you.”

“It is—it is; thank God, there is one creature
on earth the better for my having lived! My
life! Oh God, forgive me!—poor Juliet—when I
am gone, Susan, you will see to her, won't you?”

“I will do the best I can.”

“Thank you, Susan; then I shall die easy as
to her. I have done but little, though I never
quite lost sight of my promise to her poor dying
mother.”

“Who was her mother, Paulina?”

“No one that you ever heard of. She called
her name Maria Brown. I never saw her till she
was near her death. The night before she died I
sat behind her, and held her up while she wrote a
few lines, and, taking a miniature from her neck,
sealed them up together. She was so weak she
fainted then, and when she came to she said she

would direct the packet the next day, and tell me
what to do with it. I slept by her; but, dear me!
I had taken some hot gin-and-water—for I was
troubled with a cold stomach—and I slept sound
and late, and when I waked she was dead and
cold. Poor little Juliet! I never shall forget how
she lay with her arms round her mother's neck
till they sent a coffin from the almshouse; it
seemed as if the child were glued there.”

“Did you not open the packet, Paulina?”

“Yes; but no names were mentioned, Her
letter was to her father, but it was only signed
with initials.”

“Were they M. B.?” eagerly asked Susan, as a
faint hope dawned upon her.

“M. B.—B.—no, I am pretty sure it was not B.:
it might have been B. L.; I think it was L.”

“You have preserved the packet?”

“I did, carefully; but in our last move it was
stolen or lost!”