I.
We are apt to look to the Old World exclusively for startling contrasts between fashion and splendor on the one hand, and squalid wretchedness and crime on the other. With an air of complacency, we speak of our great and happy republic, as affording a retreat for the homeless, and a refuge for the oppressed. Yet, in the face of all this, it would be difficult to find in any European city a more thoroughly vicious district than that of the Five Points in New York. Few, doubtless, of the fashionable crowds who daily promenade Broadway, have ever penetrated its recesses,—few but would shrink in dismay from horrors of which they had not even dreamed, if they should do so. But it is not our purpose to moralize upon that which has already begun to attract the attention, and inspire the exertions, of philanthropic hearts and hands. That task we leave to abler pens. Enough that we have hinted at the character of the locality in which our story takes its rise.
One of the worst recesses of this notorious district enjoys the singularly euphonious name of “Cow Bay.” The entrance to it is a filthy arched passage-way, round which are crowded miserable tenements; so miserable, that the scanty sunlight, which finds its way through the dirt-begrimed windows, seems to shrink away, as if it were more than half ashamed of the company it is in. In front of these houses, you may see men whose faces betray no evidence of intelligence or virtue; women whose miserable and woe-begone expression, perchance loud voice and angry vituperation, attest that from them all that renders the sex attractive has for ever departed; children—and this is the saddest sight of all—dirty and sickly, and who are children only in size and in years; for upon their hearts the happy influences of genuine childhood have never fallen. For them, alas! life is a rough pathway, paved with flinty stones, which pierce their feet at every step.
A tall man, with a shambling gait, and hat drawn over his eyes, walked swiftly through the arched passage-way above alluded to, and, muttering an imprecation upon a child who got in his way, entered one of the houses, whose front door stood invitingly open, and, groping his way up the staircase, which was quite obscure, although it was mid-day, opened a door at the head of the staircase, and entered.
It was such a room as the appearance of the house might lead one to expect. It was, however, furnished more ambitiously; as at least one-half the floor was covered with a rag carpet, and the scanty furniture was arranged with rather more taste than might have been anticipated. By the window sat a girl of twelve, sewing. Between her and the children who were playing outside there was a wide contrast. She was perfectly clean and neat in her attire; and her face, though pale,—as it might well be, shut up as she was in a noisome quarter of a great city, with no chance to breathe the fresh country air, or roam at will through green fields,—was unusually winning and attractive.
The man we have referred to threw himself with an air of weariness on a chair near the door, and muttered ungraciously,—
“Why haven’t you got dinner ready? I’m hungry.”
“Is it time?” asked the child, springing from her seat quickly, as if afraid of having neglected her duty.
“Time enough,” returned the man; “for I’ve been at work this morning, and have got an appetite like a wolf. Besides, I want you to be through soon; for I shall send you out shopping this afternoon. Has any one been in to see me this forenoon, Helen?”
“No,” said Helen (for that was her name).
“Good. I don’t care to have visitors.”
Helen quickly brought out, from a closet hard by, a plate of cold meat, some cold vegetables, and a plate of bread and butter. The man drew his chair to the table, and during the next quarter of an hour, in which he was so busily occupied with satisfying his appetite that he had no time for any thing else, said not a word to the child, who, on her part, was too much accustomed to his manner to utter a word.
At length, having accomplished his task in a manner so satisfactory that very little remained on the table, he drew his chair away, and motioned the child to take her place at it.
“Take your place and eat, Helen,” said he, a little less gruffly than before; “and, while you are eating, I will tell you of a little plan I have formed for you.”
“How do you like living here?” he resumed when she had seated herself.
She looked into his face, as if to know whether it would do to express her real opinion. His face was not so forbidding as it appeared at times, and she ventured to say,—
“I—I think there are some places which I should like better.”
“No doubt, no doubt, Helen. I think I have known pleasanter places myself. But where do you think you should like to live best; that is, supposing you could live wherever you chose?”
“Oh!” said the child, her eyes brightening, and her whole face glowing with excitement, “I should like, above all things, to live in the country, where I could run about the fields, and hear the birds sing, and—and⸺ Oh! the country is so beautiful! I think I lived there once,—did I not, uncle?”
“Yes, Helen; but it is a good while ago. How would you like to live there once more?”
“May I? Can I? Will you let me?” asked the child, eagerly.
“Perhaps so. But it will depend on whether you will be good, and try to please me.”
“Oh! I will do whatever you say.”
“Well, that sounds well. Then I’ll tell you what my plans are, and where it is that you are to go.”
