CHAPTER I. CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME, BUT SOMETIMES VENTURES ABROAD.
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On a dark and chilly evening in the last
month of the year, a young portrait-painter
named Stanford was sitting alone in the room
where he practised his art. An easel was before
him, and on it was a painting, although so
dim was the light shed by a solitary candle from
an adjoining table, that it was difficult to distinguish
the figures on the canvass. There was
a fireplace in the apartment, but it no longer
emitted a cheerful warmth, for the last spark
upon the hearth-stone had expired, and the air
was growing colder and colder.
The artist seemed to be unconscious of the
decay of his fire, for he still sat, with arms
folded and eyes fixed, as if absorbed in contemplation.
While he is in this position, let us
take such a survey of his person as the imperfect
light will permit. To judge from his features,
he has numbered not far from
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twenty-seven years. In stature you would call him neither
short nor tall, and in frame neither stout nor
thin. His complexion, though not ruddy, is
sufficiently indicative of good health, and his
face, if not handsome, has that charm of expression
which may generally be found in company
with serenity of mind and cheerfulness of temper.
But hark! he begins to soliloquize, and,
with his permission, we will overhear what he
has to say.
“I wish I had a thousand dollars! I would go
abroad and study my art. I would see the best
models—cull from every style its choicest beauties—
satisfy myself of the merits of every school—
then return and astonish the natives. I do really
wish I was not quite so poor. Heigho!
What! Mr. Franklin Stanford! do you call
yourself poor? What ingratitude! Are you
not out of debt? Haven't you good health and
good spirits? Have you any one to look out
for but yourself? Haven't you a fair field and
no favour? What more would you ask, so you
have wit enough to shut a door without jamming
your fingers, and energy enough to go in
when it rains? Surely no young man, unencumbered
and free, has a right to call himself
poor in this new country, while there are millions
upon millions of government acres whither
he can go and shoot buffalo and deer for his dinner,
sleep on a prairie, and drink out of the Mississippi!”
As the young painter concluded his soliloquy,
which, had he imagined it would ever be recorded
in print, would undoubtedly have been
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less discursive and free, the City Hall clock
struck the hour of midnight.
“Halloo! Twelve o'clock! I had no idea it
was so late! I must have been in a brown study,”
continued Stanford, as he threw on his cloak,
and, putting out the light, left the room to wend
his way towards his boarding-house.
In the street, he found that a slight snow had
fallen since he was last out. The air was humid
and uncomfortable, the sidewalks were
sloppy, and New-York's great thoroughfare
seemed dull, dreary, and deserted. Turning the
corner of Vesey-street, Stanford passed the Astor
House and hurried up Broadway, eager to
seek warmth and repose in his bed. The city
was unusually still. Occasionally the figure of
a watchman, with his staff under his arm and
his hands in his pockets, cowering up against
the embrasure of a door, might be distinguished
through the mist, but his doze was undisturbed
by the rattling of carriages or the exclamations
of riotous pedestrians.
Our young painter had not gone farther than
Chambers-street, however, when he met a little
girl, rather thinly clad, who followed him a step
or two, and said, in a low, sweet voice, “Sir!
sir! will you listen to me?”
Stanford was naturally humane, but of late he
had been so accustomed to the importunities of
beggars in Broadway, and so well aware was he
that it was one of the tricks of the most experienced
of them to send forth their children with
slight clothing on inclement nights to excite
compassion, that on the present occasion he
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passed on without bestowing any notice upon
the little mendicant who had accosted him.
She did not renew her appeal, and he had proceeded
several rods at a rapid pace, when something
like a twinge of pity and regret induced
him to look back. The little girl had leaned
her head against the iron lamp-post at the corner,
and Stanford fancied that he heard her
giving way to something like a subdued sob.
What should he do?
“Go home,” whispered Selfishness. “You
are sleepy and tired. Think of your warm bed.
If the child is suffering, let the watchmen take
care of her. She is doubtless some impostor.
If you are to be stopped in this way by every
object of compassion you meet, you may as
well abandon every other occupation for that of
alms-giver.”
“Turn back,” said Humanity. “A stray dog
should excite your pity on such a night as this.
Go and inquire the poor child's story, test its
truth, and lend her such aid as your slender
means will allow. It is a very convenient excuse
to cry out `imposition,' but let not your
heart be blinded by that perfidious plea. Is it
not better to be duped than to do an injustice?
Be merciful, as you would have mercy at your
extremest need.”
Here the debate closed, and I am happy to
say that Humanity won the cause.
“What ails you, my child?” said Stanford,
retracing his steps, and laying his hand on the
little girl's shoulder.
She started, and looked up in his face. The
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adjoining lamp shed its rays upon her features.
Like dew upon lilies, the tears glistened on her
pale cheeks, which looked all the paler from the
contrast of her dark eyes and hair. Her frame
was slender and small, but straight as an arrow,
and symmetrical as an antelope's. A shawl
was thrown around her head and held together
under her chin, affording little protection against
the frigid, penetrating air. She gazed a moment
wistfully at Stanford; and then a shudder and
a sigh, such as an infant who has sobbed itself
asleep sometimes gives vent to, seemed to proceed
from the very depths of her heart.
“Poor child! poor child! You are cold,”
said Stanford, with an emotion of tenderness
which made his voice tremulous.
The girl leaned her forehead on his extended
arm, and wept with a passionate vehemence,
which surprised and agitated him.
He threw a portion of his cloak around her,
and said, “Be calm, my child; do not weep so.
Tell me what distresses you. Nay, it is late,
and we should make the most of our time.”
Checking her tears by a strong effort of her
will, she said, “Forgive me, sir, but you spoke
so kindly!”
“Poor child! poor child!” muttered Stanford,
and he drew the cloak closer around her
fragile form. “What is your name?”
“Ruth, sir—Ruth Loveday.”
“Well, tell me, now, Ruth, what I can do for
you. Let me hear your story.”
“I came out, sir, to beg a lemon and some
sugar to make some lemonade for father.”
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“Your father, then, is ill?”
“He is ill, sir, of a fever; so ill, I fear he
will—” a sob interrupted the sorrowful conclusion
of the little girl's reply; but, after a moment's
pause, she continued:
“I went down into that oyster cellar at the
corner to get what I wanted, but the man who
keeps it drove me away when he found I had
no money.”
“Well, I have some money, Ruth. Is there
nothing besides lemonade your father would
like? Does he suffer for want of food?”
“Not now, sir, for his appetite is gone. He
has eaten nothing since—”
Again did the little creature's sobs seem to
choke her utterance. Stanford had discernment
enough to perceive that such wo never could
be counterfeited. He gave full credit to her
story; and putting his arm, with the cloak over
it, around her shoulder, he went with her to the
oyster cellar.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour,
there were several young men present engaged
in smoking and drinking. One of them staggered
up to Stanford, and told him that he must
drink with him, or fight. Without noticing this
abrupt communication, Stanford purchased the
articles which the little girl had come forth to
procure, and turned to quit the uncongenial
spot. But at this moment the tipsy youth espied
the little girl, half hidden by the cloak, and
pulled her forth with violence, while he laughed,
and declared that she should drink too. Poor
Ruth shrank back with alarm, and begged him
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to desist; and Stanford, seeing no other mode
of escape, compelled him to let go his hold by
knocking him down. Immediately the companions
of the prostrate man pressed forward to
avenge his fall. Stanford hastily threw off his
cloak and handed it, with his bundle, to Ruth,
telling her to open the door and keep in advance
of him. Ruth promptly obeyed; and her new
protector retreated gradually and without injury
up the steps till he reached the sidewalk, when
he contrived to hit the foremost of his opponents
in such a way as to send him back upon
the rest, pitching the whole of them down into
the cellar.
“Now, Ruth, give me the cloak and bundle;
take my other hand, and see how fast you can
run.”
Turning the corner of Reade-street towards
the east, the painter, with his little charge, ran
some distance, pursued by the young men,
whom strong drink had converted into ruffians.
Their shouts and execrations at length aroused
a watchman, who interrupted them in their
course, and whom they attempted to beat. He
sprang his rattle, however, and was soon surrounded
by his brethren, who seized and pinioned
the rioters, and conveyed them to the
watchhouse, from which, in the morning, they
would be led before a police-justice, to lament
their own imprudence, and shudder at the
thought of the mortification of their friends.
So much for brandy and water! What fiends
and fools does it make of men!
Leading Stanford on from street to street,
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Ruth stopped at last before an old wooden
building, which stood in an alley that belonged
to that inodorous section of the city known as
the Five Points.
“Is this your house, Ruth?”
“We have a room, sir, on the ground floor,
but there are several families besides ours in
the building.”
“So I should think,” said Stanford, as the
sound of fiddles and of dancing came to his
ears from one of the upper stories. He hesitated
a moment at the entrance of the abode,
as he glanced around at the signs of poverty,
uncleanliness, misery, and vice which were externally
apparent in the light of a neighbouring
street-lamp. But when he looked at Ruth's
wan, but earnest and intelligent features, and
thought of her forlorn condition, he overcame
his repugnance, and told her to lead on. She
pushed open the street door, and, passing
through a dark entry, followed by her new
companion, raised the latch of another door,
and said,
“Here is our room, sir. Will you walk in?”
Stanford entered with the little girl, who
closed the door gently behind them. Poverty
has no need of locks and bolts, no fear of the
midnight thief. In one corner of the room was
a mattress of straw, on which reposed two sickly-looking
children, apparently boys. A tattered
screen partially concealed their couch. The
opposite corner contained a small trundle bed,
which was occupied by a female child, who
seemed to be not more than four or five years
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old. A larger bed stood between the windows
on another side of the apartment, and there lay
the figure of a man. The furniture of the apartment
was scanty, old, and poor; and the feeble
light that was shed upon it came from a taper
that burned in a broken cup on a chair. A
rusty, dilapidated stove protruded from the
hearth into the centre of the room, but it seemed
rather to add to the cheerlessness than to
alleviate it, for it contained no fire.
While Stanford was surveying the abode of
penury, Ruth hastened to her father's bedside,
and, bending over him, kissed his forehead, and
told him she had brought with her the materials
for making some lemonade.
“No matter now, Ruth,” said Mr. Loveday,
endeavouring to prop himself up by a pillow,
and disclosing to Stanford a face and form emaciated
by severe illness. “Give me a sip of
water, and then listen to what I have to say.”
Ruth obeyed him with looks of solicitude and
tenderness, and neither father nor daughter
seemed conscious of the presence of a stranger
during the conversation that ensued.
“Be composed, Ruth,” said the invalid,
“when I tell you that my last hour is close at
hand. Nay, do not sob so. Hear me. I have
never told you the name of your mother's father.
He was bitterly opposed to our marriage,
for I was poor and of humble extraction. Not
even your birth and our straitened circumstances
abated his resentment. The more he heard
of our indigence, the more did it seem to exasperate
him against us. When your mother
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died, and I was visited with that complaint in
the eyes which forced me to abandon my business
of engraving, I made a last appeal to
him in favour of his grandchildren. It was
answered with contumely. In the anguish of
my heart, I vowed that I would starve with my
children rather than apply to him again for
aid. But affliction has vanquished pride. The
thought of your forlorn condition is too much.
You have been all goodness, Ruth. The sight
of you must move him, if he be human—give
me some more water—nay, first—”
“Dear father, you are exhautsed. Rest a
while. There! let me moisten your lips.”
The dying man sank back, but immediately
made a violent effort to rally his energies.
Raising his hand convulsively, he gasped
forth, “Quick! Hear me—his name—address—
find in—”
His lips moved, but no sound came from
them; and with a sigh, which was his last, his
body became motionless in death.
Terrible was little Ruth's wailing when she
became assured of the dreadful truth. She
wildly kissed the inanimate lips, and wet with
hot tears the pale, thin cheeks. So intensely
did she seem to suffer—so shaken was her gentle
frame by the vehemence of her sorrow, that
Stanford, alarmed for her immediate safety,
drew near, and by soothing words attempted
to withdraw her from the sad spectacle. She
repelled him, as if unwilling to be comforted.
He placed his hands upon her throbbing brow,
and soothingly parted with his fingers her dark
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curls, until, with a slight moan, her head sank
upon his arm, and she slept. The tempest of
wo had passed. Taking the yielding form of
the little sufferer in his arms, he removed to
the principal chair in the room, and, drawing
his cloak once more around her, watched with
tender solicitude her peaceful slumber.
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CHAPTER II. WAYS AND MEANS.
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“What's to be done?” muttered Stanford to
himself, as, three days after these events, he
was wending his way towards the miserable
lodgings where the young orphans abided.
Choosing to bestow the little money he could
spare upon the living rather than the dead, he
had applied to the proper public authorities for
the disposal of Mr. Loveday's mortal remains,
which were consigned to the earth at the city's
expense.
Ruth had consented passively to everything
that Stanford had advised, and, with the exception
of a few indications of gratitude towards him
for his disinterested kindness, she had remained
silent and bowed in grief. The children,
after sobbing and rejecting food for a day or
more, clustered round their elder sister, and tried
a thousand arts to console her. Arthur, who
was the elder of the two boys, was a gentle,
shy lad, about three years younger than Ruth.
Frank was a bold, forward urchin, just entering
his seventh year, a little pale for want of healthful
food and air, but displaying the elements of
a good constitution. May, the youngest of the
family, was a gay, sunny little creature, with
blue eyes and flaxen hair; in her personal appearance
quite a contrast to Ruth.
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Stanford was now approaching the door of
the dingy building, where the bereaved children
were still staying. He stopped a moment before
entering, and again communed with himself:
“What's to be done? My funds are getting
low, and the abstraction of ten dollars at
the present moment would compel me to wear
this rusty hat and these old boots two months
longer than I intended. The children appear
to be quite helpless; and poor little Ruth seems
to be wholly confounded when I ask what I
shall do for her. I will have one more talk
with her, and if we can hit upon no plan for the
support of the family, I will apply to some charitable
society for aid and advice.”
Thus determining, the young painter knocked
at the door. It was opened by Ruth, and he was
surprised to see her face light up with a smile
of welcome almost cheerful as she took his hand
and pressed it to her lips.
“Good morning, Ruth; and good morning,
little ones,” said he, as the children gathered
round him, and lifted up their clean faces, beaming
with gratitude, and intelligence, and patient
affection. Stanford stooped and received their
pure kisses upon his cheek; and he thought at
the moment that a peal of Fame's longed-for
trumpet in his ears, or a sight of Fortune's
heaviest prize at his feet, could not have stirred
emotions half so sweet and thrilling as those
he then felt.
“This is well, my child,” said he, turning to
her who was now the head of this young family.
“I am glad to see that you have struggled with
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your great grief, and are now resigned to the
dispensations of Heaven.”
“You believe—do you not, sir—that they, my
parents, are still living, and that they can look
down on us, and see us, and pity us, and be glad
in our goodness and happiness still?”
“Yes, Ruth, I hope it—I believe it.”
“And I know it, sir; I feel it, and nothing
could persuade me that it is not so. Such happy
dreams as I had last night! Do you not
think, sir, that the soul may in sleep do much,
and think much, and visit many places, which
it forgets when we wake?”
“I do not doubt, Ruth, that it may do so, and
that it may carry into its waking state good impressions
and influences, without knowing there
where it received them.”
“That is what I meant to say; for, though I
lay down to rest last night feeling very sad and
desolate, I awoke this morning full of hope, and
anxious to go to work immediately. Now what
time had my feelings for changing but in sleep?”
“Some deeper philosopher than I must answer
your question, my dear. Now let us talk
of what directly concerns you. Have you yet
found among your father's papers any clew to
the name which he was so anxious to communicate
in his last moments?”
“Not any, sir. I have searched everywhere—
read every scrap of paper that I could find in
his trunk, but found nothing that can give even
a hint.”
“Well, then, we must look upon that resource
as cut off, my dear. What's to be done next?
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Have you thought of any plan by which you
and the little ones can be provided for?”
Ruth remained silent as if in deep thought,
and Stanford continued:
“Believe me, my dear child, had I the means,
it would be the joy of my heart to provide for
you, and save you from the rough path of daily
drudgery and labour; but I have lived upon little
else than hope for the last year, and I am
almost destitute of money. A little I have still,
which you must help me to devote to your own
good and that of—”
“Oh, no, sir!” interrupted Ruth. “You have
been too liberal, too kind already. Let us not
deprive you of what may save you from mortification
and want. I will look about instantly,
and find something to do. I am quite sure I
shall succeed. I can sew, wash, do housework—
almost everything.”
“I see you bear a brave heart, my child,
which is best of all. Would you have me find
a place for you as housemaid?”
“That would compel me to part from these
little ones. Oh, no! that will never do. Let
us keep together—pray let us keep together.
And yet, if you think it necessary—”
“How else can you manage to get along?”
Ruth moved her fingers thoughtfully across
her forehead, and replied:
“Here is Arthur, who is full of eagerness to
help us. I am quite sure he can earn a dollar
a week. As for Frank—”
“Frank will make as much as that too,” said
the boy, who had been listening intently to the
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conversation. “Don't I know how that lummocks,
Sam Stuggs, makes his money, and ain't
I as good as he?”
“Hush, Frank! Where did you learn such
words?” said Ruth, blushing at the urchin's outbreak.
“Learn them? In our alley, to be sure!” replied
Frank.
“Do you know how much your father was
charged for this apartment?” inquired Stanford.
“Eight dollars a month, in advance,” returned
Ruth. “A new month will commence the
day after to-morrow.”
“Indeed! How true it is that the poor have
to pay the highest rents! Now hear me, Ruth.
For that amount you can procure, in the upper
part of the city, two nice rooms. It will not
answer for you to stay in these close, filthy, unwholesome
quarters, surrounded by such people
as occupy other portions of this house. You
shall, to-day or to-morrow, go yourself in search
of rooms somewhere in a clean, open neighbourhood,
where there is a free sweep of fresh air, and
where there is not so much encouragement as
there is here for the visits of pigs. I will move
the little furniture your father has left; supply
you with such additional comforts as a few dollars
can buy; pay your landlord a month's rent
in advance, and leave you to try your talents
for housekeeping and getting along.”
Ruth's heart was too full to reply to this generous
offer by words, but her looks eloquently
spoke her gratitude.
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“And now,” said Stanford, in continuation,
“you shall take your first lesson to-day. You
shall search out such apartments as I have recommended,
and I will come here early to-morrow
morning and learn the result of your inquiries.
Be not rebuffed or disquieted should you
meet with rude discouragements or derisive interrogations.
Your object is a high and sacred
one, and, with trust in God, you shall have
strength and sagacity beyond your years in accomplishing
it.”
“You are right, sir—quite right,” exclaimed
Ruth, with a tone of decision and animation
which seemed new to her nature.
“Good-by, then, Ruth; and good-by, May,
Arthur, and Frank. What is it, Frank? What
big thought is in your brain?”
“By George! I wish I was a man.”
“And why so?”
“I'd have a fine house in Broadway, and you
should come and live with us.”
“Well, Frank, be a good boy, and you will
be nearer a man than you think for, young as
you are. Aid sister Ruth all you can, and obey
her promptly. Once more farewell, my children.
Remember, in all your trials, this great
truth: Heaven helps those who help themselves.
Good-by till to-morrow.”
The young painter quitted the house, followed
until he was out of sight by the eyes and
blessings of the children. Ruth speedily re-entered
the room, and prepared for her day's enterprise.
Her wardrobe was scanty indeed.
An old bonnet of faded pink silk, which had
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belonged to her mother, was carefully drawn from
a bandbox which had long reposed upon the
uppermost shelf of the closet. The once bright
ribands were removed, and a black silk apron
afforded the means of trimming it with the signs
of mourning. Another precious relic, being a
clean linen cape, was pinned about her neck.
A coarse calico gown of a dark hue, and a cloak
which had seen more winters than the wearer,
completed her equipments. The arrangement
upon which Ruth had decided was to leave May
at home under the care of Arthur, and to take
Frank along with herself.
It was no easy matter to dispose Frank's habiliments
so as to prevent his wearing the appearance
of a young desperado, who had been
fighting until every square inch of cloth upon
his limbs was in tatters. His shoes looked as
if he had been amusing himself for the last few
days with kicking against a rough stone-wall.
His hat, it cannot be denied, was a shocking
bad one, and yet there was a knowing twist in
the manner in which it was set upon his head,
that gave it a character altogether its own. To
tell the truth about that hat, it had belonged, in
years past, to his father. Frank, on inheriting
it, exerted his powers of invention for its improvement.
He began by cutting it in two in
the middle, and slipping down the crown several
inches nearer to the rim; then, finding the
circumference too large for his head, he cut out
a strip from the side, and sewed up the aperture,
thus contracting its dimensions.
As the hat had originally been bell-shaped,
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these reformations gave to it a singularly original
appearance; and this characteristic was
increased in the course of a few months by
Frank's peculiar fashion of jamming it on his
head, so that, at the period of which I am writing,
there was something so very striking in its
aspect, that Ruth looked at it with real dismay,
and apprehended, not without reason, that it
would attract attention even in the crowded
thoroughfares, where strange sights and strange
people were no novelty. After many attempts
to press it into a shape less startling and monstrous,
she abandoned the task as hopeless; and
taking the wearer's hand, and bidding May
and Arthur to be of good cheer till her return,
she went forth with Frank on her important errand.
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CHAPTER III. A HUNT FOR LODGINGS.
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A knight-errant of old going forth for the
first time in quest of adventure—a naval commander
putting out to sea with his fleet—could
hardly have experienced a weightier sense of
anxiety and responsibility than did our little
friend Ruth, as, tightly clasping Frank by the
hand, she proceeded with him up Broadway to
a less crowded part of the city in search of
lodgings. Naturally shy and sensitive, it was
only by a strong effort that she had sufficiently
overcome her timid misgivings to undertake
her present mission.
It was a clear, cheery day, bright and sunny,
though the air was keen. Nothing memorable
befell our young adventurers until, as they were
crossing Canal-street, an urchin, who had been
following them for some distance, gazing with
intense excitement at Frank's prodigy of a hat,
suddenly came up to him and exclaimed,
“I say, Blue Jacket, where did you get so
much hat?”
In an instant Frank's hand was withdrawn
from his sister's, and he was in pursuit of the
impertinent inquirer, who, though considerably
the larger, took refuge from the wrath he had
provoked by jumping on the step of an omnibus,
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from which he securely made faces at Frank,
going through some peculiar gyrations with his
hands applied to his nose, and then giving a
specimen of the Ethiopian double-shuffle with
his feet.
Frank returned indignant, and allowed Ruth
to reclaim his hand, when she asked,
“Why will you be so hasty, Frank?”
“By George! if I had caught him, wouldn't I
have pitched into him?” replied Frank, doubling
his fist, and aiming a blow at the air.
As he uttered this bravado, he felt a sudden
knock on the top of his head, and was all at
once enveloped in total darkness, while it was
with difficulty that he could breathe. Another
boy, intent on mischief, had stolen up behind
him, and jammed the unfortunate hat down over
his face.
Before Frank could recover his sight, the annoyer
had fled, and Ruth was exerting herself
to pacify the little victim. With some difficulty
she appeased him. They walked on, and
fortunately met with no farther molestation of
the kind.
Turning off towards the eastern part of the
city, the young pedestrians at length entered a
street beyond the Bowery, where the houses,
though apparently occupied by poor people,
were for the most part neither crowded nor
dirty. Here Ruth stopped for a few minutes
and reconnoitred. Seeing a grocery shop, she
resolved to stop there and make inquiries.
There was nothing extraordinary about the
shop, unless it was its neatness. A bundle of
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new brooms hung before the window, under
which was a shelf, on which were arranged
goodly specimens of clean brown sugar, dried
beans, raisins, almonds, figs, oranges, prunes,
coffee, and various articles of a more substantial
nature. At the door stood a fat man with
a red face, with his thumbs resting in the armholes
of his waistcoat. He seemed to be contemplating,
with a meditative sort of interest,
not unmingled with amusement, a contest which
was taking place in the street between a little
black pig and a large dog. The pig, after submitting
to a degree of annoyance, such as few
pigs could have endured with equal resignation
and fortitude, suddenly, with a desperate squeal,
ran at its antagonist, and chased him from the
field. Hereat the fat man began to heave and
shake with laughter, which did not abate until
his eyes fell on Ruth and Frank, whom he saluted
with a jolly wink, which seemed to say,
“Wasn't that fun, young ones?”
