University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
MRS. GINNISS HAS A VISITOR.

Heavily went the days in the lowly home of Mrs.
Ginniss and her son. Teddy sought early and late for
employment, disdaining nothing, however humble, whereby
he might earn a few cents, and working as diligently at
street-sweeping, dust-gathering, errand-running, or horse-holding,
as he had ever done in the way of gaining an
education under the kind tuition of his late master.

Every night he brought home some small sum, and
silently placed it in his mother's hand; nor, though she
urged it, would he retain a penny for himself, or indulge
in any of the small luxuries he had in former days enjoyed
so much.

“Go buy a wather-million, honey, or get an ice-crame;
sure it's nothin' at all ye're atin',” the fond mother would
say: but Teddy always shook his head, or, if the matter
were urged, took his cap and went out, always with the

weary step that had become habitual to him, and returned
no more until bedtime.

“It's frettin' himsilf to his grave the crather is,” said
poor Mrs. Ginniss, and tried in many a motherly way to
make home pleasant to her boy, and to re-awaken the ambition
that seemed quite dead in his heart. No more
reading aloud now, of which he had been so fond; no more
recitals of interesting or humorous scenes in office or street;
no more wise opinions upon public events: all the boy's
boyish conceit and self-esteem, germs in a strong character
of worthy self-respect, seemed crushed out of him. Patient,
humble, silent, one could hardly recognize in this Teddy
Ginniss that other Teddy, whose cheery voice, frequent
laugh, positive opinions and wishes, and good-humored
self-satisfaction, had been the leading features of his modest
home.

Poor Mrs. Ginniss longed to be contradicted or instructed
or laughed at once more, and fought against her son's submissive
respect as another mother might have done against
disobedience or insolence.

“Can't ye be mad nor yet be merry at nothin', Teddy?”
asked she impatiently one day.

“I'm thinking I'll never be merry again, mother,” said
Teddy sadly, as he left the room.

It was in the afternoon of the same day, that Mrs. Ginniss,
sitting at her sewing in melancholy mood enough, heard a
light tap at her door, and, opening it, found upon the threshold
a lady, elegant in her simple dress of gray, who
asked, —

“Are you Mrs. Ginniss?”

“Yes, ma'am; I'm that same,” said the laundress, staring
strangely at the lovely face framed in a shower of feathery,
golden ringlets, and lighted by large violet eyes as sad as
they were sweet.

“Will ye be plazed to walk in, ma'am?” continued she.
“It's but a poor place for the likes uv yees.”

The lady made no reply, but, gliding into the room, stood
for a moment looking about it, and then turning to the Irish
woman, who still regarded her in the same awestruck manner,
said piteously, —

“I am her mother!”

“Sure an' I knowed it the minute I sot eyes on ye; for it's
the same swate face, an' eyes that's worse nor cryin', ye've
got; an' the same way of a born lady, so quite an' so grand.
Och! it wor a purty darlint, it wor; an' it's me own heart

that's sore for her the day, forbye your'n that's her borned
mother; and, if it wor my own life that 'ud fetch her back to
yees” —

But here the long breath on which Mrs. Ginniss had started
came to an end, and with it the impulse of consolation and
self-defence that had so far sustained her; and with a wild cry
of “Wurra, wurra! och the black day that's in it!” she
sank upon a chair, and buried her head in her apron, sobbing
loudly.

The visitor, hardly regarding her, still stood in the centre
of the little room, her sad eyes wandering over its humble
furniture and adornments as if each one were a relic.

“Are there some little things of hers, clothes or playthings
or books, — any thing she touched or loved?” asked she
presently in a hushed voice.

Mrs. Ginniss, still crying, rose, and opened a drawer in
the pine bureau, which, with a looking-glass and some vases
of blue china upon it, stood as the ornamental piece of furniture
of the place.

“Here they bees, ivery one uv 'em, and poor enough for
her, an' yit the bist we could git,” said she.