So saying, he drew from his pocket a copy of the “New York Tribune,” and read aloud the following advertisement:—
“Wanted, by a family a few miles distant from the city, a young girl, of from twelve to fourteen, to serve as nursery-maid and companion for two young children. Address
“P. H. Gregory.”
“There,” said the reader, laying down his paper, “is a situation which will just suit you. You like children; and pretty much all you will have to do will be to attend to them. Then Mr. Gregory lives in a beautiful place. He is a rich man, and can afford it. Would you like to go?”
“Above all things,” said Helen, eagerly (for to her the prospect of a release from the dismal place in which she lived was most pleasing).
“And you wouldn’t miss me, your affectionate uncle?” said the man, with a peculiar expression.
The child’s eyes fell. She blamed herself frequently for not holding in higher regard the only relative of whom she knew any thing: yet so ungenial was his nature, and so harsh and forbidding was he nearly always, that it would have been singular if he had inspired affection in any one. So it happened, that, in the joy of the anticipated change, she had not for a moment thought of the separation which it must occasion between herself and her uncle.
“Of course,” she said, timidly, “I shall be sorry to leave you”——
“You needn’t say any thing more, child,” was the reply. “I don’t profess any particular affection for you, and I don’t believe you feel any for me; and you may be sure I shouldn’t have proposed this removal to you if I had not some object of my own in it. Would you like to know what that is?”
“Yes,” she said, hesitatingly.
“Well, I will tell you; because it is necessary that you should fully understand, before you go, on what conditions I allow you to do so. But, if you dare to impart to a breathing soul a hint of what I tell you, I will seek you out, and—well, no matter,” he continued, seeing that his threat made her turn pale. “You must know that this Mr. Gregory, with whom I am going to place you, once cheated me out of a large sum of money, which I cannot hope to regain, except by stratagem. Now, I want you to get in there, and I will then give you instructions how to manage. They keep a large amount of valuable plate in the lower part of the house. It will be comparatively easy for you, when you are once there, to render me essential service by opening the front door to me, so that I may be able to secure it without detection; and then”——
“But,” said the girl, shrinking in dismay from this proposition, “would not that be robbery?”
“Robbery? Pooh, child! Didn’t I tell you that he had cheated me out of twice the value of the plate? And, as I can’t get my pay in any other way, it’s perfectly proper to get it in that.”
Helen was no casuist. She had never had any one to teach her right principles; but she had an instinctive feeling that this was wrong. She wished to remonstrate, but dared not. Her uncle saw her embarrassment, and guessed its cause. He rose from his seat, and stood sternly confronting her.
“Helen Armstrong,” said he, in a compressed voice, “unless you promise me faithfully to perform the part I have assigned you, I will bind you out to Brady Tim, the grocer.”
This Brady Tim was a repulsive character, and kept a grocery of the lowest kind nearly opposite the rooms occupied by the girl and her uncle. He was a complete tyrant, and would often beat his children in the most unmerciful manner. Their shrieks, which she was often doomed to hear, would always make her blood run cold, and inspired her with an inconceivable dread of the man who occasioned them. This her uncle well understood; and he was well aware that no threat which he could utter would make so deep an impression upon the child’s mind.
“You have your choice,” said he. “Shall I tell Brady Tim that you will come to-morrow morning? or will you go to Mr. Gregory’s?”
“I will go,” said the child, overawed.
“And you will follow my directions?”
“Yes.”
“Then preparations must instantly be made. I shall have to buy you a few things to have you go looking decently. Have you got a good bonnet?”
“Only my old one, and that is bent every way.”
“Well, I will get you a new one. You will also want a shawl and some gloves. As you are to be a companion to the children, it will be a recommendation if you go looking neat and comfortable. It won’t take long to purchase them; and whatever else you need I can send you afterwards. Wait a moment, and I will be ready to accompany you.”
He went into the inner room, and quickly emerged, completely metamorphosed in his personal appearance by a white wig and whiskers, and a staff, on which he leaned heavily. The girl looked at him in astonishment.
“What sort of a grandfather do you think I shall make?” said he, laughing. “I shall go out with you to Mr. Gregory’s; and I have no doubt, that, in consideration of my gray hairs, they will be induced to take my grand-daughter into their service.”
So saying, he left the room, accompanied by the child, who had improved the interval in smoothing her hair, over which she placed an ugly straw bonnet, which, however, was shortly to be displaced by one of a prettier pattern. Their purchases completed, they stepped into an omnibus, which would convey them within half a mile of Mr. Gregory’s.