Encouraged by these indications, Ruth advanced
with the purpose of addressing him, but
as she came near, a female appeared just in his
rear, whose figure and aspect formed a remarkable
contrast to his own. Her complexion was
sallow, and her cheeks thin and sunken. Her
lips seemed glued together, so tightly were
they habitually compressed. Her figure was
straight and attenuated, and in her movements
she was brisk and rigid. This individual was
Mrs. Bibb. The fat man was Mrs. Bibb's husband,
and, nominally, the keeper of the grocery
shop.
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The approach of Mrs. Bibb seemed to produce
a singular effect upon her liege lord. The comical
wink, which had so lit up his face, and encouraged
Ruth to come forward, was changed
into an equally comical frown, as, in deep, guttural
tones, he exclaimed, “Go away from here,
children; what are you hanging about here
for?”
With a longing, lingering look behind at the
raisins and almonds, Frank took his sister's
hand, and turned with her away. Mrs. Bibb
cast an approving glance upon Mr. Bibb, and,
well satisfied with the exhibition of rigour he
had given, went back into an inner room. No
sooner had she disappeared, than the attention
of the children was arrested by a voice calling
to them in a husky whisper, “I say, children,
come back! Bob, you rogue, look here! Come
back, will you?”
Looking round, the young adventurers saw
the fat man, with a couple of oranges in his
hand, beckoning them to return. They obeyed,
whereupon the fat man again winked, and
began:
“I say, Bob—”
“But my name isn't Bob; it is Frank, sir—
Frank Loveday,” said the boy.
“Well, I was sure it was either Frank or
Bob—Bob or Frank—it is all the same, you
know, in Greek,” replied the fat man, with another
wink.
“I don't know it at all,” said Frank, stoutly,
“for I never studied Greek.”
“I am sorry for it,” returned the fat man,
-- 030 --
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gravely; “for, then, how will you be able to
suck this orange?” And here a perfect volley
of winks was poured in upon poor Frank, succeeding
one another rapidly like flashes of heatlightning.
Childhood,
“That best detector of a gentle heart,”
is quick to find out its friends, and Frank was
not slow in returning Mr. Bibb's amicable overtures.
He even went so far as to return him
his winks, at which the grocer was wonderfully
delighted, regarding him as a lad of marvellous
promise. The oranges were immediately surrendered
to him, and Mr. Bibb seemed still farther
rejoiced when he saw Frank choose the
bigger one and insist on giving it to Ruth.
“Where do you live, and where are you going,
young ones?” inquired Mr. Bibb.
“I am now in search of lodgings, sir,” replied
Ruth, “and I wished to ask you if you knew of
any to let in this neighbourhood?”
“But why did your mother send you out to
look for lodgings? Why didn't she come herself?”
“My mother, sir, is dead,” answered Ruth,
casting down her eyes.
Mr. Bibb was silent for a moment, and then
said, in a softened tone, “I am very sorry for
that, my dear. And your father is too busy, I
suppose, to go about room-hunting, so he sent
you; is that it, eh?”
“My father died last week, sir,” replied Ruth,
struggling to keep down her tears.
-- 031 --
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Mr. Bibb caught his breath suddenly, and then,
puffing out his cheeks, looked about fiercely,
with the evident determination that he would
not be caught blubbering by his better half.
“Poor—poor children!” said he, at last, with
a sigh. “And how many of you are there?”
“Four, sir, including myself,” answered Ruth.
“And have you no relative, no friend to take
care of you, and tell you what to do?”
“Oh, yes, sir, we have a very good, generous
friend, Mr. Stanford. He will pay the first
month's rent of our rooms.”
“Well, let me see if I can think of a nice
place for you somewhere in this neighbourhood;
for you know you can give me your custom
if you take lodgings hereabout, and—”
“Yes, and fine, profitable custom it will be,
Mr. Bibb!” exclaimed a shrill, piercing voice,
which seemed to produce the same effect upon
the fat man that might have been occasioned
by an acute twinge of a jumping toothache.
“Nice custom, to be sure! Shame upon you,
sir! Can't a couple of ragged brats pass the
door without your pampering them with oranges?
Away from here, you little, good-fornothing
vagrants! If you show your faces here
again, I will rub them in the sand-barrel, I will!
Off with you! Tramp! And you, sir, how
dare you, after your promise to me—”
The rest of Mrs. Bibb's objurgation was lost
to Ruth and Frank, who hastily quitted the spot.
They had to walk some distance, however, before
they wholly escaped the noise of her tones.
“By George! if my wife spoke so to me,
-- 032 --
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wouldn't I give her the strap!” exclaimed Frank,
as soon as a few blocks of houses were placed
between him and the formidable Mrs. Bibb.
“Do not talk so, Frank. You must keep down
that quarrelsome temper of yours, or it will
lead you into trouble.”
“I can't bear to be imposed upon, or to see
anybody else imposed upon.”
“You are too forward, Frank—too rebellious
for such a little boy. You should forgive those
that harm you—be mild to those that are rude.”
“If a boy knocks off my hat, and kicks it,
what shall I do?”
Ruth gave a reluctant glance at the enormous
hat, and shuddered as she admitted the probability
of such buffets occurring to poor Frank.
She was a little puzzled by his straightforward,
practical question, and, at the moment, seeing
a bill, on which was inscribed “Rooms to Let,”
attached to a neighbouring house, she proposed
that they should call, in pursuance of the object
of their errand.
In answer to Frank's knock, the door was
opened by a middle-aged woman, with an infant
crying in her arms, and two riotous children
tugging at her gown.
“I would like to see the rooms you have to
let, and learn the price,” said Ruth, modestly.
“Who wants to hire them?” asked the woman,
putting away the hands of the struggling
infant from the ribands of her cap.
“I myself, ma'am,” replied Ruth.
“You! Why you are but a child!” exclaimed
the woman.
-- 033 --
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“You shall receive a month's pay in advance
if I like the rooms,” returned Ruth.
“Well, I never!” said the woman, with a
wondering stare. “But come in and warm yourselves,
children. Cease pulling at my gown, Andrew
Jackson! Amos Kendall, if you do that
again, I will give you such a box on the ear as
will make you see stars! Let go, will you?
Rebecca Ann, when will you be done squalling?
Be still, you cross little thing, you! Come in,
my dear, and shut the door. So, you can pay
a month's rent in advance?”
“Yes, ma'am,” answered Ruth, following,
with Frank, the matron and her interesting offspring
into a small room, half kitchen and half
nursery, about which every nameable utensil of
domestic use was cluttered.
“Sit down, dear,” said Mrs. Crane, for such
was the woman's name.
Ruth was about to take a chair, when Andrew
Jackson, who had apparently been absorbed for
some moments in the contrivance of a piece of
mischief, pulled it from under her, and she
would have fallen had she not caught at Frank's
arm. Mrs. Crane immediately put down Rebecca
Ann upon the floor, and darting at the namesake
of the hero of New-Orleans, hit him a blow
which sent him spinning against the wall. Such
a yell as he set up was never heard even from
an Indian ambush. It was immediately echoed
by Amos, and finally swelled by the voice of
Rebecca Ann, until the chorus was perfect. In
despair, Mrs. Crane rushed to the sugar-bowl,
and liberally distributed its contents among the
clamorous trio.
-- 034 --
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Comparative tranquillity being restored by
this sweetening process, Ruth went with her
conductor to examine the rooms. She decided
at once that they would not do. They were
low, badly ventilated, dirty, and looked out
upon a close yard, into which well-educated pigs
would have disdained to enter. The Cranes
were evidently an uncleanly family, and with
such Ruth hoped to avoid forming an alliance.
As she returned to the sitting-room with
Frank, the sounds of another disturbance struck
their ears.
“Ma! Andrew has got my sugar!” screeched
the younger of the boys.
“Oh dear! Oh—h—h—h—yah—ooh—hullabaloo!”
yelled Andrew Jackson.
Before the perplexed mother could part the
combatants, Amos had seized Andrew by the
hair of his head, at which he was pulling with
all his strength. The tables were soon turned,
however, for Andrew succeeded in getting one
of Amos's fingers between his teeth, and it now
was Amos who yelled. It was some time before
poor Mrs. Crane could make the hero of
New-Orleans relax his bite, and put an end to
the fraternal strife.
“Was ever mother so pestered by her children!”
she exclaimed.
Ruth did not reply, but could not help thinking
that the mother was merely reaping the
consequences of her own faulty mode of bringing
the children up.
Bidding farewell to Mrs. Crane and her progeny,
the brother and sister proceeded on their
errand.
-- 035 --
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“I tell you what, Ruth,” began Frank, as they
emerged into the fresh air, “I should like to
have the trouncing of those two fellows, Andrew
and Amos. One of them was going to
stick a pin into me; but when he saw my fist
he grew shy. Are they not nice boys?”
“Take warning by their example, Frank, and
avoid quarrels. I wish you were not so ready
on all occasions to double up your fist.”
“You wouldn't have me stand still, and let
a fellow run pins into me, would you?”
“No; but try gentle means before you try
blows.”
“Oh, Ruth, you are a girl, and don't understand
some things,” said Frank, cocking his stupendous
hat upon one side of his head, with the
air of a man who is disposed to drop a tiresome
topic of conversation.
The next house at which they stopped was
one occupied by a Mr. Grimby, who testily sent
them away, saying that he could not be pestered
by children. Not at all disheartened, Ruth
renewed her inquiries at a neighbouring door;
but here the price demanded for rooms was altogether
too high. She now inquired at nearly
a dozen places successively. At times her application
was disregarded or laughed at; and,
on one occasion, a woman charged her with
making her inquiry a pretence for finding an
opportunity to steal something. This accusation
roused all the ire of Frank's nature, and he
told the woman that she spoke falsely.
“Hoity toity!” exclaimed she; “if you crow
again, I will cut your comb.”
-- 036 --
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“You are a bad woman,” returned Frank.
“Come away,” said Ruth.
“Be off!” continued the woman, attempting
to lay her hand on Ruth's shoulder to push her;
but Frank interposed, and tightly withheld the
extended arm. “Oh, you little tiger! let me
alone, or I will call Mr. Hyde,” said the termagant,
who, like most tyrannical people, was a
great coward.
“Strike me, but don't lay a finger on my sister!”
returned Frank; and, releasing the woman's
arm, he followed Ruth into the street.
It was now waxing late in the afternoon, and
the little orphans began to fear that they would
have to return home unsuccessful. After passing
from street to street, they suddenly found
themselves once more approaching the grocery
store where they had had the adventure with
the fat man. At the distance of a square from
this place, Ruth noticed a high brick house
standing by itself. It was old and poor in its
appearance, but the sidewalk before the door
was well swept, and at the front windows were
a couple of flower-pots, in one of which was a
monthly rosebush, and in the other a geranium-plant.
“I think they must be good people who live
here, Frank,” said Ruth. “We will call.”
Her light tap at the door was answered by a
little blue-eyed girl, hardly tall enough to reach
the latch, who smiled and courtesied as she returned
the glance of the young strangers.
“Who lives here, my dear?” asked Ruth.
“Aunt Sarah, or, I should say, Mrs. Bangs,”
replied the child.
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
“And what is your name, pretty one?” rejoined
Ruth.
“Lucy Marvell,” answered the little girl,
looking up confidingly in Ruth's face.
“I would like to see your aunt a few moments.”
“She is in the kitchen, ironing. Will you
walk in?”
Ruth and Frank followed their guide until
they found themselves in the presence of a
woman who seemed about thirty years old, and
who was busily engaged in ironing shirts and
fine pieces of linen. She was coarsely but
neatly dressed, with a plain muslin cap on her
head, and a kerchief white as newly-fallen snow
about her neck. Her countenance bore the
marks of labour and anxiety, but whenever she
spoke, it lighted up with a cheerful smile. Two
small children sat looking at a picture-book
upon a little bench which stood on the wide
brick hearth. They had their hands on each
other's shoulder, and the larger seemed to be
teaching the smaller one to read. Opposite to
these sat an old blind woman in an armchair,
who was slowly knitting upon a stocking. A
sleek gray cat lay lazily purring at her feet before
the fire. Everything about the room seemed
cleanly and in its place. Even the wide,
whitely-spread ironing-board bore an air of comfort.
Ruth modestly explained to Mrs. Bangs the
object of her visit; and the good woman's face
betrayed no slight emotion of surprise when
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
she learned her story, and her plans for the future.
As soon as Ruth had communicated all the
information she thought proper, Mrs. Bangs
briefly explained to her the condition of her
own household. The family consisted of herself
and husband, his blind mother, eight children,
and the little girl, Lucy Marvell, who had
opened the door. Of the children, the eldest
boy, Calvin, who had been apprenticed to a carpenter,
had, a few months before, fallen from
a staging and been crippled. He occupied a
room on the third story, to which he was still
confined by illness. William Bangs, or, as he
was more generally known among his companions,
Bill Bangs, was the next son, and on him
devolved the laborious duty of collecting and
depositing the clothes which his mother washed.
The office was no sinecure. Mary, the
eldest girl, was about Ruth's age, and had quite
enough to keep her employed in taking care of
the smaller children, the youngest of whom
numbered hardly two years. All that Ruth
could learn at the moment about Mr. Bangs was,
that he was a coachman; but the sigh which
escaped the blind old lady as his name was
mentioned, led the little visiter to fear that
there was something wrong about this important
member of the family.
There was yet another inmate of the house,
but he bore the relation of a lodger towards the
rest. This was a French gentleman, who was
known in the neighbourhood as the Mounseer,
but whose genuine name was Mallet. His sole
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
articles of furniture were a cot bedstead, a
was-basin, a broken chair, a broken mirror, a
violin case, which was not empty, and an excellent
pianoforte. The frugal means on which
he lived were obtained by playing on the violin
in the orchestra of one of the minor theatres.
His time during the day was devoted principally
to musical composition. He was always engaged
upon some new opera or oratorio, or
some incomprehensible fantasias, arias, and
concertos. The music publishers would refuse
even to examine his manuscripts; the theatres
would reject his operas; and the harmonic
societies would laugh at the idea of attempting
one of his oratorios; but, notwithstanding
all these failures and disappointments, where
could you find a lighter or more benignant
heart than that which beat beneath the rough,
uncouth exterior of the “Mounseer?” “Vive
la bagatelle!” he would exclaim, after one of
these rebuffs; “it is the vorld's loss—le pauvre
monde!”
As soon as she had communicated some of
these particulars to Ruth, Mrs. Bangs informed
her that there were two rooms in the garret,
one of which had a fireplace and a closet; and
that she could let them unfurnished for eight
dollars a month. Ruth's heart leaped at this
piece of intelligence, and she was nigh engaging
the apartments without looking at them.
This inadvertent haste Mrs. Bangs prevented
by offering to show them to her; and they consequently
proceeded up four flights of stairs to
the attic.
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
“Oh! these will do nicely—nicely, Mrs.
Bangs,” exclaimed Ruth, as she glanced out of
a window, and caught a refreshing glimpse of
the East River. “How clean and airy they
will be, and how easily ventilated! We will
take them to-morrow, Mrs. Bangs.”
“With one understanding, I will trust you,
my dear,” said Mrs. Bangs. “We are poor
people here—very poor; and, since my boy's
illness, and the falling-off in Mr. Bangs's business,
I find it very difficult to make both ends
meet. Do you think you will be able to pay
me the rent promptly in advance on the first of
every month?”
Ruth drooped her head a moment, and then,
looking up frankly, replied, “The first month's
rent I can surely pay when I take the rooms,
and I do believe that I shall be able to get along
so as to pay you promptly afterward.”
“You look and speak like a good girl,” said
Mrs. Bangs, “and I am not afraid to trust you.
You can take the rooms.”
“Oh, thank you—thank you, ma'am!” replied
Ruth. “I am sure we shall get along nicely.
But hark! Don't I hear music? And it comes
from the room below. How very sweet! I
love music.”
“That is the Mounseer playing on the piano.”
“The what, ma'am?” inquired Ruth.
“The old Frenchman of whom I told you
just now.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. And will he let us
hear him play?”
“I do not see how he can well help it; but
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
even if he could he would not, for he loves to
have listeners.”
“Then I am sure he will love me, for I could
listen all day,” said Ruth. “But come, Frank,
it is getting late. We will move into the rooms
to-morrow, Mrs. Bangs.”
“Very well, dear; I shall expect you. This
is the way down stairs, and there is Lucy waiting
for another kiss from you at the door.”
Bidding the good woman a cheerful good-by,
and giving Lucy the expected kiss, Ruth took
her brother's hand and quitted the house.
So, at length, the momentous mission was fulfilled—
and how successfully! How happy Ruth
felt at the issue of her day's wanderings and
inquiries! For some minutes she and Frank
walked on in silence. But soon, in retracing
their steps by one of the squares they had before
traversed, the latter exclaimed, “I say,
Ruth, look there!”
Ruth looked in the direction pointed out, and
saw the fat man, who had given them the oranges
in the morning, standing at the door of his
shop. His face no longer wore the joyous expression
which seemed congenial to it. He
stood with eyes fixed upon the ground, apparently
in a thoughtful and disconsolate mood.
Occasionally he would shake his head, as if he
were saying to himself, “It is too bad! I'll not
submit to it any longer.” Then he would
smooth his chin, as if he were half afraid of
the rebellious thoughts that had arisen in his
mind, and was trying to keep them down.
Frank dropped his sister's hand, and, with an
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
impulse half of sympathy and half of mischief,
went up and plucked the fat man by the skirt
of the coat, and, catching his glance, commenced
a most animated series of winks.
“What, my little hero! is it you?” exclaimed
Mr. Bibb, at once relaxing from his grave
mood. “And here is sister, too! Well, my
dear, have you succeeded in getting rooms?”
Ruth informed him of the happy termination
of their search, whereat Mr. Bibb seemed greatly
rejoiced, especially when he learned that
they were to live at Mrs. Bangs's, whom he
knew and liked, and whose house was at no
great distance from his own.
Looking cautiously round, Mr. Bibb's hand
moved stealthily towards a box of almonds, and
grasped a goodly quantity, which he was about
to transfer to Frank's hat, when the same shrill,
dissonant voice, which had before saluted him
after one of his benevolent donations, struck
upon his ear, and seemed to paralyze him in the
act. The almonds dropped from his grasp, and
were scattered on the floor; his teeth chattered,
and his rubicund visage lost its jolly hue.
“I thank you as much as if I had them,” said
Frank, shaking him by his hand, which had
dropped powerless by his side.
“Good-by, sir,” added Ruth; but the fat man
was as silent as if suffering under an apoplectic
attack.
Passing into the Bowery, where the lamplighters
were just commencing their nightly
task, the children hurried towards their home,
which they reached without any farther
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
adventure. They found Arthur and May quite well,
though a little concerned at their prolonged absence.
Arthur had been reading all the old
books he could find, and May had been busying
herself with her needle. Some food and
milk had been sent by Stanford. Ruth placed
them upon the plain pine table at which they
were accustomed to eat, and prepared their
day's meal.
“I am hungry as a bear,” said Frank.
“How good, how thoughtful of Mr. Stanford,
to send all these things!” exclaimed Ruth, with
a tear of gratitude in her eye.
“We shall dine at a fashionable hour,” said
Arthur. “Shall I not light the candle, sister?”
Ruth answered in the affirmative, and with
some kind, encouraging words to every one,
distributed the food and the milk. After a
cheerful repast, she heard the children say their
prayers, one after another, and saw them comfortably
asleep. Then, calling down a benediction
upon the friend who had assisted her, and
commending him, and herself, and those under
her charge to the vigilance of an all-gracious
Father, she sank into a sweet and tranquil repose.
-- 044 -- p333-053
CHAPTER IV. A GOOD MOVE.
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
What dungeon so damp and dreary—what
chamber so mean and miserable, that a beam of
the crimson sunlight of morning cannot gladden?
Alas for the heart which the blessed influence
cannot cheer and revive! Alas for the
eye which does not kindle with responsive joy
at the flushed cheek of a newborn day!
The fatigues of her late errand had so deepened
and sweetened Ruth's sleep, that when
she opened her eyes she started to see that it
was some time after sunrise. Immediately rising
from her pillow, she found that the children
were still reposing, with the exception of
Arthur, who was dressing behind the screen.
After washing, she followed his example, and
was soon accoutred. The children were then
called.
“Yaw—aw—aw—whoo!” yawned Frank, as
he threw off the bedclothes. “I say, Arthur,
do you know I have been sleeping at the rate
of ten knots an hour? I was afraid of foundering
at one time, I got so deep.”
“Get up, Frank! We have another good
day's work before us,” said Ruth.
“I am your man, then,” replied Frank, doing
as he was bidden.
As soon as all were ready, an early and
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
frugal breakfast was despatched, and the table
cleared away. Under the active superintendence
of Ruth, the humble household articles—
the sole legacy of Mr. Loveday—were then securely
packed for removal; the bed was taken
down, and the mattresses rolled up. Some ten
minutes after this was accomplished, the familiar
knock of Mr. Stanford was heard at the door,
which was eagerly opened by Ruth. As he entered,
he looked around with evident astonishment,
and exclaimed, “Bravo, my little housekeeper!
This is admirable! You have begun
nobly, my dear.” Saying this, Stanford stooped,
and enforced his expression of satisfaction
by kissing her forehead. Why did Ruth shrink
and blush as he did so? It would have puzzled
her to tell, had she asked herself the question.
A carman was speedily engaged, and preparations
made for immediate removal. The collected
property of the orphans hardly formed
a cart-load. As Frank sagaciously observed,
however, had it been greater, greater would
have been the trouble of transporting it.
With the youthful family, there were very few
pleasant ties to be sundered in parting from
their old room; and yet Ruth, as she bade it
farewell, could not forbear heaving a sigh or
two. There she had suffered penury and pain,
bereavement and affliction; but there, also, had
the finest sympathies of her nature, the tenderest
impulses of her heart, been developed and
tried. There a parent had breathed his last;
and, dark and squalid as it seemed, was it not
then, and would it not be henceforth, to her a
hallowed spot?
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
Stanford parted with the children at the door,
and, placing ten one-dollar bills in the hands of
Ruth, promised to visit their new abode in the
afternoon, and hurried away. Ruth stood gazing
after him till he was out of sight, nor did
she move till she was startled by Frank's calling
out, “Ruth! Ruth! will you never come
along? The old house will tumble on you if
you stand there much longer. The carman, and
Arthur, and May have already turned the corner.
Come along!”
As Frank was clamouring in this manner, a
big boy who was passing turned and said,
“Look here, Baretoes, you will be taken up if
you walk through Broadway with that hat on.
Don't you know there's a law against frightening
horses?”
“Well, I advise you not to get in the way of
the dog-killers,” retorted Frank.
“None of your slack!” said the big boy, angrily,
advancing and drawing back his fist.
“Come on!” replied Frank, buttoning his
jacket, and giving a very belligerent slant to his
terrible hat.
Whether it was that the big boy was frightened
by the hat or by Frank's show of resistance,
I have not been able satisfactorily to determine.
That he slunk away, however, with
an impotent shake of the head, is a fact which
does not admit of dispute.
It was after noonday before the migrating
party reached Mrs. Bangs's house in Cravenstreet.
On entering, the first sound that Ruth
heard was the voice of a man raised to an
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
angry pitch, and uttering the most violent oaths.
In the kitchen stood Mrs. Bangs, her bare elbow
leaning on a wash-tub, and her face flushed at
once by fatigue and weeping. A coarse, dissipated-looking
man, clothed in a white, shaggy
overcoat, with a yellow oil-skin hat on his head,
was shaking his fist at her and swearing. He
was evidently intoxicated, and Ruth rightly inferred
at once that he was no other than Mr.
Bangs.
“Hand me over five dollars, or I'll drown you
in your own wash-tub, Mrs. Soapsuds,” said he,
with a ferocious imprecation.
“Indeed, indeed, husband, I have given you
all I have, even the money I had put aside to
buy some opodeldoc for poor Calvin.”
“Sink the opo—opo—dildoc!” muttered the
drunkard, with a maudlin hiccough. “I want
money, and money I will have, or you shall
dance for it: so no more of your nonsense.”
At this moment Ruth and the children made
their appearance, and Bangs, vibrating to and
fro, glancing first at his wife and then at them,
exclaimed, “Well, what do these brats want
here?”
“I have let the rooms in the garret to them,
my dear,” replied Mrs. Bangs. “I hope you
will not object.”
“That depends upon circumstances, Mrs.
Bangs,” replied he, with a drunken chuckle.
“Do they pay down in advance, and no mistake?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” exclaimed Ruth, who began
to be alarmed at the prospect of the failure of
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
her negotiation; “I have the first month's rent
tied up here in my handkerchief.”
“Then untie it, my darling, and fork out.
You shall have the rooms!” said Bangs, whom
the anticipation of receiving the money had restored
to good humour.