More as a bird, long restrained and suddenly set free,
would dart toward the tree where nest and young awaited it,

than in the ordinary mode of human movement, the mother,
so long hungering for smallest tidings of her child, darted upon
this sudden mine of wealth, and, bending low, seemed to
caress each object with her eyes before touching it. Then,
tearing off her gloves, she laid her white fingers softly upon
the coarse garments, the broken toys, the few worn books,
and bits of paper covered with pencil-marks, the strip of gay
patchwork with the needle still sticking in it, and the little
brass thimble upon it.

At one end of the drawer stood a little pair of slippers,
with some slightly soiled white stockings rolled up and laid
within them. At sight of these, a low cry — it might have
been of pain, it might have been of joy — crept from between
the pale lips of the mother; and, reverently lifting the
little shoes, she kissed them again and again, in an eager,
longing fashion, as one might kiss the lips of a dying child
whom human love may yet recall to human life.

“Thim's the little shlippers that Teddy saved his bit uv
spinding-money till he could buy for her, bekase he said the
fut uv her wor too purty to put in sich sthrong shoes as I'd
got; and thin it was mesilf that saved the white little shtockings
out uv me tay an' sugar; an' it's like a little fairy (save
me for spakin' the word) that she lucked in 'em.”

Pressing the little shoes close to her bosom with both hands,
the mother turned those mournful eyes upon the speaker,
listening to every word, and, at the end, said eagerly, —

“Tell me some more! Tell me every thing she said and
did! Oh! was she happy?”

The word had grown so strange upon her lips and in her
heart, that, as she said it, all the tense chords, so long attuned
to grief, thrilled with a sharp discord; and, turning yet paler
than before, she sank upon a chair, and, leaning her forehead
on the edge of the open drawer, wept such tears as, pray God,
happy mothers, you and I may never weep.

“O my baby, my baby! O my little child!” moaned
she again and again, until the tender heart of the Irish
woman could endure no longer; and, coming to the side of
her guest, she knelt beside her, and put her arms about the
slender figure that shook with every sob, and drew the
bright head to rest upon her own shoulder.

“O ye poor darlint! ye poor, young crather, that's got
the black sorrer atin' inter yer heart, all the same as if ye
wor owld an' mane an' oogly, like mesilf!—it's none but
Him aboov as kin comfort yees. Blissid Vargin, as was
a moother yersilf, an' knowed a moother's pains an' a
moother's love, an' all the ins an' outs uv a moother's heart,

luck down on this young moother an' help her, an' spake to
thim as can help her betther nor yees, an' give her back her
child; bekase ye mind the time yer own Howly Child wor
lost, an' ye sought him sorrerin'; an' ye mind the joy an'
the comfort that wor in it whin he was foun'. Och Mother
of Jasus! hear us this day, if niver again.”

As the passionate prayer ended, the lady raised her head,
and kissed the tear-stained cheek of the petitioner.

“Thank you,” said she. “I know that you were good to
her, and that she loved you; but, oh! did she forget me so
soon?”

Alas poor human heart whose purest impulses are tinged
with selfishness! You who have lost your nearest and
dearest, can you say from your inmost soul that you would
be content to know yourself and all of earth forgotten, or
that it is sorrow to you to fancy that a lingering memory, a
faint regret for the love you so lavished, stains the perfection
of heavenly bliss?

Tact is not a matter of breeding; and Chesterfield or
Machiavelli could have found no better answer than that of
Mrs. Ginniss: —

“Sure, honey, it wor alluz she remimbered yees, an'
longed for yees; though the little crather wor that yoong, an'

the faver had so poot her about, that she didn' know what it
wor she wanted nor missed; but it wor `mother' as wor
writ in the blue eyes uv her as plain as prentin'.”

“And was she very, very sick?” asked the sad voice again.

“The sickest crather that iver coom back from hivin's
gate,” replied the other; and then, seating herself beside her
visitor, she began at the beginning, and gave a long detail
of the circumstances attending Cherry's first appearance in
the garret, and her subsequent illness and convalescence.
Then came the story of her acquaintance with Giovanni; her
passion for dancing and singing with him; and finally their
flight, and the consternation and sorrow of her adopted
mother.

