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

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?