Ruth feared she had been a little hasty, and
looked sorrowfully at Mrs. Bangs; but the latter,
with a sigh of resignation, told her to pay
the rent into her husband's hands. Ruth complied,
and counted out eight dollars, which Mr.
Bangs, after gloating over them for a moment,
safely stowed away in his waistcoat pocket, and
then tightly buttoned up his overcoat.
“Will you not leave me a dollar for Calvin?”
asked the unhappy wife. “He is in a good deal
of pain to-day—indeed he is.”
“Don't be unreasonable, my dear,” replied
the husband, in a tone of ironical tenderness.
“I have got to go to Hoboken upon very important
business, and shall want all the money I
can raise.”
Fy upon you, Bangs! The “important business”
on which you were going was to witness
a pugilistic encounter between “English Bob
and Yankee Tom,” and you wanted the money
to bet with!
As soon as the drunken man had quitted the
house, Ruth untied another corner of her handkerchief,
took from it one of two dollar bills,
looked at it wistfully a moment as she thought
of her own slender means, and then going to
Mrs. Bangs, who had sunk into a chair and covered
her face with her hands, she removed one
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
of them gently, and pressed into it the money.
As soon as the abused wife was conscious of the
act, she looked up at Ruth with an expression of
surprise, and for a moment it seemed as if her
wits were wandering. But then her breast began
to heave, and with a convulsive sob she
threw her arms about the girl's neck, and wept
audibly. It was some minutes before the sufferer
could recover her voice, so choked was
it with emotion. At last she said, “I thank
you, my dear—thank you for the loan, but still
more for these tears; for I feared—that I should
never weep again.”
The carman who had brought Ruth's movables
chanced to be honest and obliging. He
cheerfully assisted in carrying them up stairs
into the attic apartments which were now to
be a home to the young Lovedays. Ruth was
thankful to find that Mrs. Bangs had, the night
before, thoroughly washed the floors, which
seemed clean enough now to be spread with
damask without tarnishing it. The windows
were open, and a fine, fresh draught was pouring
through.
There were so many hands ready to help,
that the bed for Ruth and May, and the mattresses
for the boys, were soon properly bestowed.
It did not take long to arrange the furniture,
if by that name we may dignify the four
or five old, dilapidated chairs, a pine table,
a tin wash-basin, a trunk containing papers,
knives and forks, cups and saucers, plates and
spoons, a small desk that had belonged to Mr.
Loveday, a skillet and an iron pot, two
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
andirons and a flat-iron, a large wooden tub, a pail,
a shovel, and, to conclude, a bandbox and a
small square chest, holding all the articles of
clothing belonging to the orphans. These, with
a few blankets and sheets, and the clothes they
wore, constituted their whole property.
The room exposed to the south was chosen
for the girls' chamber. It must also serve for
parlour and kitchen. A small closet which adjoined
was made the receptacle of the utensils
for cooking and washing. As the weather grew
cold towards evening, Mrs. Bangs lent Ruth
some wood to make a fire, and a cheerful blaze
was soon throwing up a flickering reflection
upon the walls.
“This is a plaguy sight more comfortable
than the old place,” said Frank, rubbing his
hands. “I can see all the steamboats and ships
that pass up the East River from my chamber
window. Isn't it first rate, Arthur?”
A knock at the door interrupted the reply,
and Stanford entered.
“Well done again, my children!” exclaimed
he, as he received all their welcoming hands
into his. “These rooms are just the thing for
you, Ruth. You could not have chosen better.
Now let me look around, and see what more is
wanted to make you comfortable.”
“You have done far more for us already, Mr.
Stanford, than charity could ask. Believe me,
we want nothing more at present.”
“Let me be the judge of that, my dear,” said
Stanford, taking out pencil and paper, and noting
down the articles named. “In the first
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
place, you must have some wood; then candles;
two wash-benches, and some crash towels
and soap; two large pails; four basins;
tooth-brushes; a broom and mop; lastly, some
ship-biscuit, potatoes, salt beef, and salt.”
The mention of the tooth-brushes produced
manifest surprise. Stanford noticed it, and, after
completing his list, said, “Upon you, Ruth,
I need not impress the necessity of personal
cleanliness, for you are naturally neat; but
you may not know how intimately associated
it is with moral and physical health. There
can be no high breeding without it, nor any low
breeding with it. Poverty, while it clings to
this virtue—and, whatever may be said, it is a
virtue which even Poverty may practise — is
more desirable and respectable than rank and
wealth without it. Regard cleanliness, therefore,
as a sacred duty imposed on you by the
laws of your nature and of morality, and which,
if neglected, must result in moral or bodily disease.”
“We will all most surely follow your advice,
Mr. Stanford,” said Ruth.
“Then let my directions for one day answer
for all,” continued Stanford. “The articles I
have named shall be sent to you this evening.
Before going to bed, the boys shall fill the two
pails with fresh water, and leave one by the
bench in your room, and the other by that in
their own room. Wear no single article of clothing
at night that you have worn during the day.
Nothing can be more noisome and unwholesome
than the custom. As your means will
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
allow, have fresh under-garments for every morning.
Rise early, and lave, not merely your face
and neck, but the entire surface of your body,
commencing with the head, and ending with the
feet. Then rub yourself dry. The habit will
soon get to be a luxury, even in the coldest
weather, and you will be disposed to go rather
without your breakfast than your bath. After
washing the external surface, wash the interior
by cleansing the teeth, and taking a good
draught of fresh, cold water. Then throw open
the windows of both rooms, so that there may
be a current of air through, and give the bedclothes
a thorough airing for an hour or more,
at such intervals as may be convenient. Learn
that there is a morality of the body as well as
of the soul, and that the one cannot exist without
the other, so long as the mortal alliance
continues.”
Ruth silently drank in every word which
Stanford uttered, as if it were a distinct oracle;
and, seeing her attention so earnestly fixed, he
continued:
“Should the boys come home with cold or
wet feet, take care that they dip them into cold
water till the glow is restored, instead of keeping
on their shoes and stockings. Should they
be feverish, let the bath be warm. Will you
remember all these rules?”
“Shall I repeat them to you?” asked Ruth.
“I have them by heart.”
“I will trust to your recollection, my dear.
Obey them, and see that they are obeyed by
those who look up to you for guidance, and
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
you will escape, with the blessing of Heaven,
a thousand ills which beset, not merely the poor
and ignorant, but the rich and luxurious. All
diseases are the consequence of the infringement
of some physical law, either by ourselves
or our ancestors, as all vices are the result of
breaking a moral law.”
“You haven't told us anything yet, Mr. Stanford,
about eating,” said Arthur.
“Well thought of, Arthur!” resumed Stanford.
“I need hardly caution you against intemperance
either in eating or drinking; for
gluttony is the offspring of laziness, and I am
sure you will avoid that sin; but were you ever
so rich, I would say, let your food be simple
and pure; shun spices of all kinds; choose no
meat unless it is fresh or properly salted; drink
tea rather than coffee, but, if you cannot get the
tea, content yourself with the persuasion that
pure water is all the better for you; finally, in
the words of an old philosopher, `eat to live,
and do not live to eat.”'
“I'll never make such a beast of myself as to
get drunk, anyhow,” said Frank, “after what I
saw to-day.”
He then told the story of Mr. Bangs's conduct,
and in the course of it the fact of Ruth's
parting with one of her last two dollars came
out.
She looked at Stanford, half fearing that she
had been improvident; but she was reassured
as a smile of gratification passed over his face.
He mused in silence for a moment, and the
thought which occupied his mind was this:
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
“How many more calls do the poor, living
among the poor, have upon their sympathy and
charity than the rich, who may live in their fine
houses for years without witnessing a single instance
of domestic misery and destitution! It
is quite apparent that the humble and needy
give away far more in proportion to their means
than the affluent; and there is a reason why it
should so be; for to the former, scenes of distress
and penury are brought directly home,
with a powerful appeal to their feelings, while
the latter see them only through the rose-coloured
veils of fiction, or avoid them altogether
as a disagreeable subject.”
“And now, Ruth,” said Stanford, starting
from his revery, and taking her by the hand,
“I have a piece of news to tell you which I
fear will make you sad. A gentleman who is
about to sail for Europe has offered to pay my
expenses if I will accompany him, and remunerate
him by copying certain Italian paintings.
The offer is so advantageous that I cannot hesitate
to accept it; in fact, I have made arrangements
to leave the country in a packet-ship to-morrow.”
Poor Ruth! She had grown paler and paler
as Stanford proceeded in his communication,
and, as the last word fell upon her ear, she
fainted.
Stanford took her gently in his arms, and
dipping his fingers in cold water, touched her
forehead and lips, and breathed into her nostrils
and mouth. In a few minutes she was restored;
and, smiling feebly, she said, “I have
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
given you much trouble, sir, but, believe me,
I am grateful.”
“Be not too much concerned at my departure,
my child. I shall be able to give you a
little more assistance, and—”
“Ah, no! it is not that—it is not that!”
“God will raise up new friends to provide
for you.”
“I know he will: it is not that!”
“Should you be in want—”
“He feeds the sparrows, and I am sure he
will give us food. I have no fear: it is not
that!”
“Why should my going distress you so, then,
my child?”
“I cannot tell—I do not know: I am very
selfish, I fear; but no! it is not that I want your
farther aid; do not give me anything more; we
shall now be able to get along, I am sure we
shall!”
Notwithstanding Ruth's unfeigned reluctance
to deprive Stanford of any more money, he insisted
on leaving her five dollars, by way of capital
to start with. Then, giving the boys some
advice as to obtaining employment, he took a
last affectionate farewell of the orphans. Hardly
had he quitted the house, when it entered his
mind to turn back, and leave some directions
with Ruth that should enable him to find her
in the event of his returning to New-York.
She did not have his address, and was ignorant
even of his whole name. He hesitated, walked
back a few paces, then abandoned his intention,
turned, and resumed his course
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
homeward. It was his design to remain in Europe
for many years. Was it not better to leave
their reunion to accident? Other thoughts
came to claim his attention, and the purpose
was forgotten. During his moment of vacillation,
Ruth had been lamenting that he had not
done the very thing that his own mind had suggested.
Why not send Arthur after him, and
make the inquiry? A blush tinged her cheek
at the idea. Her eyes fell upon the table.
What object made her start? It was a little
silver pencil-case which had been accidentally
left by Stanford. She eagerly seized it, and
pressed it to her lips. Then, bidding Arthur
hasten after the owner and restore it to him, she
surrendered it into her brother's hands. Arthur
soon returned with the information that he
had been unable to find Mr. Stanford, and Ruth
received the precious relic and placed it next
her bosom.
An hour or two afterward, the articles which
Stanford had promised to send arrived, and the
boys brought them up stairs. Ruth spread the
table for the day's last meal, and the rest of the
children did ample justice to it with their keen
appetites, but she could not eat a morsel.
What is the matter with you, Ruth?
-- 057 -- p333-066
CHAPTER V. WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY.
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
Most punctiliously was all Stanford's advice
obeyed by the little family of orphans. Such a
sprinkling of cold water, and such a ventilation
of rooms as were had the next morning in their
garret, would have satisfied the severest observer
of the rules of health.
Before seven o'clock order was restored, and
the “breakfast things” were cleared away.
“And now, boys,” said Ruth, “what's to be
done? We must to-day begin to get our own
living, and it will not do to be idle a moment.
What was that plan which you had in your head,
Frank?”
“Give me a dollar to start with, and I will
tell you when I come home to-night,” replied
Frank.
“There it is,” said Ruth, placing the money
in his hand. “But before you go, Frank, let
me beg you not to get into any trouble. Take
care of yourself, and think how worried we
shall all be unless you return home in good
season.”
“I won't get into a fight if I can help it,
Ruth,” returned Frank. “You may be sure of
that. I shall be too busy in trying to make
this one dollar two.”
“Well, I will rely upon your affection, Frank,
to obey me, when I charge you to avoid all
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
quarrelsome company, and to lay out your
money prudently. You are a very little boy to
be trusted in this way; but necessity makes us
older than time.”
“I know a thing or two, Ruth, so don't worry
about me. Now good-by till nightfall.”
Saying thus, Frank clapped on his redoubtable
hat, the sight of which made Ruth shudder
with apprehension, and adroitly placing the
dollar bill in some mysterious pocket near his
left shoulder, he started on his secret expedition.
Poor Arthur was puzzled to devise some kind
of employment for himself. Unlike his brother,
who was fond of activity and bustle, he had a
taste for study and for reading. He was never
so happy as when poring over some book,
which either added to his store of knowledge,
or fed his sense of the beautiful. Had he been
capable of envy, he would have almost envied
Frank his boldness and alacrity, his defiance
of oppression, his self-reliance and unhesitating
fearlessness of address.
“What shall I do, Ruth?” asked Arthur.
“You know that I am willing and anxious to
work.”
“Ay, but the work will not come to us; we
must go to the work,” replied Ruth. “I think
you would better take a walk through Grand-street
and the Bowery, and inquire of the shopkeepers
if they can give you employment.”
“I do so hate to be harshly answered or
slighted!” said Arthur. “I cannot bear to ask
a favour.”
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
“It is no favour which you ask, my dear
brother; it is not very probable that any one
will engage you unless he means to make you
useful, and get out of you the value of your
wages—perhaps more.”
“You are right, Ruth. I will go, and do my
best. So good-by till I return.”
Arthur quitted the room, and the two sisters
were left alone.
“And now, May Loveday, what can you do
to help along?” asked Ruth, kissing the little
one's cheek.
“Let me think. I can sew almost as well as
you can—can't I, Ruth?”
“That you can, my dear, and will soon sew
a great deal better, I hope. Well, you shall
employ yourself to-day in mending the boys'
shirts and stockings. By-and-by, perhaps, we
can get work for you that shall bring us money.”
“When may I begin, Ruth?”
“At once. Here are the clothes, and here
needles and thread.”
As soon as Ruth had, in this manner, found
occupation for all her little family, she sat down
and thought long and intently as to what means
of employment she could discover for herself.
In plain sewing she was sure that she could
give satisfaction, but, from consulting with Mrs.
Bangs, she learned that there were so many
poor girls seeking for work of that kind, that
it was difficult to procure it even at the lowest
price. Ruth thought that she could assist Mrs.
Bangs at the wash-tub; but the latter assured
her that she would hazard her health in the
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
attempt, as her constitution was delicate. Even
if she could wash and iron, Mrs. Bangs could
not give her employment, as she did not have
more than enough for herself and girls.
Most earnestly did Ruth think and think,
striving to hit upon some plan for exerting her
faculties, to obtain a maintenance. She was
almost in despair as Mrs. Bangs left the room
without having been able to aid her in her efforts.
She thought over all the various ways
of getting a living of which she had ever heard,
but no one seemed to present encouragement
to her.
Resolving not to be idle with her hands, however,
even while her thoughts were busy, she
opened the desk that had belonged to her father
to find some needles that she remembered to
have placed there. As she was rummaging
among the old papers and account-books with
which it was filled, her hand encountered some
little square blocks of rosewood, and she drew
them forth. They were relics of her father's
art of an engraver. Several of them were blank,
but others were covered with very beautiful
drawings, in readiness to be engraved. Two
or three of them had been partially engraved
by Mr. Loveday, and required only a few hours'
work with the graver to be completed.
Ruth examined them for some moments in silence,
while softened recollections of both her
parents stole over her mind. Suddenly she
started as if a happy thought had occurred to
her. She had often watched her father while
he was at work with his graver. He had
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
sometimes permitted her to make a few indentations
upon a block with her own hand. She had
once marked the lines that represented an elephant's
trunk in so fine a manner, that Mr. Loveday
declared he could not have done it better
himself. She had also drawn figures in India
ink upon wood, and, before her father had been
reduced by penury, and domestic cares claimed
all her attention, she had frequently found
amusement for days in her pencil.
As these reminiscences passed rapidly through
Ruth's mind, she asked herself the question,
“Why cannot I complete these engravings, and
sell them? What if it is not exactly a woman's
work, cannot I make it so? And if it be well
done, will the purchaser care by whom it may
have been executed? Oh! what a lucky, lucky
idea! I will set to work straightway.”
“What is the matter, Ruth?” asked May,
looking up from her sewing as her sister suddenly
gave her a kiss that almost took away
her breath, and then danced around her like a
spirit of joy.
“I have found it! I am so happy!” was all
that Ruth could reply.
My readers are probably aware that engraving
on wood, though a very delicate operation,
and one in which great talent and ingenuity
should be exercised, is still extremely simple.
The graver is a little chisel, pointed much like
an ordinary penknife. After the picture is
drawn on the wood, all the white places in it
are dug out with this chisel, and the dark lines
are left raised above them, varying in fineness
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
and direction according to the style of the drawing
and the disposition of shade. To be a
good engraver on wood, an acute mechanical
touch, a keen eye, a nice taste, and a patient,
persevering temper are requisite.
In the desk Ruth found several of the little
chisels used in the art, neatly done up in paper.
With these, and a shelf raised near the window,
on which to place the block, she would be in
readiness to go to work. The shelf was arranged
by placing one chair upon another in a
suitable light. Rapidly effecting her preparations,
she selected one of the partially engraved
blocks, and concentrated all her faculties upon
the task of completing the cut.
Minutes and hours flew rapidly by. About
two o'clock the girls made a hearty dinner upon
a couple of ship-biscuit and a bowl of milk, and
then resumed their tasks. Twilight came on,
but they were hardly aware of its approach until
it grew too dark to see distinctly. Then
Ruth carefully laid aside the engraving upon
which she had been engaged, examined little
May's achievements with the needle, praised her
for her industry and skill, lit a candle, and prepared
a warm supper for the boys, whom she
now every moment expected. It was not long
before Arthur arrived. He had not been successful
in his search for employment, and returned
sad and desponding. Ruth soon cheered
him, however, by her own rose-coloured
thoughts and sunny hopes, showing him the
work she had done, and encouraging him to
“try again.”
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
“But where can Frank be all this time?” said
she, as she looked out at the starry heavens
and the gathering shades of night.
“Where can he be?” echoed May.
The clock struck nine, and still no Frank
came. The children grew anxious, then alarmed.
Another hour rolled drearily by, during
which they went every other moment to the
window, looked for his appearance, and listened
for his footfall.
Who has not felt the pain of such solicitude
as the young Lovedays now experienced—the
sickness of the heart produced by the unaccountable
delay of a beloved object? What
accidents, and dangers, and dreary contingencies
does Fancy conjure up, as minute after minute
passes, and no sign of his coming is seen or
heard! Hark! the door opens. He is come!
No! it is not the expected one. What figure
is that in the dingy distance? It is his! No!
it turns in a direction different from that which
he would have pursued. Why does he not return?
He must know how anxious we are.
He surely would not willingly keep us in this
terrible suspense. Some accident must have
befallen him. Perhaps he went on the water,
and is drowned. Perhaps he has been run over
by a cart. Perhaps—but why conjecture, where
conjecture is boundless in its scope?
After waiting till it was past ten o'clock,
Ruth and Arthur put on their cloaks, and, leaving
May in bed, sallied forth in search of their
missing brother. The night was cold, though
clear, and they wandered from street to street,
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
inquiring of all the watchmen they encountered
if they “had seen anything of a little boy with
a big hat on his head.”
“Are you sure the hat was on his head?”
asked one of them, in reply.
Arthur unsuspectingly answered in the affirmative.
“Was he a very small boy?”
“About half a head shorter than I am.”
“Didn't he have pantaloons on, and a jacket?”
“Yes, yes,” said Ruth, eagerly.
“Were his shoes rather dirty?”
“It is very likely. Pray tell us what has happened
to him.”
“Was his hat a very big black hat?”
“Oh, yes! Where is he?”
“Well, I don't recollect having seen any such
boy;” and, saying thus, the man laughed heartily,
as if he flattered himself he had been very
funny.
The children turned away surprised and disappointed.
By others, of whom they made inquiries,
they were kindly treated. But, after
traversing the streets for two hours, they were
obliged to return home unsuccessful in their
search. Frank had not made his appearance.
Weary and sad, Ruth and Arthur retired to bed,
but could not compose themselves to sleep.
The next day was Sunday, and a sad Sunday
it was for the three orphans. They renewed
their search for Frank, but it was still unavailing,
and another miserable night rolled laggingly
by. Monday came, but still Frank was looked
for in vain.
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
On Tuesday morning, as, silent and disconsolate,
they were sitting down to breakfast, a
noise was heard on the stairs, and—
But the event is worthy to form the subject
of a new chapter.
-- 066 -- p333-075
CHAPTER VI. THE TRAVELLER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF, OR A NEWS-BOY'S MISHAP.
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
The mysterious noise upon the stairs was
occasioned by the return of no less important
a character than Master Frank Loveday.
“Hurrah for our side!” exclaimed he, dashing
into the room where the melancholy party
were assembled.
An exclamation of astonishment—of gratitude
to Heaven, was the first salutation with which
he was received. Then Ruth threw her arms
about his neck, kissed him over and over again,
looked in his face after every embrace, to assure
herself that it was really he, and wept and
laughed by turns. After a general welcome
had been given to him, questions were poured
in so fast, that, had he had fifty tongues, he could
not have answered them all. So he wisely concluded
to defer explanations for the present,
replying, with an air of profound mystery, that
he had had important business to attend to
which required him to leave the city.
“Do not tantalize us, Frank, but tell us at
once what you have been about,” said Ruth.
“How do you like my toggery?” observed
he, strutting around the room, and displaying
an entirely new suit of clothes, new shoes and
stockings.
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
“Where have you been these two days?”
asked Arthur.
“Ahem! Who wants money?” exclaimed
Frank, pulling a little leathern bag from his
pocket, jingling it, and tossing it in the air. In
his left hand he held a bundle strung upon a
stick, to which he also seemed to attach no
small importance.
“You are like a house all new but the roof,
Frank,” said Arthur. “I wonder you didn't
get another hat while you were in the way of
good luck. The one you have on looks bigger
and uglier than ever.”
“I love it,” replied Frank, taking it off, and affectionately
smoothing what once might have
been a nap. “It is made of first-rate beaver.
I don't believe such a piece of beaver can be
found in New-York. It has seen service since
I left you. But don't suppose I couldn't sport
something of a newer fashion if I wanted to.
Look here!”
Frank untied the bundle with his teeth, and,
tossing out his old clothes, took from under
them a new patent-leather cap.
“Water-proof!” ejaculated he, gazing at it,
and shaking his head with the air of a man who
is a good judge of a prime article when he sees
it.
“Oh, Frank! your left eye is all purple, and
green, and yellow, and red, and every sort of
colour,” exclaimed little May, looking wonderingly
up in his face.
“To be sure it is, May!” he replied. “And
here is a tooth that was knocked out of my
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
mouth the same time I got this dig in my
peeper.”
“Let me beg you not to use such language,
Frank,” said Ruth. “I fear you have been
among bad boys. You have been fighting—have
you not?”
“Yes; and I guess you would have had to
fight too, if you had been plagued as I was.”
“What has happened? Do tell us all about
it.”
As Frank's narrative was somewhat prolix
and discursive, I will take the liberty of condensing
it into the briefest space compatible
with fidelity.
The mighty project which he had in his head
when he left home on Saturday morning, was
that of entering into the newspaper business, in
emulation of the individual to whom he had
formerly alluded as Sam Stuggs. In pursuance
of this momentous enterprise, he had, early in
the morning, visited the publication offices of
the large morning newspapers, and expended
forty-eight cents of his capital in copies of the
Courier and Enquirer, Journal of Commerce,
and Morning Express. The retail price of these
was six cents apiece; but Frank, being a wholesale
customer, had to give only four cents.
Should he succeed, therefore, in disposing of
his twelve copies at retail, his profit would be
twenty-four cents, or, more probably, a quarter
of a dollar. He was deeply impressed with the
magnitude of his investment, and, folding his
stock in trade carefully under his arm, he started
up Wall-street, crying at the top of his
-- 069 --
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lungs, “Here's the Courier and Enquirer,
Journal of Commerce, and Express! Here they
go! Have a morning paper, sir?”
But, before he became regularly settled in
business as a news-boy, there was an ordeal to
pass through, of which poor Frank had not
dreamed. At the corner of Nassau-street he
encountered a knot of ragged urchins, who had
long preoccupied the ground upon which he
had ventured. They were of various ages and
heights. Some had on long loose coats, that
had originally been made for their grandfathers,
and the tails of which dragged upon the ground
as they walked; some were accoutred in jackets,
which, like a botanical garden, were laid
out in patches; others had on enormous boots
incrusted with mud, imbedded in rigid wrinkles;
while with others, who had been fast of
growth, the pantaloons hardly reached the knee.