Mrs. Legrange listened to every thing with the most profound
attention, asking now and then a question, or uttering
an exclamation; even smiling faintly at mention of the
child's graceful dancing and sweet voice in singing.

“Yes, she had an extraordinary ear for music,” murmured
she; “and to think of her remembering being called
Cerito!”

Nor did the mother fail to notice how the whole coarse
fabric of the Irish woman's story was embroidered with a
golden thread of love and admiration, and even reverence,

for the exquisite little creature she had cherished and cared
for so tenderly.

“Yes, you loved her; and I love you for it, and will
always be your friend. But Teddy?” asked she at last;
for Mrs. Ginniss, through the whole story, had carefully
avoided all mention of her son, except in the most casual and
general fashion. Now, however, she boldly answered, —

“An' it's mesilf loved the purty crather well; but my
love kim no nearer the love the b'y had for her than the
light of a taller candle does to the sun in hiven. He loved
her that sthrong, that it med him do a mane thing in kapin'
her whin he knowed who she wor; but sure it's betther ter
sin fer love than ter sin fer sin's sake.”

Mrs. Legrange smiled sadly. To her it had seemed, from
the first, small matter of surprise, however great of regret,
that Teddy should have found 'Toinette's attractions irresistible;
or that, having once appropriated her as his little
sister, he should have found it almost impossible to relinquish
her.

She had not, therefore, shared at all in the indignation
of her cousin and husband toward the boy, and had even
solicited the former to retain him in his employ. But Mr.
Burroughs, kind, generous, and forbearing as he was, cherished

implacable ideas of integrity and honor, and never
forgave an offence against either, whether in friend or
servant; so that his cousin had finally withdrawn her request,
asking, instead, that he should conduct her to Mrs. Ginniss's
dwelling, and leave the rest to her. This the young man
had consented to do; and, as Mrs. Legrange would not
allow him to wait for her, he had privately instructed James
to do so, and had not left the outer door until he saw that
faithful servitor upon guard.

Just what were her own intentions with regard to Teddy
or his mother, Mrs. Legrange did not herself know; and,
once arrived in the room where 'Toinette had lived out the
weary months since her loss, all other ideas had faded and
disappeared before the memories there confronting her.
Now, however, the sweet and generous nature of the woman
re-asserted itself, and she kindly said, —

“Yes: I see how great Teddy's temptation was, and I
cannot wonder that he yielded to it. Any one would have
found it hard to part with 'Toinette; and he, poor boy!
could not know how I was suffering. It would have been
different if you had known who she was.”

“Indade an' it would. One moother can fale fer another;
but these childhren hasn't the sinse till they gits the

sorrer. Small fear that Teddy'll iver go asthray agin from
light-heartedness.”

“Does he feel very sorry, then?” asked Mrs. Legrange
timidly.

“Sorry isn't the word, ma'am. It's his own heart as
he conshumes day an' night,” said Mrs. Ginniss gloomily.

“Because she is lost, or because he kept her in the first
place?” asked the lady.

“It's hard tellin', an' he niver spakin' whin he can help
it; but I belave it's all together. He wor sich a bowld b'y,
an' so sthrong for risin' in the world; an' wor alluz sayin'
as he'd be a gintleman afore he died, an' readin' his bit
books and writins, an' tillin' me about the way the counthry
wor goin'; an', right or wrong, it's he wor ready to guide
the whole of 'em. An', sure, it wor wondherful to see the
sinse that wor in him when he get spakin' of thim things;
an' one day, whin I said to him, —

“`Sure, Teddy, an', if it's one or tither of 'em is Prisident,
what differ'll it make to us?' An' he says, says he,
`Whist, moother! fer one day, mabbe, it's I'll be the Prisident
mesilf; an' what way 'ud that be fer me moother to
be talkin'?'

“But now it's no sich talk ye'll git out uv him, an'

niver a laugh nor a joke, nor the bit bowld ways he used
to have wid him. An' och, honey! if ye've lost yer purty
darlint, it's I've lost me b'y that wor as mooch to me; an'
it's I'm the heavy-hearted woman, this day an' alluz.”