And so fell George’s last hope;—nothing
before him but a life of toil and drudgery, rendered
more bitter by every little smarting vexation and
indignity which tyrannical ingenuity could devise.
A very humane jurist once said, The worst use you
can put a man to is to hang him. No; there is
another use that a man can be put to that is WORSE!
The Husband and Father
Mrs. Shelby had gone on her visit, and Eliza stood
in the verandah, rather dejectedly looking after the
retreating carriage, when a hand was laid on her shoulder.
She turned, and a bright smile lighted up her fine
eyes.
“George, is it you? How you frightened
me! Well; I am so glad you ’s come!
Missis is gone to spend the afternoon; so come into
my little room, and we’ll have the time all
to ourselves.”
Saying this, she drew him into a neat little apartment
opening on the verandah, where she generally sat at
her sewing, within call of her mistress.
“How glad I am!—why don’t you
smile?—and look at Harry—how
he grows.” The boy stood shyly regarding
his father through his curls, holding close to the
skirts of his mother’s dress. “Isn’t
he beautiful?” said Eliza, lifting his long
curls and kissing him.
“I wish he’d never been born!” said
George, bitterly. “I wish I’d never
been born myself!”
Surprised and frightened, Eliza sat down, leaned her
head on her husband’s shoulder, and burst into
tears.
“There now, Eliza, it’s too bad for me
to make you feel so, poor girl!” said he, fondly;
“it’s too bad: O, how I wish you never
had seen me—you might have been happy!”
“George! George! how can you talk so?
What dreadful thing has happened, or is going to happen?
I’m sure we’ve been very happy, till lately.”
“So we have, dear,” said George.
Then drawing his child on his knee, he gazed intently
on his glorious dark eyes, and passed his hands through
his long curls.
“Just like you, Eliza; and you are the handsomest
woman I ever saw, and the best one I ever wish to
see; but, oh, I wish I’d never seen you, nor
you me!”
“O, George, how can you!”
“Yes, Eliza, it’s all misery, misery,
misery! My life is bitter as wormwood; the very
life is burning out of me. I’m a poor, miserable,
forlorn drudge; I shall only drag you down with me,
that’s all. What’s the use of our
trying to do anything, trying to know anything, trying
to be anything? What’s the use of living?
I wish I was dead!”
“O, now, dear George, that is really wicked!
I know how you feel about losing your place in the
factory, and you have a hard master; but pray be patient,
and perhaps something—”
“Patient!” said he, interrupting her;
“haven’t I been patient? Did I say
a word when he came and took me away, for no earthly
reason, from the place where everybody was kind to
me? I’d paid him truly every cent of my
earnings,—and they all say I worked well.”