Notwithstanding the eccentricities in dress
by which they were all more or less distinguished,
Frank's hat was a phenomenon for which
they were not at all prepared. He was, moreover,
a “new man”—an intruder. How could
he be suffered to pass unpersecuted?
“Hullo! Who is this?” exclaimed one of
the big urchins, who was known as the Major,
and who wore an overcoat made of an old carpet,
while his head was encased in a sailor's
Scotch cap of many colours.
Frank remembered Ruth's warning to avoid
getting into quarrels, and he hurried on, hoping
to escape annoyance; but the Major placed
himself directly in his way, and
-- 070 --
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compassionately inquired “if his anxious mother knew that he
was out.”
“I have no mother,” replied Frank.
“You have a hat, at any rate,” said the Major,
laconically, at the same time knocking it
off his head.
Frank stooped to pick it up; but, before he
could do so, a boy who went by the appellation
of Bully Hyde gave it a kick, which sent it
across the street. A shout was instantly set up
by the rest of the little crowd of tormentors,
who now rushed towards the dishonoured hat
to play with it at football. Frank ran to recover
it; but, as he again stooped, a lad about
his own size, who had been named by his associates
“Barking Billy,” from his remarkable talent
at imitating the yelping of a dog, pushed
him into the mud, scattering and soiling his
newspapers, and eliciting from Bully Hyde and
the rest very decided marks of approbation and
amusement at the success of the feat.
Burning with indignation, Frank grasped his
hat, placed it, “with all its imperfections,” on
his head, and, abandoning his newspapers,
which had now been rendered valueless by
having been trampled in the dirt, he flew at
“Barking Billy,” and with a single blow laid
him prostrate.
The effect of this sudden punishment upon
the accomplished imitator of the canine species
partook somewhat of the ludicrous. At first he
uttered a blubbering cry, such as might proceed
from a child on being soundly whipped;
then, apparently forgetting himself, he gave
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
expression to his pain in the yelping, doglike
sounds which he had practised so often that it
was like a second nature to give them utterance;
and in this way he fluctuated from human
to brutal noises. Had you heard without
seeing him, you might have supposed that a dog
and a cat were fighting, and that each, in turn,
got the advantage.
The news-boys seemed awed for a moment
by Frank's display of pugnacity. But soon one
of them, who was called Dick, and who considerably
excelled him in size, came up, and, taking
him by the collar, asked, “What did you do
that for?”
“What did he push me into the mud for, and
spoil my papers?” reinterrogated Frank.
“Take that—and that!” replied Master Dick,
slapping him violently in the face.
For a second Frank was blinded by the unexpected
blows; but, soon recovering himself, he
gave back Master Dick's cuffs with interest.
“A ring! a ring!” shouted the rest of the
hopeful gang; and a ring was at once formed.
Frank's blood was up, and he resolved to
stand by his rights to the last. Master Dick
took off his jacket and gave it to one of his
friends, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and moistened
his hands, with the evident desire of frightening
his antagonist by his deliberate and business-like
preparations. But Frank was not
cowed.
“Why don't you go at it?” cried the Major,
who was impatient of delay.
“I won't fight unless I am forced to,” replied
Frank.
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
Attributing this remark to faint-heartedness,
Master Dick commenced the combat by hitting
Frank a blow in the eye. After this provocation,
Frank had no compunction in giving himself up,
heart and hand, to the defence of his person from
farther abuse. He repelled the clumsy blows
aimed at him by others more effective, and suffered
from but one more wound, that in his
mouth. It soon became evident that Master
Dick was getting the worst of the encounter,
or, as the Major expressed it, that “he had
waked up the wrong passenger.” Fainter and
more timid grew his movements; and finally, as
Frank put all his will into a parting blow at his
left shoulder, he gave way and uttered a yell
which rivalled the recent efforts of “Barking
Billy” himself. With this vocal performance
the contest ended.
“Does anybody else want to be served in the
same way?” asked Frank, who, now that his
hand was in, seemed disposed to “do up” all
his fighting. “There is a plenty more steam
in this boiler!”
The boys laughed and flocked around him,
but no one seemed disposed to plague him any
more. The Major clapped him on the shoulder,
and declared that he had proved himself worthy
of being a news-boy, and that he should thenceforth
be known by the honourable appellation of
“Little Tuffy.”
Frank replied that “he didn't like nicknames.”
Then a boy, whose principal article of dress
appeared to be a long black surtout, and who
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
was known to his fellows as the Deacon, came up
to Frank, and begged his acceptance of a handful
of peanuts—an overture of kindness which
was not declined.
As soon as he could rid himself of his new
friends, to whom, by-the-way, he might sincerely
have said, with Jacques in the play, “I do
desire we may be better—strangers,” Frank
went to the pump at the head of Pearl-street,
and spent nearly an hour in cleaning himself.
He then examined into the state of his finances,
and found that he had just fifty-two cents in his
pocket, and with this sum, as the morning papers
were now almost out of date, he concluded
that he would buy thirteen of the evening prints.
Could he sell these, he should be left with seventy-eight
cents, thus making his loss produced
by the onslaught of “Barking Billy” just
twenty-two cents. Had he been able to dispose
of his entire stock, his profits would have
amounted to half a dollar.
After indulging in these calculations, Frank
went to the office of the New-York American,
and asked when it would be published.
“The evening papers go to press at one
o'clock,” replied the clerk.
It was then just eleven, and Frank had two
hours to pass before he could resume his business.
Not knowing how to employ himself, he
walked up Broadway, and looked in at Colman's
shop-windows, where some very beautiful engravings
were exhibited. Having a taste for
pictures, he entertained himself very well for
an hour in examining them. Then, continuing
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
his walk, he passed the Astor House, and made
a reconnoitring tour as far as Chambers-street.
Here he spied a doctor's wagon standing at the
door of a private house. The horse attached to
it, becoming restiff, soon began to walk away.
Frank, seeing no one by to check him, went up,
seized him by the bridle, and stopped him. At
that instant the doctor came forth from the
house, and saw what had happened. He looked
up the street, and then down, and appeared
quite vexed at the absence of some one who
should have attended to the horse. Finally, he
came up, thanked Frank for what he had done,
and offered him a shilling; but the latter declined
it, feeling that he had not earned it.
The doctor looked surprised, and was about
to ask his name, when a big, clumsy boy came
running up, and, pushing Frank away, held the
horse himself.
“So you have come just when you are not
wanted, Master Thomas!” said the doctor.
“Don't you know that the horse might have
run away had he not been stopped by this good
lad?”
“I was only a rod or two off,” muttered the
boy.
“You should have a rod or two on—your
back,” replied the doctor. “Now you may
just let go that bridle, and leave my service.
Here is a dollar, which is all that will be due
you a week hence. I shall not want you any
more.”
The boy began to whimper, and beg to be
retained.
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
“If this were the first time, Thomas, or the
second, that I had found you disobeying me
and neglecting my interests, I would not mind
it; but your promises of amendment are no
sooner made than broken. You need not plead
any more. I have made my mind up. You
may go.”
Thomas, finding that the doctor was serious
and determined, grew insolent, and declared
that he had long wished to go, and that no
money would induce him to stay. Saying thus,
he shook his fist menacingly at poor Frank, and
went his way.
Frank, with that spirit of investigation which
usually characterized him, had listened attentively
to this dialogue, and after it was over
he said,
“Doctor, I can tell you of a first-rate boy.”
“Is he a boy that fights, and gets black
eyes?” asked the doctor, with a smile.
“Oh, no, I don't mean myself, but a much
better boy than I am—my brother, Arthur Loveday.”
The doctor seemed amused at Frank's forwardness,
and made inquiries, with which he
was so well satisfied that he consented to give
Arthur a trial, remarking that he should wish
him to be present at his house early on Monday
morning; and with this he drove off.
Highly delighted with the arrangement he
had made for his brother, Frank hurried down
Broadway towards the offices of the evening papers.
Making the purchases he had contemplated,
he now started, with renewed spirits, to
cry his wares through the streets.
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
“Here's the Evening Post, Evening Star,
Commercial Advertiser, and New-York American!
Here they go!” screamed Frank, running
up Wall-street at the top of his speed.
By four o'clock he had sold eight newspapers.
He then went down to the pier near the
Battery from which the large steamboats for
Providence were accustomed to start. Here,
as the passengers collected, he disposed of
four more copies. As he stood upon the wharf,
an old gentleman on board the boat asked him
for the Evening Star. It chanced to be the last
paper of his stock, and, crossing the plank that
led to the lower deck, Frank ran to dispose of
it. He had heard a bell a minute before, accompanied
with the noise of the letting-off of steam,
and, as he rushed towards the boat, he noticed
that the rest of the news-boys were scampering
out of it. Still he did not apprehend anything;
and, as the old gentleman quite composedly
drew out his purse, and slowly searched for a
sixpence, Frank supposed that all must be right.
He was soon undeceived by feeling the planks
beneath him in motion, and hearing a news-boy
on the pier, with a yell and a laugh of ecstasy,
which were re-echoed by the rest of the fraternity,
exclaim, “See! see! Little Tuffy is on
board! He has stayed too long! He will have
to go to Providence! Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!
Whoop!”
Frank, in desperation, left the old gentleman
fumbling for the sixpence, and rushed towards
the plank. It had been withdrawn. He retreated
a step, with the intention of making a leap to
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
the land; but a sailor held him back, saying,
“Would you break your neck, you young scapegrace?”
At this crisis, the delight of the little tatterdemalions
on the wharf appeared to reach absolute
delirium. They whooped, they shouted,
they laughed, they roared, till you might have
thought that a whole caravan of young hyænas
had broken loose: some of them jumped Jim
Crow; others threw up their legs and walked
on their hands. The promising youth known
as “Barking Billy” yelped as if a whole pack
of hounds were undergoing a scourging. The
“Deacon,” in direct violation of those habits
of decorum and sobriety which are supposed to
distinguish deacons, turned a somerset; and
the “Major” gave vent to his superflux of spirits
by knocking down some of the smaller news-boys.
Bewildered and confounded, Frank gazed
upon them with a sort of stupid consternation.
The distance between him and the land grew
greater and greater. The boat rounded the
Battery, and he was relieved of the sight of the
exulting spectators of his mischance. He now
began to realize the nature of his situation; and
as he thought of Ruth, and the painful anxiety
to which those at home would be subjected by
his absence, the big tears started to his eyes.
He ran to the captain's office to beg him to turn
back the boat and let him get out; but there
was such a crowd of men about it paying their
passage-money that he could not make himself
heard.
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
As he was bitterly deploring this unlooked-for
accident, the old gentleman, at whose beck
he had come on board, encountered him, and
asked, “Are you not the lad who sold me this
paper, and didn't take your pay?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Frank, manfully checking
his tears. “The boat started before I could
reach the plank.”
“Bless me! it was all my fault, my little man.
I should have known better than to ask you to
come to me at such a moment.”
“I should have known better than to have
minded you,” replied Frank, wiping a lingering
tear from his cheek with his sleeve.
“Never fret about it, my little man,” said the
old gentleman, whose name was Lawrence, and
who carried in his hand a big cane with an
ivory head. “Never mind! You shall be taken
care of.”
“I am not afraid for myself,” replied Frank;
“but—” and the thoughts of those at home
again started a tear.
“But what, little man?”
“I know that my sisters and brother will be
terribly anxious about me, and I can't get back
to them again till Tuesday—so I heard one of
the sailors say. Besides, I had found such a
nice place for Arthur! And if he isn't there on
Monday morning at six o'clock, I am afraid he
will lose it.”
The old gentleman seemed interested by
Frank's earnestness of manner, and made many
inquiries about him and his family, to which
very satisfactory answers were rendered. The
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
account of his adventures that morning with
the news-boys, and the manner in which he
came by his black eye, made Mr. Lawrence
laugh very heartily, whereupon Frank laughed
too, and entirely forgot that he had been shedding
tears.
“Well, Frank,” said the old gentleman, “as I
got you into this scrape, I must get you out of
it. Ruth and Arthur will undoubtedly be much
troubled by your absence, but I don't see as you
can do them any good by worrying about it
yourself; if you could, there might be some
sense in your grief. The best way is to endure
with cheerfulness what we cannot prevent: is
it not so?”
“Yes, sir, I am sure it is; and I don't mean to
fret about it any more.”
“That is right. It's an ill wind indeed that
doesn't blow us good of some kind. After all,
you may not be the loser by this little accident.
I will see the captain, who is a nephew of mine,
and settle for your passage. You shall visit
Providence, where I live. In the morning, we
will borrow a suit of clothes from a grandson
of mine about your size, and you shall attend
church with me and my family. On Monday, we
will go to a tailor's, and procure a full new suit
for you; and in the afternoon, you shall return
to this boat, which will land you early the next
morning at the spot you last quitted.”
“That's good! Thank you, sir—thank you!”
exclaimed Frank, as these brilliant prospects
were opened to his imagination.
On the East River, Mr. Lawrence pointed out
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
to his young companion all the buildings and
objects of note calculated to strike his attention,
and seemed much amused by the boy's
eager and intelligent questions. When the bell
that summoned the passengers to the tea-table
sounded, he gave Frank a seat at his side, and
was pleased to see him eat a hearty meal. Well
might it have been hearty, for the little fellow
had not tasted a morsel since breakfast.
All Mr. Lawrence's promises were faithfully
fulfilled. Frank passed the night on a cot in
the gentlemen's cabin, and rose early on Sunday
morning much refreshed. Arriving in
Providence, he was neatly accoutred, and taken
to church, as had been proposed; and the next
day was presented with the promised new suit,
including the “patent-leather cap” already commemorated.
In the afternoon Mr. Lawrence
took him on board the steamboat, gave him five
bright half-dollar pieces, and arranged for him
a free conveyance back to New-York, where,
in due season, the young wanderer arrived safe
and sound, as has before been narrated.
I have done but partial justice to Frank's animated
description of his adventures, omitting
entirely his account of the marvels of his voyage—
the light-houses he had seen at night—
the big waves they had encountered off Point
Judith—the sight of another steamboat at sea—
the wonders of the machinery—and, finally, the
agreeable visit to Mr. Lawrence's house at
Providence. All these details I must leave to
the imagination of my readers.
Having finished his story, Frank gave all his
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
money, amounting to five dollars and twentyeight
cents, into the hands of Ruth. Then, resuming
his old clothes and hat, he announced
his intention of continuing his occupation of
news-vender, and asked for another dollar with
which to make a new purchase of stock. Ruth
gave it to him, with the earnest entreaty that
he would not get into any more fights.
“There is no danger of their troubling me
again,” replied Frank. “If I hadn't given them
that specimen of spunk, I couldn't have gone
into the street without being plagued by them.”
“But, Frank,” said Arthur, “where does this
Doctor Remington live that you talk about?”
“Oh, come with me, and I will show you. I
don't believe he has engaged a boy yet.”
Frank was right in his surmise. Doctor Remington,
on learning the reason why Arthur had
not called at the time fixed upon, seemed perfectly
satisfied. He liked Arthur's appearance
and intelligent replies, and offered to pay him
a dollar and a half a week for his services, at
which Frank and Arthur exchanged congratulations,
and the bargain was at once closed.
-- 082 -- p333-091
CHAPTER VII. ADVENTURES AT HOME.
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
As soon as Ruth was restored to tranquillity
by her brother's auspicious return, she resumed
her labours upon the woodcut with new spirit
and hope. In a week she had completed it to
her satisfaction. Through Frank's agency, she
procured a little box of printing-ink and some
fine paper, and with them took what is called
a proof impression of the engraving.
“It's a first-rate picture!” was Frank's exclamation,
as, with a beating heart and a cautious
hand, Ruth drew off the paper from the block,
and looked at the print it had received. As
she scanned it, she could not prevent a blush of
satisfaction and pleasure from rising to her forehead.
The result was entirely successful. All
the lines of the engraving seemed to be in their
right places and of the proper width. It formed,
as Frank had asserted in his peculiar phraseology,
“a first-rate picture.”
Mrs. Bangs was called in to look at it, and
the good woman could hardly find expression
for her admiration and astonishment at the inspection.
“Now, the next question is,” said Ruth,
“how shall we manage to dispose of it?”
“I know where a wood engraver keeps,”
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
exclaimed Frank. “I will take it to him, and see
what he will pay for it.”
“So you shall, Frank,” replied Ruth; and,
carefully wrapping up the cut in paper, she consigned
it to his charge.
He started off with his usual alacrity, and,
hurrying through the Bowery to Chatham-street,
knocked at the door of a Mr. Slimsy, who was
accustomed to cut rude designs on wood.
“Well, what is wanted, boy?” asked Mr. Slimsy,
rather testily.
“I have a woodcut that I would like to sell
you,” replied Frank, displaying the specimen,
which he held, of Ruth's handiwork.
“Did you steal this, you little rascal?” inquired
the engraver, examining it with some
surprise.
“Don't judge other people by yourself, Slimsy,”
retorted Frank, kindling into anger.
“How—what—you insolent little—you ragamuffin—
Slimsy indeed! where are your manners?”
“Gone in search of yours, I suspect. I am
no thief, Slimsy.”
“What are you?”
“I am a news-boy.”
“Oh! then that accounts for your impudence.
Had you been anything else, I should have kicked
you into the street.”
“That's a game at which two can play, Slimsy.
But let's to business. What will you give
a fellow for that cut?”
“Well, I suppose it's worth a dollar, or a dollar
and a half, or thereabout.”
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
“I shouldn't be surprised if it was,” said
Frank, stretching out his hand to receive it.
“I will give you a dollar and a half for it, although
that is more than it is worth; but I don't
mind parting with a little in charity.”
“That's humbug—I know it is,” exclaimed
Frank, with a very positive air. “If you can't
give me a fair price for the thing, just say so.”
“Will you take three dollars for it?” asked
Slimsy.
Frank hesitated for a moment, and then replied,
“No, I won't.”
“Leave the premises, then, before I thrash
you,” said Mr. Slimsy, who began to grow quite
enraged because he could not outwit a mere
urchin.
“Give me the cut, first,” said Frank.
“What if I don't?” inquired Mr. Slimsy.
“I will go and bring up my gang to settle the
business with you. It is just as well, perhaps.
So don't concern yourself, Slimsy, about giving
it up.”
The renegade artist—if the cherished name
artist can be applied to such a one—turned
pale at the idea of having his windows broken
by the news-boys; but he still seemed very reluctant
to part with the engraving. There was
no name upon it, and it had occurred to him to
advance his reputation by passing it off as his
own. After haggling some minutes more, he
said, in conclusion, “Well, look here, boy—I
will give you five dollars for it, and that's a
fair price.”
“You shall have it at that,” replied Frank.
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
“Can you bring me any more like it at the
same price?” asked Slimsy, eagerly.
“I shouldn't be surprised if I could bring you
one a week.”
“Well, don't fail to bring them to me first.
If you take them to anybody else, I shall refuse
them. The only reason why I am so liberal
with you now is, that you may know where to
come the next time.”
Saying this, Mr. Slimsy paid Frank the five
dollars, and reiterating his charge, that if he
had any more such engravings to dispose of, he
must come to him first, he bade him good-by
with affected cordiality; and, the moment he
had closed the door, exclaimed to himself, “The
little sharper! After all, he managed to get out
of me almost half as much as the cut was
worth.”
Ruth was elated at the result of Frank's negotiation.
To her it seemed supremely successful,
and she looked upon her little brother
as the most wonderful of financiers. When he
placed in her hand the five-dollar bill she had
earned by her own invention and skill, it sent
a far more delightful sensation to her heart than
if thousands had fallen to her share through the
mere caprice of Fortune. A glow of satisfaction
and self-respect pervaded her bosom. By
the energy of her own will she had discovered
a means, and by the labour and cunning of her
own hands she had accomplished an end!
The good news was soon communicated to
Mrs. Bangs, who readily participated in the joy
of her young tenant.
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
“How fortunate, my dear,” said she, “that
you should have hit upon this scheme for getting
along! Here you have made in one week,
with the aid of this little chisel, as much as I
can make by all my labour at the washing-tub
and the ironing-board. I am sure you should
be thankful to Heaven for giving you your pretty
talent, and sparing you such tedious drudgery
as I have to put up with.”
“I am grateful, Mrs. Bangs. I am certain that
I feel so, for I have many causes for continual
gratitude. In the first place, we all enjoy excellent
health; then I have hit upon an employment
which will amply support us; then Arthur has
found a nice place with Doctor Remington, who
lends him books, and lets him read them while
he is sitting in the chaise attending to the horse,
which, you know, is much better than if he had
to be idle all the while, or to be shut up from
the fresh air at some unwholesome task; and
then Frank is such a smart, manly little fellow!
Do you know, he sometimes makes half a dollar
a day selling newspapers? But I do not altogether
like his occupation. He is obliged to
mix with rude, foul-mouthed boys, and must necessarily
learn some of their slang; though, when
I hear him say his prayers at night, I try to blot
out all the evil impressions he may have got during
the day. We shall soon be able, I hope, to
find him a place in some good merchant's store.
As for May, she is the bravest little housewife
of my acquaintance. You should come up here
some night, and see her pour out tea.”
“Tea! Do you have tea?” exclaimed Mrs.
Bangs, surprised at the intelligence.
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
“Oh, yes! `Grampar' gave it to us,” lisped
May.
“I didn't know you had a `grampar,' my
dear,” said Mrs. Bangs.
“I must let you into a secret, Mrs. Bangs,”
interrupted Ruth, smiling. “The other afternoon
I sent May round to Mr. Bibb's, the grocer's,
to buy some candles. It was almost an
hour before she returned, and I had begun to get
worried about her. When she came, such a long
story she had to tell me about `a nice, funny,
fat old man' whom she had met, and who had
kissed her, and given her some raisins, and
made her tell him where she lived, that I thought
she would never have done talking about it.
The next day, who should knock at the door and
walk in but Mr. Bibb! And then, such romping
and laughing as there was between him and May,
you never heard. He made May promise to call
him `Grampar,' and the same evening he came
up again, with his pockets filled with seed-cakes,
loaf-sugar, and a paper of black tea. Arthur and
Frank came in. I hunted up a teapot, and Mr.
Bibb taught May how to prepare the tea, and
pour it out; then we all sat round the table, with
her at the head, and such a pleasant time as we
had! And such funny stories as he told us!
He kept us all laughing till bedtime.”
“My stars! What would his wife say if she
knew it all!” exclaimed Mrs. Bangs.
“I do not think she makes his home happy
to him,” said Ruth; “for he comes up here
every evening now, and May is quite uneasy
unless she sees `grampar' at least once in the
course of the day.”
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“He is extravagantly fond of children, and
his wife hates them,” resumed Mrs. Bangs.
“How happens it,” asked Ruth, “that we
do not hear any music now from the room below,
as we used to?”
“Ah! the poor old `Mounseer' has been very
ill indeed, and I am afraid his purse is getting
low too; for, since paying me his rent last week,
he hasn't sent out to buy anything but a little
coffee. He lies in bed all day, figuring music
with his pen and ink, and looking wistfully at
his piano-forte, without having the strength to
play.”
“I wish I could help him,” said Ruth, musingly.
“I wish you could, my dear; but—My stars!
it is after five o'clock, and I haven't sent those
shirts yet to Mr. Dangleton! Here! William!
William Bangs!” and with these exclamations
the good woman hurried down stairs.
Ruth continued to muse upon what had been
just told her about the Mounseer. “He is old
and sick,” thought she; “a stranger too, and
in a strange land. He has no daughter to smooth
his pillow, to hand him his drink, and to speak
to him in sweet, comforting tones.” The tears
started to her eyes at the picture her own fancy
had helped to draw, and she at once resolved
to follow the impulse of her heart.
“I am going down stairs, May, a few minutes,”
said she, “to see how the poor French
gentleman is getting on. Do you keep house
till I return.”
“Oh, yes. `Grampar' and the boys will be
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here soon,” said the little one, well contented
to assume the responsibility devolved upon her.
Ruth knocked softly at the invalid's door,
and in a few minutes she could distinguish a
faint voice whispering “Come in!”
She entered, closed the door, and approached
the bedside, near which stood a chair covered
with blotted music, upon which lay an inkstand,
some pens, a pair of spectacles, and a
cup of cold coffee.
The pale face which peered above the bedclothes
belonged apparently to a man who had
passed the age of sixty. His hair was gray,
his chin and nose were prominent, and there
were deep wrinkles on his forehead and about
the corners of his mouth.
He smiled benignantly, lifting his cheekbones
and his eyebrows nearly an inch out of
their places in the effort, and said, as Ruth made
her appearance,
“Bien! qu'est ce que c'est, ma petite? Vat is
it you want, leetel girl?”
“I am Ruth Loveday, sir, who has the room
up stairs; and I have called to see if there is
anything I can do for you.”
“Merci, ma chère! Thank you, my dear.
Vous etes très aimable. You are very good. Je
suis malade—très malade. I am ill—very ill.
Mais comprenez-vous ce que je dis? But are you
comprehending what I say?”
“I do not understand French, sir,” said Ruth.
“C'est dommage! It is a pity. C'est une belle
langue, ma chère, une belle langue! A beautiful
language, my dear, a beautiful language! Mais
-- 090 --
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je m'oublie—vous ne me comprenez pas?
But I
forget—you do not understand me?”
Ruth shook her head, and asked, “Is there
nothing I can get for you? Your room is
cold.”
“Oui, ma chère; il fait froid. Yes, my dear;
it is cold.”
“There is but one blanket on your bed. You
shiver. Wait a moment. I will bring you
some clothing from my bed;” and, as she said
this, it occurred to her that she could hire a
couple of blankets for her own use from Mrs.
Bangs.
Ruth glided noiselessly out of the sick room,
and in less than two minutes returned with a
sufficiency of additional bedclothes, which she
threw over the invalid, who now seemed to regard
her movements with a childlike, silent astonishment.
Her good offices did not soon
cease. She took some of her own wood and
made a fire; opened the window, and ventilated
the room; got some clean, fresh pillowcases
from Mrs. Bangs, and replaced the old
ones with them; and then, gently lifting the
invalid's head, she laid it in an easy position,
and smoothed back his gray locks with her fingers.
The poor Frenchman did not speak a word
all this while. He seemed to be hesitating to
make up his mind whether it was a human being
who was ministering to him, or whether it
was not some disguised angel, who, pitying his
forlorn state, had come down to earth to perform
the functions of a nurse. At length a
-- 091 --
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consciousness of Ruth's spontaneous kindness
seemed to fill his soul. His breast heaved;
the tears sprang to his eyes; he took one of
her hands, pressed it to his lips, and said,
“Tank you ver mooch, ma chère enfant—bless you—
tank you—tank you—bless you—vous m'avez
déja rendu mieux. You have already made me
better. I sall be ver well yesterday—demain—
vous êtes un ange—oui, un ange. You are an angel—
yes, an angel. Mille remercimens! Tousand
tanks!”
Ruth smiled with pleasure at the old man's
excess of gratitude, and said, “You must let
me take away this cup of cold coffee, which I
am sure is not good for you, and I will bring
you in its stead a bowl of nice hot tea and some
milk biscuits. Then you shall have a tub of
hot water to bathe your feet in, for you are
slightly feverish; and after that you shall go to
bed, and get a good night's rest: shall it not be
so?”
“Oh, oui, oui, mon enfant. Yes, yes, my child.
Je ferai tout ce que vous désirez. I will do all you
desire. Mais dites-moi, est-ce que vous etes un
enfant? N'etes vous pas un ange? But, tell me,
are you a child? Are you not an angel?”
“I do not comprehend,” said Ruth, shaking
her head.
“Ah! Je m'oublie—Ah! I forget—et moi—
I speak Anngleesh ver leetel—mais vous sall know
of me to speak Francais—parceque—because—c'est
une jolie langue, et vous etes une jolie fille.”
“I will go now, and prepare some tea for
you,” said Ruth.
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“Du thè? Ah, merci! Mais, ecoutez-moi un
moment—connaissez-vous la musique? Jouezvous?
Ah! Vous ne me comprenez-pas—Voilà
my piano-forte! Can you play?”
“I love music dearly,” replied Ruth, “but I
cannot play.”
“Ah, la pauvre enfant! Vous ne jouez-pas!
Mais il faut jouer! Ecoutez! Vous serez donc ma
petite ecolière! You sall be my leetel pupil—Voulezvous
l'étre? Will you not?”
“I will first be your nurse, and get you well;
and so,” said Ruth, smiling and raising her forefinger,
“you must not talk any more now. I
will be soon back.”
“Ah, mon Dieu! C'est un ange!” sighed the
poor Frenchman, as Ruth glided noiselessly out
of the room and closed the door.
She was not long absent. Up stairs she found
the tea-table spread, and Mr. Bibb and the boys
taking a jovial meal, while May presided. The
worthy grocer had brought a liberal supply of
seed-cakes and gingerbread, and was laughing
heartily at Frank's account of his visit to Providence.
“What is the matter, Ruth?” asked Arthur,
as she entered the room.
“Do not move, brother. I am merely going
to take a cup of tea and some biscuit down to
the poor `Mounseer,' who occupies the room
below.”
“Is he quite ill, Ruth? For I can get Doctor
Remington to visit him if it is advisable.”
“I think, with a little careful tending, he will
be soon well. So pour me out some tea, May,
and let me take it to him.”
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“You had better let me send him round a
nice beefsteak,” said Mr. Bibb.
“We will talk about that to-morrow,” replied
Ruth. “For the present, this will be sufficient.”
And, with these words on her lips, Ruth tripped
down stairs, and again stood by the bedside
of her patient, who, in broken English, laboured
to give some expression to his lively
gratitude. He was soon so much recruited by
her ministrations that he was able to sit up
against the pillow. A tub-full of hot water was
then brought to him by his little nurse, who,
after assisting him to bathe his feet, wiped them
dry, shook up his pillows, and gently placed
back his head; and, assuring him that he would
have a good night, and wake up much refreshed
in the morning, bade him farewell. The old
man lapsed into sleep, still doubting in his mind
whether he had been visited by “un ange” or
“un enfant”—an angel or a child.
Ruth's prognostics in regard to the poor
Frenchman proved true. He rapidly recovered
under her kind and watchful care; and his gratitude
knew no bounds. His first impulse was
to compose a long piece of music, in six parts,
in her honour, which he actually accomplished,
and named it “The Recovery.” As, in order
to do it justice in the performance, however,
it would, according to Monsieur Mallet, be
necessary to have an orchestra of two hundred
violins, sixty trombones, ten pedal harps, twenty
bassoons, a hundred flutes, twelve trumpets,
fifty bass viols, fifteen kettledrums, with a great
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variety of instruments not yet introduced into
this country, I despair of ever hearing this astonishing
production properly presented to the
American public.
The “Mounseer's” gratitude took, likewise, a
more useful, if not a more complimentary direction.
He commenced giving Ruth instruction
in music, and persuaded her to practice a couple
of hours every day upon the piano. He also
taught her to speak French, not by formally
initiating her into the grammatical rules, but by
repeated conversations.
“But how could Ruth afford to find time for
such recreations?” it may be asked.
She acquired the ability by rigid industry, by
indulging herself in no vacant moments, and by
a methodical arrangement of her occupations.
A month passed rapidly by; and at the end of
that time she paid her landlady another month's
rent in advance, without subjecting herself to
the apprehension of wanting enough for the
daily support of her little family. An incident
also occurred about this time, which shed another
sunbeam upon her prospects.
Happening in at a bookstore one day, Frank
recognised in a volume for the young, that had
just been published, four of the identical engravings
that had been executed by Ruth. He
immediately went to one of the clerks, who was
in the habit of buying papers of him, and asked,
“What did you have to give Slimsy for these
cuts?”
“What is that to you, Frank?” inquired the
clerk, in reply.
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
“I have a good reason for asking; so tell
me, there's a good fellow.”
“Well, you are the coolest boy of your inches
in the whole circle of my acquaintance. However,
seeing it is you, Frank, I will look back
in the daybook, and see if I can gratify your
curiosity. Here it is! We paid Slimsy for
those four cuts fifty dollars. Does that satisfy
you?”
“Fifty dollars!” exclaimed Frank; “and he
got them for twenty! Isn't that too bad?”
“Why, Slimsy engraved them himself. Don't
you see his name to them? They are so well
done that he has got more business than he
can attend to on the strength of them.”
“He didn't engrave a line of them,” replied
Frank. “My sister made those engravings.”
“Your sister! Nonsense! I never heard of
a girl's engraving on wood.”
“I tell you it is so; and to prove it, I will
bring you an engraving of that kind every week
for the price you pay Slimsy.”
“If you are really in earnest, Frank, I will
speak to one of the firm about it, and I am
quite sure they will gladly accept your offer,
for they are getting up a number of picturebooks
for the spring trade.”
“Well, I am in earnest, and no mistake,” returned
the boy; “so go and speak to Mr. Jackson
about it. There he stands at the desk.”
“Yes, but he is busy just now. To-morrow
or the next day I may find a chance to tell him
what you say.”
“But why not speak to him now? I never
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
put off things till to-morrow without repenting
it. Go, there's a good fellow. If you won't,
I will.”
“Well, if you arn't a driving little chap, I
don't know who is,” said the clerk, laughing,
and proceeding to make the desired communication
to the head of the firm.
Mr. Jackson was not discomposed by the
clerk's interruption of his labours. He listened
attentively to what he had to say, and replied
that he was not at all surprised at this
instance of Slimsy's duplicity; that his suspicions
of his integrity had been awakened long
since; and that, knowing the man's inferiority
as a wood-engraver, he had openly charged him
with trickery in putting his name to those specimens
of the art, the credit of which he was
now satisfied belonged to another. The worthy
publisher then beckoned to Frank to draw
near; asked him a few questions; told him he
had known his father some years ago; and, in
conclusion, offered to pay him twelve dollars
apiece for such cuts as Slimsy had been purchasing
for five.
Thanking Mr. Jackson warmly for his kindness,
Frank left the store, and put more speed
into his legs in his journey home than he had
ever before exerted. He was quite breathless
as he rushed up stairs and burst into the room,
where Ruth was hard at work upon a new drawing.
“What ails you, Frank? Why do you tear
round so, and dash your hat upon the floor?”
asked Ruth, turning round from her task with
an expression of surprise.
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“Have you burned yourself with a hot flat-iron,
brother Frank?” inquired May.
“Nonsense, May! Hold your guns up! Never
say die while there's a shot in the locker!”
“Do not talk so, Frank. It is very unbecoming
in a small boy like you,” observed Ruth.
“Small,” replied Frank, “but all-fired hard
to catch, as the Irishman said of his pig; and
yet that is not exactly true, for old Slimsy certainly
did catch me napping, and pulled the
wool over my eyes; but this child is wide
awake now, or there are no omnibuses in Broadway;”
saying which, Master Frank began whistling
and dancing the “Fisher's Hornpipe,” concluding
it with saltations after the manner of
Jim Crow.
“Do be quiet, and tell me the meaning of all
these antics,” said Ruth.
“I have made a discovery, Ruth,” replied he,
at length, in a sobered tone. “What do you
suppose old Slimsy made a bookseller pay for
your four engravings?”
“I cannot imagine,” said Ruth.
“Fifty dollars! Think of that, and weep,”
exclaimed the boy, snapping his thumb and
middle finger.
“So he made just thirty dollars out of my labour!”
“Yes, or there's no truth in the rule of subtraction.”
“I am very glad to learn that he doesn't lose
by me.”
“Why, when I took the last cut to him, the
old fox tried to beat me down. He said that
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
he should lose at least a dollar apiece on the
four. Oh, Slimsy! Slimsy! arn't you a deep
one?”
“But, Frank, as long as he pays us punctually,
we should not find fault with him.”
“Listen to me. I have found out the man
who buys the cuts after they leave my hands,
and he is willing to pay you twelve dollars
apiece for as many as you will engrave.”
“Is it possible? What brave good news!”
exclaimed Ruth, turning almost pale with delight;
and then, checking her exultation, she
said, “But will it be treating poor Mr. Slimsy
well if we deprive him of this means of making
money?”
“Oh, that would be very wrong, wouldn't
it?” replied Frank, ironically. “And don't you
think, Ruth, it is rather wicked in us to charge
him so much as we do for the cuts? Only
think, if we sold them to him for fifty cents instead
of five dollars, he could make eleven dollars
and a half upon every one. Indeed, upon
the whole, wouldn't it be better to give them to
him for nothing? Yes, that will be the most
pious plan. Old Slimsy shall have them for
nothing!”
“For shame, Frank, to laugh at me so. I deserve
it, however. It is certainly a duty we
owe, not only to ourselves, but to others who
toil at the same trade, to put the highest market
valuation upon our labours. So we will bid our
new customers welcome; for now, with our increased
income, we can make a good many little
reforms in our management. In the first
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
place, you, Frank, shall drop the news-vending
business, and find some employment that will
not expose you to such a rough-and-tumble kind
of life as you have been leading.”
“But I love to be a news-boy,” said Frank.
“It is first-rate fun, except when the weather
is wet and cold.”
“You are necessarily thrown among bad, illmannered
boys, my dear Frank, who swear and
fight, and use the strangest language, too much
of which you have picked up already. Now
would it not be better for you to go into some
respectable store, where you will learn bookkeeping
and accounts, and where you will be
likely to see and hear what will improve you,
and fit you for a creditable place in society
when you grow up?”
“You are right, sister Ruth, as you always
are. I would like to be a merchant, and own
ships, and go to sea sometimes myself.”
“But, before you can obtain a good situation,
you must go to school a while; and I think you
had better commence attending forthwith.”
“I will begin to-morrow, if you wish it, Ruth.”
“I mean that May shall go to school also as
soon as the warm weather is nigh; and who
knows but that we shall get on so prosperously,
that I shall be able to give an hour or two more
a day to Monsieur Mallet and the piano forte?”
“I wish that you would, Ruth; for I look
upon music as first-rate. By-the-way, you can
parley-voo with the Mounseer in prime style
now—can't you? Your tongue seems to take to
his Frenchified talk very kindly. For my part, I
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[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
could never see the sense of calling a horse a
shovel, or a house a maison. Humbug! A horse
is a horse all the world over, and I should like
to know why a house should be called a maison,
when it's the mason that builds the house?”
“You have said quite enough, Frank, to convince
me that you ought to go to school. You
have not learned enough yet to be aware of your
own ignorance; and I would not have you make
yourself ridiculous, should you be thrown among
intelligent people.”
“Grandfather Bibb says that I know more
now than many a man that has been through
college.”
“I dare say you do, Frank, know more—mischief,”
said Ruth, laughing. And then kissing
his cheek, she added, “But you are a brave
lad for all that, and I don't know how I should
have got along without you.”
“You can change me and guide me, Ruth, by
a single look, but the whole city corporation
couldn't make me budge if they undertook to
bully me.”
“I would never have you obey a command
that you believed unjust or wrong, come from
whom it may; but where you are not conscious
of being in the right, do not be obstinate. It is
far more manly to honestly confess an error,
than to persist in it through vanity or a false
notion of spirit.”
“Well, if I go to school, there is one thing
that I'll not stand from man or boy: right or
wrong, I won't be struck.”
“But if your conscience tells you that a punishment
is merited—”
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[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
“I don't care. Thrashing may do for beasts
and for wheat in the husk, but hang me if I'll be
made a brute or vegetable of. So don't try to
alter my mind. If I can't learn to write and cipher
without being whipped like a dog, why
I'll stay ignorant. I told Grandfather Bibb the
same thing, and he slapped me on the back, and
said that I was a lad of wax, and that them were
his sentiments.”
“Those, not them, Frank,” interrupted Ruth,
correcting his syntax.
“That's what Grandfather Bibb said, any
how,” retorted Frank.
“Who is that talking about Grandfather
Bibb?” exclaimed the jovial voice of the grocer
on the stairs, in stern, guttural tones.
“That's grandpapa! I know his voice! He
can't frighten me, if he tries,” cried May, running
and opening the door, and jumping into
the fat man's extended arms.
Mr. Bibb entered the room with the evident
air of a privileged acquaintance, took a chair,
placed May upon his knee, loosened his neckcloth,
and, drawing forth a red bandana handkerchief,
wiped from his forehead the perspiration
produced by the effort of mounting to the
attic story of the house. It was plain, however,
that he considered his toil as amply recompensed
by the cordial, gleeful reception
which he met with from the children.
“How many cab-drivers have you knocked
down to-day, Frank?” asked he, looking approvingly
at the young object of his admiration,
and giving one of his richest winks.
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“Frank isn't going to get into any more
brawls, Mr. Bibb,” said Ruth. “He means to
study hard, and be a good scholar.”
Ruth then briefly informed her portly visiter
of the important event of the day, by which their
income would be more than doubled, and Frank
would be enabled to turn his attention to the
improvement of his mind.
Mr. Bibb seemed a little chagrined at the idea
of sending Frank to school; and while Ruth set
the table and prepared the tea, he instructed
“young Hopeful” in certain arts, and sleights of
hand and of foot, by which he could at any time
trip up a schoolmaster. To all his teachings,
the boy lent a most attentive ear; and, finally,
when Mr. Bibb, the more fully to explain the
interesting process, rose from his chair and
went through the movements, Frank undertook
to test his own proficiency by experimenting
upon his instructer in the mode prescribed;
and, seizing him by the leg, actually upset him
upon the floor. The fall shook the house, but
produced no other effect upon the fat man than
to throw him into a violent fit of laughter, which
made every part of him quiver like a pile of
jelly.
As soon as Mr. Bibb succeeded in regaining
his seat and composing himself, and quieting
May, who had been much alarmed by the fleshquake
her mischievous brother had produced,
Arthur entered, and the candles were lighted
for tea. It chanced that there were no performances
that evening at the little theatre where
Monsieur Mallet played in the orchestra; and
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[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
Ruth, ascertaining that he was in his room, invited
him to join her tea-party: an invitation
which was thankfully accepted. He was formally
introduced to Mr. Bibb, whom he accosted
in French:
“Monsieur Beeb, je suis ravi de vous voir.”
“He says he is happy to see you,” interpreted
Ruth.
“Thank you, Mounseer: the same to you,”
replied Mr. Bibb; and here the conversation
dropped between the grocer and the musician.
Indeed, as Ruth was the only one who could understand
the latter, this was less a matter of
choice than of necessity.
The spirit of joyousness is contagious, however,
even when we are ignorant of the language
in which it is vented; and, had any one
stood at the door and listened to the glad voices
within, he might have imagined that Champagne,
and not black tea, was the beverage that
was flowing.
Mr. Bibb, understanding that the Mounseer
was a musical character, volunteered to entertain
him with a song; and, while the poor
Frenchman looked aghast at the discords that
ensued, the fat man, with a supremely self-satisfied
air, commenced:
“Father and I went down to camp,
Along with Captain Gooding,
And there we saw the girls and boys
As thick as—”
Before the singer could give utterance to the
words “hasty pudding,” with which the first
stanza of our great national song concludes, the
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[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
cup of tea that was raised half way to his lips
fell from his hand, his lips quivered as if with
an ague-fit, his eyes seemed starting from their
sockets, and an expression of blank despair
spread over all his features.
“Ma foi!” exclaimed Monsieur Mallet, “I
knew it would keel him—c'etait très horrible—de
l'eau, ma chère! de l'eau fraiche! Some cold vater!”
The Frenchman attributed the attack to what
seemed to him the diabolical discords in which
Mr. Bibb was indulging. Alas! there was a
deeper, a more direful cause!
“He saw a hand they could not see,
Which beckon'd him away,
He heard a voice they could not hear,
Which said he must not stay.”
In plain prose, the voice of Mrs. Bibb, coming
up stairs, had suddenly stricken his ear, and,
a moment afterward, she burst into the room
with an aspect full of portentous meaning.
She seemed thinner and smaller than ever; but
her little pursed-up mouth, like the cloudy speck
which, in tropical latitudes, holds the hurricane,
was evidently keeping back the storm only that
it might explode with the more terrific effect.
Monsieur Mallet instinctively drew back his
chair and dropped his head between his shoulders.
Little May nestled against the breast of
the poor victim of the impending tempest, as if
to protect him by her feeble aid. Frank clinched
his fists, and Ruth and Arthur looked on with
silent concern.
“So! Mr. Bibb!” began the virago, drawing
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[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
a long breath, placing her arms a-kimbo, and
jerking her sharp face into his, so as to come
very near hitting it: “So! Mr. Bibb, sir!”
continued she, laying an ironical emphasis upon
the last word, “this is the way in which you
treat your lawful wedded wife—stealing away
from her with your pockets full of cakes and
loaf-sugar, to take tea with these ugly brats, the
children of nobody knows who, and whom no
decent people care about! So these are the
ward meetings that you pretended you had to attend
every night, you vile man! But I have
found you out at last, and now, aren't you ashamed
of yourself? Dare you ever hold up your
head again? Can I ever forgive you? Ugh! you
deserve to have your eyes torn out—you do!”
“Sacre! ce n'est pas une femme — c'est un tigre!”
murmured Monsieur Mallet, unconsciously
giving utterance to his amazement.
“None of your gibberish, you poor fiddling,
frog-eating Frenchman!” exclaimed Mrs. Bibb,
diverting her batteries for a moment from the
main object of attack. The composer of sixty-five
“grand oratorios” retreated towards the
fireplace, and persuaded Frank to stand between
him and the enemy.
“As for you, you forward little hussy, you,”
screamed the shrew, turning to our young housekeeper,
“as for you—”
“Now, Ruth, it's your turn,” interrupted
Frank; “don't start like a two-year-old as the
guns go off—eyes right, now—here it comes—
bang!”
“Silence! you hateful, saucy, vile, insolent
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little wretch,” said Mrs. Bibb, actually gasping
with rage. “And you, you cruel man,” added
she, diverted by Frank's soldier-like skirmish
from the charge upon Ruth, and returning to
the attack upon her husband, “how dare you
sit tamely by, and see your lawful wedded wife
insulted by such a whipper-snapper as this?
Why don't you speak, Mr. Bibb? Put down
that odious brat, and speak to me!”
As she said this, she rudely pulled May by
the arm from his knee, hurting the child so
much in the act that it could not repress a cry
of pain. The circumstance, slight as it was,
seemed sufficient to produce an instantaneous
change in the influence of Mrs. Bibb's presence
upon her too submissive lord. He rose from
his chair with as much dignity as was consistent
with his corpulency, and, while his countenance
assumed an air of grave decision, he said,
“This course of conduct must stop here, Mrs.
Bibb, or you and I can no longer live together.
Until you can ask my forgiveness for the past,
and promise to change your manner towards
me entirely, I will not sleep under the same
roof that covers you. You well know that I
am in earnest, so act accordingly.”
Had her husband been suddenly metamorphosed
into a hippopotamus, Mrs. Bibb could
not have been more confounded than she was
by this unexampled and unlooked-for display
on his part of spirit and determination. She
looked for a full minute in his face, as if incapable
of realizing that it was he who had spoken.
As he did not quail before her glance,
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she at length seemed satisfied of the fact; but,
like Napoleon at Elba, she could not at once
forsake the hope of regaining her lost dominion.
So, summoning her severest looks and
her sharpest tones, she exclaimed, “Mr. Bibb!
I command you to leave this place this very instant—
this very instant, I say — and accompany
me home. If you obey, I forgive you; if not—
Come along this instant, sir! I command you!
Do you dare—”
Alas for Mrs. Bibb! Her tones grew feebler
and less imperious! She was even then upon
her “field of Waterloo,” the vanquished, not
the vanquisher! Her husband, the Wellington
of the day, stood firm as a rock. Not the shifting
of a muscle indicated that his resolution
was ebbing. With his left hand placed gently
upon May's head, he stood pointing significantly
with his right to the door. Humbled and in
tears, Mrs. Bibb hesitated a moment, as if in
doubt whether to renew the conflict or to ask
pardon; and, finally, stamping her foot, she
tossed herself out of the room and took her
departure, muttering, “Oh, you shall repent
this, sir—you shall repent this!”
“Courage, mon ami!” exclaimed Monsieur
Mallet, jumping up as the door closed, and
shrugging his shoulders, while a grin of admiration
and delight irradiated his face. “La
victoire est pour vous! Bravo! Vous avez bien
fait cela!”
“Was it well done, eh?” replied Mr. Bibb,
with an honest pride in his achievement.
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“What do you say, Frank? Couldn't have
done it better yourself, eh?”
“It was first-rate!” said Frank, rubbing his
hands.
Even little May, who had been weeping
through fright, looked up, and began to laugh
as she felt the genial return of pleasure and
satisfaction to the bosoms of the rest of the
party.
It was now proposed by Monsieur Mallet to
adjourn to his room, and hear a grand medley,
or rifaccimento of melodies, in honour of the
triumph of his new friend. The invitation was
gladly accepted; and the good-natured Frenchman
entertained the party till the clock struck
nine with a number of popular airs, admirably
executed upon the piano-forte. The children
then bade the two old men good-night, and retired
to their beds, where, if the image of Mrs.
Bibb mingled in their dreams, it did not prevent
their enjoying a sweet and refreshing
sleep.
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CHAPTER VIII. THE PAST AND THE PRESENT.
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Concerning Ruth's history before the night
of her first encounter with Stanford, I have
said but little. Her mother was the daughter
of a gentleman of large fortune, named Gordon,
who resided in Philadelphia, and owned
extensive coffee plantations in Cuba. She was
one of three children, of whom all were girls.
Unlike her sisters, she was beautiful and interesting;
and being, in addition, the youngest,
she was naturally the belle of the family. In
a city distinguished for its lovely faces, few
could compete in personal charms with May
Gordon; and yet it was not her symmetrical
shape, or the faultless contour of her features,
which constituted the witchery of her presence:
it was the soul that beamed through
all—the ever-shifting expression, which gave
to her countenance that “infinite variety,” of
which the gazer could never weary.
With such attributes, and the reputation of
an heiress, it was not surprising that there
should be numerous suiters for her hand. She
reached her twentieth year, however, with a
heart as free and unscathed as a young eagle's,
who is taking his first flight towards the sun.
But the hour of trial was approaching.
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The Gordons were a musical family, and it
was the pride of the mother that the best private
concerts in the city were had at her house.
To compass this object of her ambition, it was
often necessary to invite foreigners, who, however
well versed they might be in the mysteries
of sol, fa, la, quavers, demi-semi-quavers,
crotchets, allegros, and adagios, were frequently
adventurers of rather questionable credit:
people, in short, whose vocal notes were more
likely to prove current than their notes of hand.
The inquiries she made in selecting the attendants
at her parties were not, “Is he respectable?
Is he a person fit to associate with my
daughters?” but, “Can he sing Italian music?
Can he accompany Isabella in the duet from
`Don Giovanni?' Does he play on any instrument?”
It chanced that among the English residents
in Philadelphia was a young man named Loveday,
the son of a curate of small means and
lowly origin. Poor as he was, however, the
father had managed to educate his boy at Eton,
and to send him a few years afterward to the
United States to seek his fortune.
Loveday had the manners and appearance of
a gentleman, and was a most accomplished performer
on the flute. He had not been in the
city a week before he was invited, through the
agency of a fellow-passenger in the ship in
which he left England, to a musical party at
Mrs. Gordon's, who, after hearing him execute
a solo accompaniment on the flute in a style
extremely acceptable to his hearers, gave him
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a standing invitation to the house on the evenings
of Tuesday and Saturday. The curate's
son was not backward in expressing his acknowledgments.
His eyes had lighted on a
face which had affected him as he had never
been affected before; and was it vanity that
led him to believe that May Gordon's glances
had met his more than once, and not by accident?
The sequel has already been partly told. In
spite of the indignant opposition of her parents,
May Gordon consented to forsake home and
friends, and the prospect of a large inheritance,
to unite herself to him on whom she had lavished
the wealth of her pure and disinterested affections.
Loveday was young. He had but
recently arrived in the country, and was full of
hope. He soon found that the avenues to employment
were more crowded than he had anticipated;
and, after some unavailing attempts
to obtain a profitable situation as a clerk, he
resorted to the task of giving lessons on the
flute for a subsistence. An affection of the
chest soon drove him from this vocation. Having
some taste for drawing, and a knowledge
of the art of cutting designs on wood, he had
then removed to New-York, and adopted the
profession of an engraver, which he continued
until a trouble in the eyes shut him out from
all his resources for obtaining a livelihood.
Never, through all her vicissitudes and privations,
had Mrs. Loveday been heard to utter a
word of regret and repining at the step she had
taken. On her husband's account, she bitterly
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lamented her father's inhumanity; but, in her
dreariest moments of destitution, the thought
of Loveday's attachment and gentleness—nay,
his very misfortunes—threw a halo around her
lot, which she would not have exchanged for
all the glare and glitter of affluence and fashion.
Her children claimed and received her tenderest
care. Upon Ruth's early education she expended
a degree of thought and labour such as
few mothers, even the most prosperous, are
wont to give. The qualities of the child's heart
were first trained and expanded, and a consciousness
of her spiritual nature, of its dignity and
worth, its responsibilities and its destiny, was
sedulously developed. The intellectual faculties
were then exercised. Little accomplishments
were imparted. A taste for reading,
and for all mental gratifications of a blameless
character, was cultivated with assiduity.
In the midst of her maternal offices, Mrs. Loveday
was called upon, by the sure voice of death,
to quit her fleshly tenement. With a soul purified
by affliction, confident in its immortality,
and in the efficacy of the Saviour's mediation,
and overflowing with human love and tenderness,
she bade her husband and children farewell,
and passed the boundary of this present
stage of being. But goodness, even on earth,
can never wholly perish. It lives and generates
in the hearts to which its sanative contagion
has been imparted. Ruth afforded a beautiful
instance of this encouraging truth. Every useful
lesson, every generous example, every ennobling
influence, which the mother's hand had
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ingrafted from her own bounteous store, grew
and flourished in the daughter's heart as in a
congenial soil. It seemed as if nothing which
the voice of maternal love had communicated
was forgotten or disregarded.
Five months had now elapsed since Stanford's
departure. Spring, with its birds and blossoms,
its gentle showers and sunny hours, had come.
Ruth's plans, which were conceived with foresight
and carried out with energy, seemed to
result prosperously. Through a rigid obedience
to the rules of health, her little family had escaped
the myriad maladies which beset humanity.
By a frugal disposition of her means, she had
managed not only to send Frank and May to
school, but to purchase a goodly stock of cotton
clothing, so that a daily change in the essential
articles of attire next the skin might be effected.
This arrangement necessarily involved a
weekly bill for washing from Mrs. Bangs; but
Ruth preferred the luxury of cleanliness to every
other; and, so long as she did not overstep
her income, she saw no good reason why she
should not indulge in this species of extravagance,
if extravagance it could be called. How
far the remembrance of Stanford's parting advice
may have influenced her, I will not undertake
to say.
At school, Frank made a far more rapid progress
than Ruth had anticipated. He had come
to the conclusion that the best mode of escaping
the rod was not to merit it, and in this he
was successful, studying his lessons with care,
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and never incurring a penalty for inattention or
bad deportment. In this creditable course he
received daily encouragement from his sister,
who hailed every new step that he made in
knowledge with sincere delight. She gradually
weaned him from his incipient taste for the
society of rude, unpolished boys, and, by operating
upon his ambition, induced him always to
aim at a respectable career in life. It was with
great difficulty that she overcame a habit he
had formed of always attending upon the fireengines
when there was an alarm. For many
weeks Frank held out steadfastly; but, on learning
that there was a big dog in the city addicted
to the same propensity, who, the moment
the cry of “fire” was raised, ran to some engine-house
to superintend and accompany the
firemen, he resolved that he would set a good
example to his brute imitator, and abandoned
the practice.
Arthur still retained his fondness for books,
and Dr. Remington was so well pleased with
his fidelity and attention, that he lent him his
advice and assistance in the pursuit of a valuable
course of study. The hours which Arthur
employed in sitting in the doctor's wagon at
the doors of his patients were neither wasted
nor misapplied. He went diligently through
the Latin Grammar, and had made some inroads
into “Ovid” by the time at which our narrative
has arrived.
Nor were Ruth's musical studies neglected
amid her multifarious avocations. Monsieur
Mallet, though something of a “fanatic” in his
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art, was thoroughly educated in all its branches;
and, becoming devotedly attached to his
“little pupil,” he took infinite pains in her instruction,
and was, with reason, well satisfied
with her progress. Ruth had a good natural
ear for music, and a clear, flute-like voice, and
she cultivated these faculties with her habitual
perseverance and strength of will. The good
Frenchman soon became justly proud of his pupil's
proficiency.
It was Ruth's custom to attend church regularly,
with her little family, every Sunday.
They sat in the free seats, where they generally
found a plenty of room. She had bought a
hymn-book to take with her; and once, when a
familiar air was played on the organ, she almost
unconsciously joined in the singing of the
choir. Far was it from her thoughts to attract
any attention by the act. It was a spontaneous
impulse, partly of devotion, and partly of musical
feeling; but, as she sat down, she accidentally
looked around, and all at once became conscious
that the eyes of some ladies and gentlemen
in an adjoining pew were earnestly fixed
upon her. Poor Ruth at first felt as if she had
been guilty of some terrible crime: an idea
which her innocent heart speedily shook off.
She resolved, however, to avoid giving such
occasions for remark in future.
As she was leaving the church, hand in hand
with Frank, one of the gentlemen whose attention
she had excited came up, with the evident
object of addressing her. Her heart beat high.
“Now he is going to rebuke me for disturbing
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the choir!” thought she to herself. No such
thing, my dear Ruth. The gentleman is Mr.
Alison, one of the board of trustees of the
church. He has been much pleased with your
voice, and he wants you to sit in the singing-seats,
and offers you for your musical services
the sum of two dollars a week through the year!
Strange as it may seem, Ruth's first thought
was to decline the offer, through a distrust of
her own abilities to give satisfaction. It occurred
to her, however, that she ought to consult
Monsieur Mallet before rejecting so advantageous
an arrangement, and she told Mr. Alison
that she would call and give an answer to his
proposition before the next Sabbath.
“Very well, my dear; you will find my address
on this bit of pasteboard,” said he, handing
her his card.
Ruth communicated the circumstance to Monsieur
Mallet, and, in accordance with his advice,
and the promise of his instruction, she accepted
Mr. Alison's offer, and the following Sunday
made her appearance in the singing-seats, while
May, Arthur, and Frank took up their positions
where they could look directly in her
face. She acquitted herself much to the satisfaction
of all good judges in the congregation,
and did justice to the preparatory drilling which
had been bestowed upon her by her instructer.
With what an honest pride did May and her
two brothers hurry to the gallery door to take
her hand after the service was over, and her
trial had resulted in complete success! And
with what satisfaction did Frank and Arthur
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drink in, and treasure up the complimentary
remarks upon the new singer, which they had
heard drop casually from this one and that
among the departing audience!
June, the month of roses, had now arrived,
when, on a clear, purple Saturday morning,
the little family arose with the expectation of
carrying into effect a long-projected plan for
recreation and amusement. This momentous
scheme was nothing less than an excursion of
pleasure across the river to Hoboken. For
weeks and months it had been anticipated and
dreamed of, and at length there was a prospect
that the bright vision would result in a still
brighter reality. The orphans had read of
green fields and waving forests, but beyond the
little glimpses of woodland they could find in
the Park, in St. John's Square, and the Battery,
they had no definite idea of a rural scene. They
had all their lives long been doomed to a city
life, in the strictest sense of the phrase. They
were city children, and all their associations
were connected with brick walls, paved streets,
and rattling carts. Ruth had once seen a humming-bird
quaffing sweetness from the tube of a
honeysuckle, which grew in the front yard of
a mansion in the upper part of the city; and
Frank, in his winter visit to Providence, had
seen acres and acres of land covered with trees,
and dotted here and there only with the habitations
of men; but little knew they of that
pomp and affluence of verdure with which Summer
arrays our woods and fields; little dreamed
they of the sweetness of a clover-field newly
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mown; of the melody of a wild bird's song,
and the delicious breath of the early woodland
flowers.
They had read of these things in prose and
in verse, and now, for the first time, was the delightful
hope of witnessing them to be realized.
Is it wonderful that there should have been
something intoxicating in the very anticipation?
Doctor Remington had, of his own accord,
offered Arthur a holyday. At Frank's school
there chanced to be a vacation of a week, so
that he would be a free man for the occasion.
May's school did not keep on Saturdays. As for
Ruth herself, by stealing a half hour daily from
that portion of time devoted to sleep during the
two weeks before, she had richly earned the
holyday to which they now looked forward.
Among the invited guests on this grand occasion
were William Bangs and his cousin, little
Lucy Marvell. Early on the morning assigned,
they all breakfasted together in Ruth's room.
A nice tin pail was then filled with materials
for a dinner: bread and butter, some thin slices
of cold salt beef, a parcel of buns, and a paper
full of almonds and raisins, which had been contributed
by Mr. Bibb on hearing of the projected
excursion. Shawls, bonnets, and caps
were then eagerly put on. Frank was at first
disposed to wear his formidable old hat; but,
upon the whole party's exclaiming against it, he
contented himself with his “patent leather,” as
he was wont to call the cap that had been presented
to him at the period of his visit to Providence.
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All being equipped, Ruth locked the door, and
taking Lucy's hand, while William Bangs took
that of May, and Frank and Arthur carried the
tin pail by turns, they sallied forth into the
street. It was that sweet hour just after sunrise,
when the stillness and repose of night seem
to be lingering in the air, though its darkness
has fled. The sidewalks and paving-stones
were yet moist, and the gray, narrow streets
looked even fair and cheerful beneath the rosy
light that was flushing the sky and streaming
over the earth.
“Isn't it a first-rate morning, Ruth?” cried
Frank.
“Ask me rather, Isn't it a beautiful one?” she
replied.
“I say, Bill Bangs, were you ever in a steamboat?”
asked Frank.
“I went to Brooklyn once in the ferry-boat,”
answered Bill.
“Crossing the river is nothing,” continued
Frank, with the air of a man who has seen the
world. “You were never off Point Judith, were
you?”
“I never heard of such a place.”
“It is a good way out at sea. You pass it in
going to Providence. Such fun as it was to see
the people sea-sick as we were rounding it!
But I wasn't sick at all. Mr. Lawrence told me
I was a first-rate sailor.”
“How high were the waves, Frank?” asked
Lucy Marvell.
“About as high as the Astor House, sometimes,
I should think,” said Frank.
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“Merciful me! we sha'n't meet such high
waves going to Hoboken, shall we?”
“Nonsense, Lucy! It is nothing at all going
to Hoboken. We shall not be on the water
more than fifteen minutes. But I guess, if you
were to see Point Judith, it would frighten
you.”
“There have been greater travellers than you,
Frank—for instance, Captain Cook and Captain
Riley,” said Ruth.
“Yes,” replied Arthur; “but they merely fell
into the hands of Otaheitans and Arabs. Now
Frank, you know, had to encounter a gang of
news-boys.”
Finding that he was likely to be “quizzed,”
Frank changed the subject, and remarked that
there were not many people in Broadway yet
a while; to which Master Bangs replied, that
the omnibuses didn't begin to run till seven
o'clock.
Arriving at the head of Barclay-street, the little
party at length reached the ferry between
the city and Hoboken. Here a friendly altercation
arose between Bill Bangs and Arthur
Loveday as to who should pay the fare across.
But Ruth settled the question by reminding Bill
that he and Lucy were their guests for the day,
and that it was contrary to all rule for him to
bear any portion of the expense. This assurance
proving satisfactory, Arthur was allowed
to negotiate undisturbed with the toll-keeper for
the passage of the whole party. I must not linger
with them too long in their voyage across
the river. They chanced to be the only
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passengers in the boat; and I doubt if it ever carried
six happier beings.
Everything was fresh and novel in their
eyes. The glittering bay—the ships moored at
the wharves—a United States frigate at anchor
off the Battery—Staten Island emerging through
the purple mist in the distance—Long Island,
with its villages and villas, stretching out towards
the Narrows; and then the view up the
river: the city, with its steeples and stately
buildings sparkling in the sun, on one side—
Hoboken, Weehawken, and the distant Palisades
on the other—all seemed to them like enchantment.
But when they touched the longed-for shore,
and, passing through the gateways and walks
that lead to the “Elysian Fields,” entered that
beautiful strip of woodland, and stood beneath a
canopy of leaves and waving branches, through
which they could see patches of bright
blue sky, their delight knew no bounds.
“Look, Ruth! There's a bluebird!” exclaimed
Frank, pointing to one of the topmost
boughs of a young hickory-tree.
“And here's a blue flower!” cried Lucy Marvell.
“Only look here, May Loveday! Isn't
it pretty?”
“Hullo! There's a squirrel! There he goes!
Look! Look! Up that oak-tree!” exclaimed
William Bangs.
“Where? Where? I don't see him—yes I
do—now don't say a word, while I find a stone,”
said Frank.
“Stop, Frank,” interposed Ruth. “Why do
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you want to harm that merry little fellow in
gray?”
“Well, it is wrong to kill him, isn't it, Ruth?”
returned Frank, abandoning his search.
“To be sure it is. Do you not remember
the lines by Coleridge which I read to you the
other day from a newspaper?
“`God loveth him who loveth best
All things both great and small,
For the good God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.”'
“I should like it, though, consumedly, to have
a squirrel in a cage,” said Frank, shaking his
head.
“That is a very silly desire, Frank. For my
part, I could never bear to see either birds or
squirrels shut up in a cage. Nor could I ever
imagine what pleasure it could give people to
confine three or four gold-fishes in a glass globe.
I do not believe that the birds, the squirrels,
and the fishes relish such treatment any more
than you would.”
“I see a bird's nest! By George, I must
have that,” cried Frank, as, throwing down his
cap with an air of great excitement, he rushed
towards the trunk of a tall chestnut-tree, and began
climbing it nimbly.
“You will tumble, Frank!” said Arthur.
“No I will not,” replied Frank, mounting to
the nearest branch. “Here I am! Huzza!”
By dint of great exertion, and after several
times hazarding his neck, Frank reached the
coveted nest, which turned out to be old and
dried up.
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“I thought that birds' nests always had eggs
in them!” said he, as, vexed and disappointed,
he threw down the worthless trophy.
“Let it teach you, Frank, to be always sure
that your game is worth the getting before you
risk your neck for it,” said Arthur.
It was nearly half an hour before Frank could
get safely down to the ground from the fork
of the tree, and then he would not have succeeded
had he not been aided and encouraged
by Arthur and William.
“Now, girls and boys,” cried Ruth, “now
that Frank is safe, let us have a good game of
hide and seek.”
“Agreed!” exclaimed all concerned; and
the “alleys green” of the forest were soon
made to ring again with their laughter and their
shouts.
After they had rested from this sport, they
strolled in the direction of the river's edge, and
visited the grotto, where a limpid spring has
its source, and watched the steamboats as they
sped along, lashing into furrows of foam the
surface of the noble Hudson.
Time fled more rapidly than they could have
conceived; and, as it drew near to one o'clock,
Frank began to throw out some very significant
hints as to the propriety of having dinner.
“Now, then,” said Ruth, “let us see who
will select the best spot for our pic-nic. What
a sweet, balmy day it is! I see a place where
we may spread our repast. Follow me!”
Ruth led the way towards a level, moss-grown
rock, that overhung the river's bank, and from
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which a fine view of the surrounding scenery
might be obtained. It was sufficiently shaded
by a tall oak, that towered at one extremity,
and there were knobs or cushions of earth
around, upon which the party might sit or recline
in comfort. The opinion was unanimous,
that a better spot for their purpose could not
be selected. There, then, was the tin pail deposited,
while its contents were neatly spread
upon a large clean napkin by Ruth.
“I tell you what, Ruth, I feel hungry,” said
Frank. “Are we all ready?”
“Stop a moment,” she replied. “We surely
cannot look around on this beautiful earth, and
breathe this delicious air, and see these evidences
of the bounty and goodness of our Father
in heaven, without giving a few moments to
thoughts of adoration and of gratitude. Let
us, then, silently, but devoutly, offer up our
thanks.”
The suggestion did not fall upon cold or reluctant
hearts. The children knelt in impressive
silence for a full minute, until Ruth set the
example of rising.
“Now I am sure,” said she, looking round
upon her little party with a smile, “we shall
take our meal with spirits more cheerful than
ever; and cheerfulness is better than all the
sauces in the world to make a dinner relish.
Do you not think so, William?”
“Somehow or other, I always think what you
say is right,” replied William.
“Then allow me to say that a piece of this
salt beef between these slices of bread and butter
will do you no harm.”
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“Thank you, Ruth; my appetite doesn't need
much coaxing. You are right again.”
“Miss Lucy Marvell, permit me to help you
to a sandwich. To you the same, Miss May
Loveday. Arthur, shall I have the pleasure?
Frank, can I not persuade you?”
“I tell you what, Miss Loveday, I don't require
much persuasion. I feel hungry enough
to relish a piece of old shoe.”
“Well, Frank, before you seriously begin
upon that beef, just take this bowl, and fill it at
the fountain.”
“I'll do it, Ruth; but if I meet any bullocks
by the way, I won't be answerable for their
lives.”
Frank hastened to fulfil his sister's request,
and in a few minutes returned with a large
bowl full of clear cold water, into which they
all dipped their mugs, as their thirst impelled
them.
It was a memorable feast, under that big oak-tree,
with the soft summer wind rustling the
leaves, the river flashing in the pure sunlight,
the perfume of wild flowers and forest shrubs
filling the air! The repast was followed by a
song or two from Ruth, and then the little party
dispersed through the woods, to gather such
blossoming trophies as they could find to bear
home.
It was nearly five o'clock before they reached
the ferry-boat to recross the river on their return
to the city. One of the first persons they
encountered on board was Mr. Bangs, William's
father. In conversation with him was a young
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man of a handsome exterior, plainly but elegantly
dressed in a black frock-coat, white pantaloons,
and vest. He carried a riding whip; and
in the forward part of the boat, tied to the railing,
stood a glossy blood horse which belonged
to him. He seemed to be discussing with Bangs
the relative merit of certain horses, whose speed
they had been testing at the race-course.
“Depend upon it, Mr. Dangleton, I am right,”
said Bangs, “in my opinion of that beast. He
has ten times the speed and strength of Duane.”
“I am disposed to agree with you, Bangs,”
replied the young man; “but, at the same time,
I cannot help remembering how you misled me
in regard to Holloway's Black Jane. There
you missed it confoundedly. I lost fifteen hundred
dollars through my foolish confidence in
your judgment.”
“But didn't I show my sincerity by losing
too?” asked Bangs.
“Yes; but what consolation was that to me,
Bangs, for the dwindling of my pocket-book?”
“I was right, after all, Mr. Dangleton. It was
entirely that little rascal's fault who rode her,
that she didn't win. I shall always believe that
he was bribed to make her shy in the last heat.”
“It may be so, Bangs. I have always esteemed
you a good judge of horse-flesh, and
will not discard you for making a mistake
once.”
“Thank you for your good opinion, Mr. Dangleton.
We will make up our losses on the next
race, and no mistake.”
At this moment the eye of Mr. Bangs fell on
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his son, and, calling to him, he said, “How,
now, you young rascal? How came you here?
Who gave you permission to come?”
“I did up all my work yesterday, father,”
replied William; “and so, as Ruth Loveday and
her brothers were going over to Hoboken to
have a good time, mother consented to let me
and Lucy go with them.”
“So you came over with the Lovedays, did
you?”
“Yes, father,” replied William, trembling
with the anticipation of a cuff in the ear.
At the first mention of the name “Loveday,”
the attention of the young man who had been
conversing with Bangs was visibly excited; and
on its repetition, he said, half musingly, “Loveday!
Loveday! Was that the name, Bangs, I
heard from your lips?”
“Yes; I was only speaking of the children
who are sitting on the bench yonder. Their
name is Loveday.”
“Children! Loveday! This way a moment,
Bangs.”
Glad to be let off without a blow, William
hurried back to his friends; and Mr. Dangleton,
taking Bangs aside, remained with him a few
minutes in earnest conversation, during which
the former was so interested as to allow a cigar
which he had lighted to drop unnoticed from
his fingers. The communications of Bangs,
whatever they were, seemed to astonish, and, at
the same time, to gratify the young man. In a
state of nervous excitement, as if hardly knowing
what he was about, he took the arm of his
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vulgar companion, and paced the deck with him,
directing piercing glances at Ruth: a condescension
at which Bangs was evidently amazed,
for Mr. Dangleton had never before treated him
as an equal.
The gaze of the young man became so constant
and intent, that Ruth at length was embarrassed,
and turned away, pointing out some
object of interest on the water to Lucy Marvell.
Before she could resume her former position,
she heard Bangs, in a tone of voice unusually
respectful, say, “Miss Ruth, here is a gentleman
who wishes to speak with you. Let me
make you acquainted with Mr. Dangleton.”
Ruth rose, bent her head slightly, and, lifting
her eyes, turned a look of inquiry upon the
young man.
Bowing gracefully, Mr. Dangleton took her
hand. She withdrew it in an instant. Her dark
eyes flashed, and the rosy blood streamed up
her neck and face to her forehead.
For a moment the handsome stranger was
silenced, struck partly with confusion at her
manner, and partly with admiration at her
charms. Quickly recovering his self-composure
and promptitude of address, he said, in a
sweet, low, and respectful tone, and with a look
of winning softness, “Do not think me impertinent,
young miss, in thus intruding myself
upon your acquaintance. But, having accidentally
heard from Bangs—I employ Bangs to buy
my horses,” added he, as he read a passing expression
of distrust in Ruth's features—“Hearing
from Bangs, I say, the story of your orphan
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position—your industry and good management—
your judicious care of your brothers and sister—
I became, and very naturally, you must admit,
so much interested, that I could not forego
the opportunity of expressing my approbation
of your conduct, and, at the same time, of inquiring
if there is nothing I could do for yourself
or your brothers, in behalf of so much worth,
and, I may add,” continued he, lowering his
voice, “so much loveliness.”
The last word was an unfortunate one for
Dangleton, for it immediately put Ruth upon
her guard; and she coldly replied, “I thank you,
sir, for your offered kindness, but can assure
you that we do not need it. This very holyday
excursion, from which we are just returning, is
a proof.”
“True. I did not imagine that you required
any charitable aid; but I knew that a man in
my circumstances has it often in his power, by
a word of recommendation, to obtain a good
place in a store, for instance, for a lad in whose
welfare he may chance to take an interest. Believe
me, I was anxious to avoid giving you offence.”
“You have given none,” said Ruth, looking
him calmly in the face.
“I rejoice to have your assurance that it is
so,” resumed the young man, in his blandest
tones. “You will at least leave me the satisfaction
of knowing that, in case I should hear
of any situation which would be an advantageous
one for one of your brothers, I may call and
inform you respecting it? Surely you will not
say nay to this?”
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“Neither of my brothers,” replied Ruth, “at
present desires any change of situation. One
is at school, and the other pursuing his studies
in a manner the most agreeable to him.”
Mr. Dangleton bit his lip, and, turning away,
muttered to himself, “She is shy as a bird—
beautiful, however, and well worth the snaring.
What will Mr. Dangleton senior say to this
discovery? For the present, the secret is mine,
and I'll hold on to it. How fortunate! It can
be accomplished, of course—nay, it must and
shall.”
What the young man's reflections had been,
it was impossible to judge from his face, as,
again approaching Ruth, he said, with an air in
which benignity and respect seemed mingled,
“We must part friends—that I insist upon, Miss
Ruth; for, believe me, I had no other feeling
than one of kindness towards you and yours in
addressing you.”
“I do not doubt you,” said Ruth, her features
lighting up with a smile. “I have no
disposition to quarrel.”
“Your hand upon it!” exclaimed the young
man, gayly, at the same time extending his
hand.
Ruth frankly gave hers in return, and bade
Mr. Dangleton “good-day.”
The boat touched the wharf—the bell was
rung—the drawbridge lowered—and the children,
jumping on shore with their bundles of
wild-flowers, fern, and blossoming boughs, proceeded
up Barclay-street, talking, laughing, and
reminding one another over and over again of
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the beautiful sights they had seen and the joys
they had tasted.
Mr. Dangleton, before quitting the boat, was
seen to stop five minutes, and enter into an
earnest conversation with Bangs; then mounting
his horse, he followed the Lovedays at a
slow pace as far as Broadway, when he waved
his hand in token of farewell to Ruth, and,
turning off in the direction of the Battery, proceeded
on his course at a fast trot.
-- 132 -- p333-141
CHAPTER IX. A GOLDEN SCHEME.
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The tenour of our narrative now leads us
to an office in the vicinity of Wall-street, occupied
by Mr. Dangleton senior, attorney and
counsellor at law. The room is plentifully
hung around with maps of lands in the market,
plans of never-to-be-finished railroads, advertisements
of newly-formed companies, and such
like indications of a speculating mania on the
part of the occupant. On the shelf over the
fireplace are arranged specimens of granite,
coal, marble, and lead, all of which are from
mines worked by companies, in which he is an
important shareholder. A meager library of
law-books, upon shelves between two windows,
appears to be retained for show rather than for
use.
The inmate of this apartment was a speculating
lawyer in times when even men of sense
and integrity were frequently infected with
what may now be justly termed a rage for
stock - gambling. He had launched daringly
into operations, in which tens of thousands
might be made or sunk by slight variations in
the money-market. For months he had daily
risen, not knowing whether the night would
find him a bankrupt or a man of wealth.
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Latterly, however, fortune had been rather chary
of her favours, as may be inferred from the
conversation that ensued when, the Monday
morning after the events recorded in the preceding
chapter, Mr. Dangleton junior entered
his father's office.
“Well, Ned,” said the lawyer, who was engaged
in penning a prospectus for the “Hagawoocheepoochee
Land Company,” with a capital
of two millions, “well, Ned, what has sent
you down here so early this morning? The
old story, I suppose, eh? You have come to
financier? You want money, eh?”
“Yes, father, that is a want from which I am
very seldom free. Your check for a thousand
dollars, or even half that sum, would gratify
me beyond expression just at this moment.”
“Ned, I am afraid you gamble.”
“To be sure I do, but then it is on a small
scale—nothing like that you go upon.”
“What do you mean, scapegrace?”
“I see, sir, you are disposed to be merry.
We will change the subject, if it offends you.”
“Look you, Ned, you must absolutely retrench
your expenses. It is really impossible
for me to supply your extravagances any longer.”
“Extravagances, sir!”
“Ay, extravagances, sir! By which I mean,
keeping three or four horses, giving expensive
dinners at Delmonico's, sending presents of
jewelry to every pretty actress that comes
along—in short, living the life of a mere idler
and man of fashion.”
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“May I inquire, sir, what is your opinion of
the new opera?”
“Zounds! Ned, are you trying to provoke
me into a passion?”
“By no means. I would not have you get
into a passion on any account, so soon after
breakfast. It is a very vulgar sort of excitement,
getting into a passion—and disturbs the
digestive organs.”
“Be serious, Ned, for five minutes, and hear
what I have to say. While the tide was in my
favour, you know how freely I gave from my
abundant means. But let me assure you that
a great revolution in fiscal matters has just commenced.
All those stocks, which I could have
sold out a month since at a handsome advance,
realizing thereby a fortune, are now below par.
Money is hard to be got at two per cent. a
month, and my anxieties are every day increasing.
Between you and myself, I am tottering
on the very verge of bankruptcy, and I suspect
that a good many of my neighbours are in the
same predicament.”
“I believe you, father—upon my word, I do.
But what of that? There are ways and means
enough for raising the wind in this world, if a
man only has his wits about him:
“`I know a bank whereon the wild thyme grows!”'
“I wish, Ned, you knew a bank that would
discount my note for twenty thousand dollars.”
“Good! What if I were to say that I may
have the ability of giving you that little
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accommodation myself in the course of a week or
two?”
“I should say, Ned, that you were a cleverer
fellow than I ever took you to be.”
“I have a scheme—”
“Oh, if it's a scheme, I'll none of it. I'm sick
of scheming.”
“But this is one that requires no investment
save a little agreeable impudence; a sort of—
you understand.”
“Oh, if impudence is all that it requires, I
will take any bet on your success.”
“The compliment is, of course, reflected on
my instructer,” said Ned, bowing with mock
gravity.
“But, pray, what may this great scheme of
yours be, Ned?” asked Mr. Dangleton, in a tone
half careless and half curious.
“Have I not always understood you to say,”
resumed the young man, “that the name of the
married sister of your late wife, my mother-in-law,
to the offspring of which sister a very peculiar
interest just at this moment attaches, was
Loveday?”
“To be sure it was. The father's name
was Arthur Loveday. He married May Gordon
against the consent of her parents. They cast
her off, and refused to see her or her children.
She died, but whether he and the children are
living or dead—in Europe or America—nobody
has been able, as yet, to find out.”
“You, my dear father, a widower at the
time with four children, including myself, my
amiable brother and sisters, married, as I
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understand it, a sister of May Gordon, Isabella,
who, much to your chagrin, died before her father,
and without offspring.”
“You are right. It was very inconsiderate
of her to disappoint me so vexatiously. Dick
Fortescue married the other daughter, Harriet,
who also died without offspring. Mrs. Gordon,
the mother, soon followed; and, finally, old Gordon
himself was found one afternoon lifeless in
his chair; and, deplorable to relate, he died intestate.
The consequence has been, that neither
Fortescue nor myself has ever derived the slightest
advantage from the alliance. Not a penny
can we ever receive from the estate. It must
all go to Loveday's children, if they can ever
be found, which seems to be doubtful.”
“How large an estate did the old man leave?”
“It would be a capital speculation to buy it
up from the heirs for a million of dollars. The
coffee plantations in Cuba are alone worth that
sum.”
“You enchant me, my dear father!” exclaimed
Ned, starting from his chair, and rubbing his
hands with great glee.
“Hey! What! I cannot for the life of me
see how this concerns you, Ned.”
“A million divided among four will leave two
hundred and fifty thousand apiece. I think I
could get along on that. Yes, it will do!”
“I see it!” exclaimed Mr. Dangleton senior.
“You have made a discovery, Ned. You have
found out the whereabouts of these Lovedays.
They are in ignorance of their good fortune.
There is a girl among them. You think you
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can marry her; you can—you shall! Huzza!
Am I not right, Ned? Isn't this your grand
scheme?”
“And what would you say if it were?”
“Why, that it was worth all the bubble speculations
that were ever engendered in the brain
of a Wail-street broker. Bravo, Ned! Let me
hear all about it. Where did you pick up this
precious piece of information?”
Ned hesitated a moment as to whether he
should communicate freely with his father in
regard to his discovery. But, remembering that
the latter's interests were vitally involved in the
success of his matrimonial scheme, and that, as
a lawyer, he might materially aid him by his advice
and his pecuniary loans, he resolved to lay
the whole matter before him, as if he were merely
acting under the impulse of filial confidence
and candour.
“Do you remember,” said the young man,
“a fellow named Bangs, whom I sent to you
three or four months since, to help him out of
a lawsuit he had got into, in an affair of a lamed
horse?”
“A ruffianly, reckless-looking fellow, was he
not? I remember him well. I have an unpaid
charge against him in my books.”
“So much the better. Well, as I was returning
from Hoboken yesterday afternoon in the
boat with Bangs, I accidentally heard him apply
the name Loveday to some children who were on
board.”
“Is it possible? This is excellent, Ned. Go
on.”
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“You well know what a spell that name has
been to us ever since old Gordon's death. You
will not, therefore, be surprised that I started on
hearing it, and, as I suspect, turned a little pale.
Taking Bangs aside, I questioned him rapidly in
regard to those to whom he had applied the interesting
dissyllable. In two minutes I fully
satisfied myself that I stood in the presence of
the legitimate heirs of old Gordon, your late father-in-law!”
“But the proofs, Ned—give me the proofs.”
“The name is an unusual one, you will grant.
That is but a slight circumstance, however, in
the scale. Another is, that the children, four
in number, are orphans, living together in an
humble, though not an entirely destitute condition.
I have understood from you that Loveday,
whom, from the information I yesterday
gathered, I may now venture to call the late
Mr. Loveday, at one time followed the calling of
an engraver on wood. Now I learned from
Bangs that the eldest child, who is a girl, actually
supports the little family by practising
the same art.”
“That is a strong point, Ned—I may almost
say, a conclusive one,” exclaimed Mr. Dangleton,
rising from his chair and pacing the room.
“The strongest presumptive evidence is to
come. You remember the exquisite engraving
in an English annual, called The Bijou, which
you told me was copied from a portrait of May
Gordon, taken a year or two before her marriage?”
“I remember it well. The painting was by
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[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]
Stuart Newton, who took a copy of it with him
to England, where it was engraved as a fancy
picture. The likeness was one of the best I
ever saw. It was May Gordon herself, reflected
on canvass.”
“It will answer quite as well for a likeness
of the daughter. I was at once startled by the
resemblance. It is perfect.”
“You have said enough, Ned, to convince
me that your conclusions in regard to these
children are just. How old should you take
the girl to be?”
“About fifteen; at any rate, some months past
the age when a marriage is illegal.”
“I am glad to see you have a strict eye to
business, Ned. Is the maiden pretty?”
“Beautiful exceedingly! with an erect, peerless
shape, and a face of rare loveliness and expression.
I really think it would not cost me
a very great effort to work myself into the belief
that I was in love with her.”
“What a while till she is in love with you,
and then I shall have no particular objection to
your indulging in any little reciprocities of affection.
He who wishes to win a woman,
should never be the first to fall in love; for she
has him then at an advantage; and he is so
completely stupefied and blinded, that he cannot
carry out his tactics with any sort of discretion.”
“I flatter myself that I have had some little
experience already in the art, my dear father,”
said Ned, pulling up one side of his shirt collar,
and loosening his neck from the rigid embrace
of his cravat.
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[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]
“By-the-way, have you ascertained where
the children live?” asked the lawyer.
“Could anything be more fortunate?” returned
the young man. “They occupy the attic
story in the house of the fellow Bangs.”
“Good again! very good! How many of
them did you say there were?”
“Four: two girls and two boys.”
“Excellent! Why can we not manage to
transfer the whole property to our family, should
you marry the elder girl? The other one can
be easily handed over to your brother Tom;
and as for the two boys, your sisters Susan and
Caroline are not my daughters if they cannot
entrap them. All this can be effected beyond
a doubt, so you will contrive, Ned, to become
the husband of the eldest of these orphans.
And what is to prevent you? A handsome
young fellow, not yet twenty-one, with a smooth
tongue and a winning manner—thoroughly at
home in the study of that extensive volume, a
woman's heart—bold, adroit, self-possessed, and
with all your time at your disposal—opportunities
the most propitious imaginable ready made
to your hands—you, I say, backed by all these
advantages, and with the appearance and reputation,
if not the reality, of wealth, make an
honourable proposal of marriage to a young,
simple-minded, uneducated girl, whose lot has
been, and, so far as she knows, promises always
to be, one of labour and penury! The result
seems to me natural—inevitable. The idea of
failure, my dear Ned, is absurd. If you cannot
win her, under such circumstances, you will be
a discredit to the race of Dangletons.”
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“I must confess that the odds are greatly in
my favour; but let me assure you that the girl
is very far from being the simple, silly individual,
you would figure to yourself.”
“If she be sensible, so much the less danger
will there be of her rejecting you; for she will
appreciate your talents, and recognise the advantages
you offer in the alliance.”
“I really believe you are sincere, my dear
sir, and so, I thank you for the compliment.
We must, of course, be exceedingly wary and
quiet in this business.”
“Oh, dark and still as a subterranean pool!
You must not breathe a syllable about it to another
human being.”
“If I consent to that restriction, my dear father,
I shall be under the necessity of asking
you for the trifling loan to which I have before
alluded.”
“Humph!” exclaimed the lawyer, nervously
shaking his watch-chain; “will not three hundred
dollars answer your purpose?”
“I am sorry to say, sir, that it will not. I
cannot get along with any sum less than a thousand.”
“It is a heavy drain upon me, Ned, just at
this moment; but, of course, you look forward
to arranging this affair of the marraige in a
week's time?”
“Most decidedly I do. I think I may promise
to have the articles signed and sealed before
Wednesday week.”
“You will let me have the fingering of some
of the fat dividends, then, you dog, eh?”
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[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
“To be sure I will. The dollars shall fly
like sands from under my horse's feet at Rockaway.
You shall not find me a niggard; no,
Ned Dangleton shall never be called by that
name.”
“Here is a check on the Manhattan Bank
for the amount. Use it discreetly, Ned. Let
it all be devoted to the forwarding of the great
scheme. Every consideration must give way
to that.”
“To be sure it must. I have an appointment
with Bangs this very afternoon. I shall barely
have time to get this check cashed before the
bank closes; so good-day.”
“Success to your wooing, Ned. Remember
that delays are dangerous. Like Cæsar, you
must go, see, and conquer.”
“Ay. If attempted at all, the scheme must be
accomplished. It would be a pretty story to
tell in Washington Place, that Ned Dangleton
had been rejected by a poor girl, who got her
living by manual labour. Pshaw! The project
cannot fail. It is ridiculous to admit even the
possibility of failure.”
“That is right, my boy! The Napoleon tactics
are the best in love as well as in war. A
resolute will sweeps all obstacles from its path.
What must it do, then, when there are no obstacles
in the way?”
“I fix this day fortnight for my wedding!”
exclaimed Ned, putting on his hat. “And then,
hurrah for the coffee plantations! Adieu!”
“He is his father's own son!” said Mr. Dangleton,
smiling, as the door closed.
-- 143 -- p333-152
CHAPTER X. HOW SHALL IT BE MANAGED?
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As Monsieur Mallet sat in his room, arranging
some music, the day after the interview between
Mr. Edward Dangleton and his exemplary
parent, a startling knock at his door caused him
to lift his eyes and call out “Entrez!”
The individual who entered, in reply to this
laconic exclamation, was a young and handsome
man, fashionably dressed, who approached with
an air and attitude of profound respect, and said
in French, “Have I the honour of addressing
the celebrated artist, Monsieur Mallet?”
“I am Monsieur Mallet,” answered the poor
musician, in his native tongue, somewhat taken
by surprise at the complimentary epithet which
had been prefixed to his humble name.
“Then pardon my presumption in calling to
pay my homage without the ceremony of an
introduction,” said the stranger, presenting his
card.
Monsieur Mallet, without glancing at the
name, replied, with formal courtesy, “I am always
happy to make the acquaintance of persons
who appreciate the beautiful art to which
my whole life has been devoted.”
“Ah, sir, you may well call it a beautiful art,
and worthy the devotion of a life, were the
period of life fifty times as protracted as it is.”
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[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
The Frenchman's eyes sparkled with animation
as he replied, “You are an artist yourself—
a vocalist, perhaps; or can it be that you are
the great master—the wonderful performer
on the piano-forte—Thalberg himself? I have
heard that he is about your age; and there
has been a report in the newspapers that he
intended visiting the United States.”
“Alas! I am not Thalberg, as you can see
by a glance at my card.”
“Excuse my forgetfulness,” said Monsieur
Mallet, as, arranging his spectacles, he read the
name “Edward Dangleton.”
“I heard one of your oratorios,” continued
the young man, “performed last winter at
Prague, where I had the pleasure of becoming
acquainted with your friend and admirer, the
Herr Von Steinbach.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed the unsuspecting
Frenchman, starting from his seat. “You know
Von Steinbach! You have seen him! you have
talked with him of me—of my oratorios—of—
Oh! my dear friend, permit me to embrace
you!”
Drawing forth a white cambric pocket-handkerchief,
and shaking from it an odour of eau de
Cologne, Mr. Dangleton, in a very tragic manner,
covered his eyes, and so received the embrace
of the enthusiastic Frenchman.
“Excuse this emotion,” whimpered Ned;
“but—but—I cannot help it.”
“My dear friend!” exclaimed the poor musician,
whose eyes were suffused with tears.
“Von Steinbach prepared me for this,” said
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[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]
the young man, at length, in broken accents.
“He told me that you would be rejoiced to
see any one whom he had taken by the hand,
and called his friend.”
“Ah! he was not mistaken! It is a very
great pleasure to see you. But why,” said
Monsieur Mallet, as if an idea had suddenly
struck him, “why did you not bring letters
from Von Steinbach?”
“There you remind me of my great misfortune,”
said Dangleton, with a melancholy shake
of the head. “I was a passenger in that unlucky
ship, the Ville de Bordeaux, which was obliged
to put into Bermuda to recruit her stores.
In undertaking to remove my trunk to the shore,
the boat in which it was carried was swamped,
and two of the oarsmen lost their lives!”
“Ah! the poor oarsmen!” sighed Monsieur
Mallet.
“In that trunk, sir, now tossed like a thing of
no value on the sands at the bottom of the great
Atlantic—in that trunk were my letters from
Von Steinbach to yourself; a roll of music, and
some copies of the Allegmeine Zeitung, which
he had commissioned me to—”
“It affects you too much, my dear young
friend,” said the sympathizing Frenchman. “Do
not let me open your wounds afresh by asking
you to relate more concerning your loss. But
tell me, did you leave Von Steinbach well? I have
not heard from him for more than two years.”
“He had a return of his gout just before I
quitted Prague; otherwise he was in good
health.”
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[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]
“Poor fellow! In his last letter he wrote
me that he was going to try the celebrated water-cure
administered by Priesnitz of Græfenberg.
It will gratify you, perhaps, to read what
he says. I will get the letter,” continued the
Frenchman, going towards an old, unlocked
portfolio.
“Not now—not now,” exclaimed Dangleton,
with some trepidation in his manner, and glancing
nervously at the portfolio. “The water
did him some good, but did not afford complete
relief. Let me tell you about the oratorio.”
“Ah, yes, the oratorio. It was the `Birth of
Chaos,' I suppose?”
“The same; and Von Steinbach declared
that it had never been so well performed in
Prague since you superintended the production
of it in 1825.”
“I thought it would never be played there
again,” said Monsieur Mallet; “for it required
all the violins in the city to do it justice. Nobody
would come to hear it after the second
night. Indeed, an objection which I had not
contemplated was soon made evident. The
musicians took up so much room in the great
hall, that there were no seats for the public.”
“But to the artists and amateurs who could
join in the execution, what a delightful treat it
was! Ah! Monsieur Mallet, I can say with
Von Steinbach, that Beethoven himself never
composed such a work!”
To this somewhat equivocal compliment, the
“Mounseer” replied by silently pressing his new
friend's hand.
-- 147 --
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“Tell me, sir,” said Dangleton, after a few
more assurances of his admiration, “is it your
habit, at any time, to give instruction in music?”
“I have had some pupils, but, because I could
not always be punctual in attending them, they
have left me. Very well! I have the more
time to devote to my grand compositions,” said
Monsieur Mallet, shrugging his shoulders.[1]
“But have you no pupils whatever at present?”
“None at all!”
“Indeed?”
“Stay! I have forgotten. Yes, I have one
little pupil—one sweet little pupil.”
“What is her name?”
“Ruth Loveday.”
“And does it not take up much of your time,
going to give her lessons?”
“Oh, no! She comes to me. It is very
convenient. She lives in this house. Ah! very
charming is Ruth! and she learns so fast, that
it is a pleasure, and not a task, to instruct her.”
“I am glad to hear that you do not object to
giving lessons. My sister, Mrs. Blazonby, a
widow lady who resides in Broome-street, having
heard me speak of you, is extremely desirous
of engaging you as her musical instructer.
I am sure you will be charmed with her, my
dear Monsieur Mallet. She will not tie you
down to particular hours. You can come when
you please, and go when you please, and charge
-- 148 --
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what you please; for Mrs. Blazonby has a proper
idea of the remuneration that should be
awarded to excellence in art.”
“I shall be proud to have madame, your sister,
for my pupil,” replied Monsieur Mallet,
well pleased at the prospect of finding such a
patroness.
“And now,” continued Mr. Dangleton, with
that suavity of manner which he could so
gracefully employ, “will it be asking too great
a favour if I propose that you should permit
me to hear the little pupil, of whom you speak,
play a few tunes? I would like to be able to
give Mrs. Blazonby some idea as to your style.”
“Certainly you shall hear my little pupil—
that is, if she is in the house. I will call her
in one moment.”
“Stay!” said Dangleton. “Lest she should
be shy of me as a stranger, it will be well for
you to introduce me as your particular friend.”
“Von Steinbach's particular friend is also
mine. Your caution is unnecessary,” replied
the Frenchman.
“A thousand thanks for your kindness!”
“I shall be back in two minutes. I have only
to go up stairs.”
As soon as Monsieur Mallet had quitted the
room, Mr. Edward Dangleton hastily drew from
his pocket a bundle of old letters, and thrust
them into the portfolio, to which I have already
directed the reader's attention. As he did so,
he muttered to himself, “That was a lucky
idea of Bangs's, getting hold of these letters!
Twenty dollars was good pay, however, for the
-- 149 --
[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
job. Thanks to the Herr Von Steinbach, and
to my own serene assurance, I am now fully established
in the old fiddler's good graces. Thus
far we run before the wind. Hush! He is
coming down stairs with his `petite ecolière.'
Now, Ned, summon all your impudence—all
your power of fascination. The critical moment
is at hand.”
The music-master entered the room, leading
Ruth, who had cheerfully quitted her task for
his gratification.
“This gentleman, Ruth,” said he, addressing
her in French, as his constant habit now was,
“is Mr. Edward Dangleton. You will be pleased
to play before him, will you not, when I tell
you he is a particular friend of mine?”
Ruth courtesied modestly, and looking up,
said she should always be glad to oblige Monsieur
Mallet and all his friends.
“She neither seems to recognise me, nor to
heed my name!” thought Ned. “A confounded
bad sign!”
Then taking her hand, he led her to the piano,
and said, “I perceive you do not recognise me,
Miss Ruth; and yet we have met and spoken
before to-day.”
“Oh, yes; coming from Hoboken the other
afternoon in the boat: I remember you now,”
replied Ruth.
“Hang me if she hasn't all the nonchalance of
a belle of five years' standing!” said Dangleton
to himself.
“What will you be pleased to have me play,
Monsieur Mallet?” asked Ruth, running her
-- 150 --
[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]
fingers over the keys of the piano, without the
apparent consciousness of any one's presence
but her instructer's.
“Let me hear you try some of the airs from
Zampa which you have been studying.”
Placing the notes before her, she obeyed;
and executed some of the choicest portions of
Herold's beautiful opera with an ease and elegance
of touch, and a degree of precision, at
which the music-master himself was surprised.
“Excellent! Admirable!” exclaimed Dangleton;
and a torrent of praise flowed from his
lips, all of which seemed to be received by Ruth
as a matter of course, and to affect her neither
one way nor the other.
“Confound her!” muttered the young man.
“This will never do. I shall never make any
progress at this rate.”
“What think you of my little pupil, ha?” exclaimed
Monsieur Mallet, rubbing his hands.
“It is hardly six months since she took her
first lesson in music.”
“She plays, indeed, with exceeding grace and
spirit,” replied Dangleton. “Mrs. Blazonby
would, I am sure, be charmed with her performance.”
Alas! young man, what hideous thought is
casting its dark shadow before in your busy
brain?
Ruth rose to quit the room, but she was intercepted
near the door by Dangleton, who said,
“You will certainly permit me to make you
some return for the pleasure you have afforded
me. As a slight token of my admiration of
-- 151 --
[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]
your proficiency, may I not present you with a
volume of new music?”
“I thank you, but must decline it. If you
have presents to make, it will gratify me, far
more than receiving them myself, to have you
give them to my good instructer here. He has
more music now in his portfolios than I could
learn in a lifetime.”
“A book, then, or some little trinket—this
ring, for instance,” continued the young man,
producing a beautiful diamond; “you will not
refuse this ring? It will just fit your middle
finger.”
As he spoke thus, he attempted to take her
hand. Ruth drew it back, and said, “Indeed I
cannot see how I have any claim upon your
generosity. But let me look at the ring.”
He eagerly placed it in her hand. She examined
it a moment, while a mischievous smile
played about her lips; and then putting it on
the old Frenchman's little finger, she remarked,
“If you seriously think you are under any obligation
of gratitude for the entertainment you
have had, it is due to Monsieur Mallet, and not
to me. The ring fits him, you see, exactly.”
“For your sake, then,” cried Dangleton, biting
his lips, “it shall be his.”
“I will admit no such condition. It would
detract from the grace of the gift,” replied
Ruth.
The crimson sprang to the young man's
cheeks. He had address enough, however, to
force a smile, and to say, “As you will. Nay,
keep it, Monsieur Mallet; if not for the sake
-- 152 --
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of Miss Ruth, for the sake of our dear mutual
friend, Von Steinbach.”
“Thank you, thank you, my dear Mr. Edward
Dangleton,” replied the Frenchman, moving the
diamond so that it glistened vividly in the light.
“Good-morning!” said Ruth; and she glided
gracefully out of the room.
“Still foiled and foiled, and by a mere girl!”
muttered Dangleton.
“Did you speak?” asked Monsieur Mallet.
“I was wondering at her proficiency under
your instruction, my dear sir,” replied Dangleton,
shaking the cloud from his brow, and taking
the old man's hand with great cordiality
of manner. “I will bring word to you some
day this week, Monsieur Mallet, as to my sister's
wishes. Of course you will consider yourself
engaged as her instructer, and, by way of
a retaining fee, please credit her for these ten
dollars.”
It was long since the poor Frenchman had
been in possession of so much money at a time,
and, as he received it, he expressed his acknowledgments
with grateful and sincere emotion.
“I think you said that your little pupil, Ruth,
lived here in the same house with you,” observed
Dangleton, carelessly, putting on his gloves,
and moving towards the door.
“Yes; she occupies the rooms in the attic.”
“Well, good-by, Monsieur Mallet. Au revoir!
We shall meet again.”
Dangleton quitted the apartment, thrusting
back the old Frenchman, who would have accompanied
him with ten thousand bows to the
street.
-- 153 --
[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
“No, Monsieur Mallet—no farther, I must insist—
the air is a little chilly—you will take
cold;” and the young man finally succeeded in
shutting the door upon him.
At the head of the stairs, Dangleton leaned
upon the banister, and summoned his thoughts
to what he would have called a “council of war.”
He remained nearly five minutes without stirring,
and then began slowly to descend. Suddenly
checking his steps, however, and with
compressed lips, shaking his head up and down,
as if a felicitous idea had entered it all at once,
he said to himself, “I have it! Why the deuse
did I not think of that before? It is a sure card,
and shall be played at once.”
He remounted the stairs, with a firm step ascended
the flight which led to the apartments
of the young Lovedays, and knocked at the
nearest door. It was opened by Ruth, who did
not disguise an expression of astonishment at
seeing him.
“I have an important communication to make
to you, Ruth,” said he, entering the room.
May was seated near the window, on her little
bench, busy with a slate and pencil. Ruth
placed a chair for her visiter, and stood with
folded hands, waiting for him to speak.
“And this is sister May, is it not?” asked
Dangleton, stooping, and parting the wavy curls
from the child's forehead, and imprinting upon
it a kiss.
May looked up with a confiding smile, and
Ruth somewhat coldly replied, “Yes, sir; that
is the little girl's name.”
-- 154 --
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Dangleton approached the elder sister, and,
respectfully lowering his eyes to the hat which
he held in his hand, said, “You have wondered,
Ruth, and are wondering still, unless your
wonder is already changed to distrust, why I,
a young man of fashionable family, rich and
gay, should seem interested in one like you.
You instinctively suspect my motives, and I cannot
complain at your doing so; but when I tell
you the cause of my interest, I am sure your
feelings will be changed, and that you will regard
me with eyes of confidence, if not of affection.”
“Go on, sir,” said Ruth, looking him steadily
in the eye.
“Know, then, Ruth Loveday, that it is on
your mother's account, with whose family I am
nearly connected, that—”
Ruth drew a long breath, and, while the tears
leaped to her eyes, she placed both her hands
in his, and cried, “Enough! enough, sir! Forgive
my coldness! Had you told me this before,
you should have had a far different greeting.
But tell me, when and where did you
know my mother, and how did you discover
my relationship to her?”
“I cannot say that I have a distinct recollection
of her myself, though, when quite a boy,
I must have been in her society. Often, however,
have I heard my father speak of beautiful
May Gordon, and her runaway match with
young Loveday.”
“Gordon! May Gordon! Was that her
name?” inquired Ruth, earnestly.
-- 155 --
[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]
“How? Is it possible? Can it be, then,
that you did not know—”
Dangleton checked himself suddenly. He
saw that he had made a great mistake, and
rapidly revolved a variety of plans for retrieving
it.
“So!” thought he, “she has remained in ignorance
of the name of her mother's family!
This accounts for the fact that the claims of
these orphans to the estate have remained dormant.
How unfortunate that it should have
slipped from my tongue!”
“For good reasons,” said Ruth, “my grandfather's
name was never a familiar one among
us. It is a satisfaction, however, to know what
it was.”
“I was in error!” cried Dangleton, in reply.
“Gordon was the name of a different person
altogether. The name of your maternal grandfather
was Harrowby—Richard Harrowby, of
Charleston, South Carolina.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Ruth, with a scrutinizing
glance at her informer.
Dangleton did not blench, and suspicion was
not aroused.
“But do you judge from my name alone that
I am the daughter of her of whom you speak?”
inquired Ruth.
“Partly from that, but chiefly and incontestably
from your resemblance to a portrait of
your mother, taken in her girlhood.”
“A portrait of my mother! Oh! where is
it? Who has it? Can you show it me? May
I not see it? If you knew how I have loved
-- 156 --
[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
her—how I love her still, you would not wonder
at my strong desire to see—to possess her
likeness.”
“The portrait is in my possession, and it
will give me sincere gratification to place it in
yours.”
“Will you—will you give it to me? Oh!
that will be a gift indeed! Thank you, sir!
thank you! I cannot express my thanks.”
“Your mother, Ruth, must have been exceedingly
beautiful!”
“I well remember her features. I can tell
at once if the likeness be true.”
“It is remarkable for its fidelity: so says my
father, who knew the original well.”
“Did he know her, indeed? How I would
love to talk with him about her!”
“You shall do so, Ruth. I have spoken with
him concerning you, and he urgently desires to
meet and embrace the children of his old and
dear friend.”
“When will you let me have the portrait?”
“To-morrow. I will bring it to you myself.”
After this prosperous commencement, Dangleton
adroitly led on the conversation to such
topics as were the most suitable to Ruth's tastes
and feelings. He was well aware that the best
way to make a person pleased with you is to
make him pleased with himself in your society;
and he avoided the mistake which the uninitiated
often fall into, who, to produce a favourable
impression, keep their own faculties upon the
stretch, in the effort to shine, instead of imperceptibly
drawing out and exercising the talents
-- 157 --
[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
of those with whom they may wish to succeed.
He had at length touched the right chord in
Ruth's bosom, and it gave forth “most eloquent
music.” She unreservedly told him of
her past struggles and her present prospects—
showed him her engravings, with which he appeared
to be extremely pleased—and, in the
conviction that she was speaking to her “mother's
friend,” withheld no information that he
seemed desirous to elicit.
An hour flew by. Frank and Arthur came in
from their day's tasks, and, while Ruth arranged
the tea-table, Dangleton devoted himself,
not unsuccessfully, to conciliating their goodwill.
Frank's heart he soon succeeded in winning,
by a description of his new pony, “Tittlebat
Titmouse,” accompanied with an explicit
promise that Frank should ride him the first
leisure afternoon. As for Arthur, the dazzling
prospect of being presented with copies of
“Virgil” and “Lempriere's Classical Dictionary”
had a charm for him which was irresistible.
He could not help setting down Mr. Dangleton
as one of the “cleverest fellows” he had
ever met with.
Mr. Bibb came in, according to his confirmed
custom, about tea-time, and Ruth introduced
her visiter to him as one who had known her
mother, and whose claims, therefore, to her
friendship, admitted of no question. Notwithstanding
this recommendation, the good grocer
appeared to regard his presence with very little
satisfaction; and it was remarked by the
children that Mr. Bibb was unusually silent and
-- 158 --
[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
grave. At length Dangleton became so very
agreeable, and told so many pleasant little stories,
and sang so winningly and so well, that
even the “fat man's” distrust was dissipated
for the time, and he laughed and talked with
the rest, as if nothing had happened to make
him serious.
It was eight o'clock before Dangleton rose
to take his leave. Shaking hands all round,
and assuring Ruth that she should have the
promised portrait the next day, he gayly bade
the party “good-night,” and withdrew.
“A fine fellow, that! I like him!” exclaimed
Frank, as the door was closed. “He is going
to let me ride his pony, Tittlebat Titmouse.”
“He is a good Latin scholar, too,” said Arthur.
“He has promised to lend me a Virgil
and a Lempriere.”
“Were you not delighted with his songs?”
asked Ruth. “He has an excellent voice!”
“He has promised me a little work-box, all
covered with pictures!” lisped May.
“Really, the young man seems to have taken
a great fancy to you, all at once, children,”
quoth Mr. Bibb, with a puzzled look, slowly
putting on his hat and stroking his chin. “I
do not well know what to make of it. Young
men do not act so without an object: however,
let us hope that his is an honest one. So good-night,
darlings!”
“Good-night, Mr. Bibb! Good-night, grandpapa!”
eaf333.n1[1] It will be remembered that the whole of this conversation
was in French, which I have translated for the benefit of such of
my readers as do not understand the language.
-- 159 -- p333-168
CHAPTER XI. IT TAKES TWO TO MAKE A BARGAIN.
[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
The arts, the manœuvres, which Dangleton
assiduously employed during the ensuing week
to accomplish his mercenary scheme, were
many and ingenious. He did not at once place
in Ruth's possession the much-coveted portrait,
but made it the pretext for daily visits,
during which he always had some plausible excuse
in readiness to account for the delay of
the fulfilment of his promise. On these occasions,
he laboured hard to render his society
agreeable to her, and he flattered himself that
he had succeeded. In a measure, he was right.
He was well informed upon a variety of subjects
in which she felt an interest, and she listened
to him with much the same sort of pleasure
that she might experience in reading a light,
amusing book.
Just a week after the first memorable visit,
he rose from his bed and carefully dressed
himself, with the determination of addressing
her in relation to the subject which had been
uppermost in his thoughts. His father met
him as he was leaving the house, and asked,
“What cheer, Ned?”
“The coffee plantations will be ours before
sundown,” replied Ned, with a whirl of his
-- 160 --
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
little golden-tipped cane. “I have prepared
the way, so that there can be no possible doubt
as to the result.”
“You should seal the bargain at once, Ned,
if she says yes. `There's many a slip,' you
know—eh?”
“I am not certain that I shall not come home
a married man this very evening,” said the sanguine
Ned.
“Bravo, my boy! That's the way. Let
there be no interval between your marches.
Don't allow the enemy time to recruit.”
“The Napoleon tactics, eh, father?”
“Just so, my boy! Remember, `There's no
such word as fail!”'
“Ay, sir. Leave me alone for success in
such an enterprise as I am bound upon now.
Good-morning!”
“Good-morning, Ned!”
Before quitting his room, the young man had
placed in his pocket-book the promised portrait
of Ruth's mother, believing it would be an auspicious
offering with which to precede his proposal.
An hour's walk brought him to the obscure
and retired lodgings occupied by the young
Lovedays. He found Ruth alone, engaged upon
a drawing on wood. This was, for him, a fortunate
circumstance. Hitherto some one had
always been present at their interviews; and
now Ruth, with an instinctive sense of propriety,
was proceeding to call Lucy Marvell, when
he interrupted her, and said, “At length I have
brought you the portrait. Here it is!”
-- 161 --
[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
“Oh! give it me!” she cried, forgetting every
other purpose in her anxiety to see it.
As she took it, and eagerly scanned every
line and feature, her eyes sparkled, and the
flush of aroused affection and joy overspread
her face. Dangleton thought she had never
looked half so beautiful. “What a prize I
shall have in her, every way!” thought he.
For nearly five minutes she remained silently
and intently gazing at the picture, deaf to all
the inquiries addressed to her by her visiter,
every sense absorbed in the single one of sight.
At length her breast began to heave and her
tears to fall, and, with a smile half cheerful and
half tender, she exclaimed, “How very like!
And how very beautiful!”
“And what a resemblance to yourself it bears,
dear Ruth!” said the young man.
Ruth started, and looked in his face with a
momentary expression of surprise; then transferring
her gaze to the picture, she again examined
it with renewed interest.
“As a work of art, it is admirable — is it
not?” asked Dangleton. “Your opinion upon
that subject is worth something, Ruth.”
“It is, indeed, exquisite as a picture,” she
replied; “but in looking at it, I can think only
of the fidelity of the likeness.”
After inspecting it for some minutes longer,
she continued, “And is this really to be mine,
Mr. Dangleton? Am I at liberty to retain it?”
“Certainly, although I prize it much, Ruth,
as a likeness of yourself.”
“Thank you a thousand times!” she cried,
-- 162 --
[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
not heeding or not perceiving the implied compliment.
Placing it carefully away in her desk, she
proceeded towards the door to call Lucy, as
she had before intended; but again Dangleton
interposed.
“Hear me one moment, Ruth,” said he, “before
another's presence makes me falter in what
I have to say. Although our acquaintance has
been so brief, it has already been too long for
my peace; and I have come to you this morning
with the deliberate intention of making you
a proposal of marriage. Do not be so startled.
You shall be fully satisfied that my intentions
are strictly honourable—that my father does
not oppose my wishes—and that I have been
impelled by the sincerest feelings of admiration,
esteem, and love, to address you in this
language. Do not think it unaccountable that
a young man in my position should seek out a
wife in this humble abode, for love levels all
distinctions. Remember, also, that I have always
been familiar with your mother's name,
her virtues and respectability, and, need I add,
her beauty, so faithfully reflected in her daughter's
face.”
So fluent had been Dangleton's address, and
so unexpected the tenour of it, that Ruth was
for some moments quite confused, and sank
into a chair, hardly conscious of what she was
doing or what she had been hearing. Her self-possession
was restored, however, on seeing
him kneel at her feet; and rising, she said, in
a rapid, decisive tone, “I will not question
-- 163 --
[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
your motives, but I can frankly assure you that
I do not, and never can, have any disposition
to receive your visits after this avowal on your
part.”
Had a mine been sprung beneath his feet,
Dangleton could not have been more amazed
than he was by this prompt and resolute reply,
followed as it was by Ruth's instantaneous departure
from the room. For a minute he remained
in his kneeling posture, until, suddenly
struck with the absurdity of his appearance,
he started to his feet, and, while his cheeks
grew white with anger, paced the room. His
thoughts, whatever they might have been, were
not audibly vented, but there was an expression
ominous of danger to some one about his eyes
and his quivering lips. Hastily seizing his hat,
he left the house, and, lifting the knob of his
cane so that it pressed against his teeth, walked
slowly away, as if in deep thought.
No sooner was he gone, than Ruth sought
out her good friend, Mr. Bibb, and related to
him the whole occurrence.
At first he became indignant at the story, attributing
to Dangleton the basest designs; but,
upon reflection, he thought that this conclusion
might be too hastily formed. He hardly knew
what to infer from his conduct, and ended by
telling Ruth that he would revolve the subject,
and give her such advice when they met again
as he might consider safest.
Ruth returned to her labours, and Mr. Bibb,
seating himself upon a cask near the street
door, pondered, in a state of silent abstraction,
upon the communication he had just received.
-- 164 --
[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
“What is the matter, my dear, that you look
so serious?” asked a feminine voice, in a subdued,
but somewhat sarcastic tone. “Has May
Loveday's kitten lost the riband that was tied
about its neck? Or has Master Frank's new
kite had a hole made in it?”
Mr. Bibb stared vacantly at his wife, but did
not condescend to reply. With a short, hysterical
laugh, she turned away, without venturing
upon any more decided demonstration of
the spirit in which she regarded his predilections
for juvenile society.
“Hand me the Directory, Mrs. Bibb!” said
the grocer, with a dignified wave of the hand.
Mrs. Bibb's fingers twitched and quivered,
as if they would have answered, could they have
spoken, “We will tear your eyes out before
we do it!”
“The Directory, Mrs. Bibb!” exclaimed the
grocer, in a sterner tone.
“Ye-e-e-s, my dear,” said the obedient wife,
jerking the book into his lap.
The grocer gave her a look which made her
lower her eyes and move away, and then turned
over the leaves of the volume till he satisfied
himself of Mr. Dangleton's address.
“I am going as far as Bleecker-street, and
shall be absent an hour or two, Mrs. Bibb,” said
he, putting on his hat, and throwing aside his
white apron.
“Will he not take a pound or two of almonds
and loaf-sugar to give to the charity scholars?”
inquired his amiable mate, looking vitriol and
Prussic acid at him.
-- 165 --
[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
“You will attend to the shop till my return,
Mrs. Bibb,” said the grocer, without bestowing
the slightest notice upon her bitter ironisms.
With a sigh for the good old times, when he
dared not move into the street without asking
her permission and satisfying her as to his
errand, she saw him leave the shop and proceed
meditatively along the sidewalk, while every
limb, every motion of his body seemed to taunt
her with its freedom and independence.
The grocer pursued his course by the nearest
route to Mr. Dangleton's, and knocked at the
door.
“Is Mr. Edward within?”
“No. You can leave your bill, however, and
he will call and settle it in a week or two.”
“I have no bill against him.”
“Haven't you, indeed? Stop a moment. It
is barely possible that he is in his room. I will
go and see.”
In less than a minute the servant returned,
and told Mr. Bibb to follow him. Conducting
him up two flights of stairs, he ushered him into
a handsomely furnished apartment, where Mr.
Edward was reclining at full length upon a sofa.
His face was pale, and his hair disarranged, as
if his hands had thrust the rich brown locks
from his forehead, that the cool air might fan
his temples.
“Well, old boy, what is wanted?” said Dangleton,
lifting his head, but retaining his recumbent
posture.
“We have met before, though you may not
recollect my face,” replied the grocer.
-- 166 --
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
Dangleton at once recalled the circumstance
and the place, and he hesitated a moment whether
he should be rude or civil to his visiter. Considerations
of policy soon prevailed; and rising,
and politely handing him a chair, he said, “I
beg your pardon. The hue from that confounded
curtain so altered the expression of your
countenance, that I did not recognise you at
first. I pray you to be seated, my dear Mr.
Blabb.”
“Bibb, if you please, sir.”
“Oh, to be sure—Bibb! A very natural mistake,
though! You will find this chair the most
comfortable, Mr. Bibb.”
“You may, perhaps, have already guessed
my object in calling, Mr. Dangleton?”
Ned bowed, with all the reserve of a minister
plenipotentiary.
“Ruth has told me,” continued the grocer,
“of the proposition you this day made to her.
Allow me to ask you if it was made in good
faith—if you seriously desire to make her your
wife?”
The young man approached, and, grasping his
interrogator by the hand, replied, with a tone
and air of solemnity, “As Heaven is my witness,
sir, I was and am in earnest. If you
doubt me, ask my own father; bind me by any
oaths which you can devise. What proof of
my sincerity can you ask that I will not give
you? Bring your own priest and your own
witnesses, and this very day, this very hour, put
the integrity of my offer to the test. I will
most cheerfully accede to it.”
-- 167 --
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The earnestness of Ned's manner swept everything
like doubt before it from the hearer's
mind.
“I believe you, sir,” replied the grocer, “and
am rejoiced to find that my suspicions as to
your motives are not well founded. I will make
known my convictions to my young friend Ruth,
and, should there be any change in your favour
in her feelings, I will at once let you know.”
He was about to take his leave, but Ned seized
his hand, and, detaining him, made a most
pathetic appeal, which lasted nearly ten minutes.
He gave a flattering picture of his own situation
in life—described in glowing terms his violent
and “disinterested” (oh, Ned!) attachment—
and concluded by imploring Mr. Bibb to aid
him in his suit. The good grocer was affected
even to tears by his warmth, and left him with
the settled intention of espousing his cause.
On communicating, however, to Ruth that
evening his convictions as to Dangleton's sincerity,
he was surprised to find that a knowledge
of the fact only increased her repugnance
to receiving him any more as a visiter. Mr.
Bibb immediately despatched a note to Mr. Edward,
regretting that he could not afford him
any hope in the prosecution of his suit, and requesting
him to abstain from again calling on
the Lovedays. Young Dangleton did not receive
the message till the next morning, when,
exhausted and harassed, he returned from a
faro-table, at which he had lost during the night
the whole of the sum he had recently received
from his father. As he finished the perusal of
-- 168 --
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the note, his lips became compressed as with
the energy of a desperate purpose. All his resources
had been cut off. Ruin stared him in
the face. He well knew that his father no longer
had the ability, even if he had the inclination,
to supply him with any more money.
“Since fair means have failed, harsh ones
must be tried,” said the young man, ringing the
bell, and sending a servant in quest of Bangs.
-- 169 -- p333-178
CHAPTER XII. A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING.
[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
It was the first day of a new month. Arthur
and Frank had gone out, the former to attend
on Doctor Remington, and the latter to school.
May had been sent as far as the Bowery to buy
a skein of thread. Ruth was quite alone, engaged
in cleaning her room. She was singing
cheerfully. As she finished dusting the chairs
and arranging her dress for the resumption of
her labours with the graver, a knock was heard
at the door. She opened it, and, to her surprise,
saw Mr. Bangs.
“I have come,” said he, while a disagreeable
smile played about his mouth, “to receive your
month's rent. You had forgotten all about it,
had you not?”
“Oh, no!” replied Ruth. “I put aside the
eight dollars last night for Mrs. Bangs, meaning
to hand it to her the first opportunity to-day.”
“Well, as I happen to be hard pushed for
money, you may just give it to me.”
“Certainly,” said Ruth, unlocking her desk,
and searching for the old, worn pocket-book in
which she was accustomed to keep her humble
earnings.
-- 170 --
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To her dismay, it was nowhere to be found!
In no possible nook or corner could she discover
a vestige of it or its contents.
“Excuse me,” exclaimed Bangs, “but I am
in a good deal of a hurry.”
“I must have been robbed!” murmured Ruth.
“The pocket-book is not to be found. It contained
upward of thirty dollars.”
“None of your humbug!” said her rude and
unprincipled landlord. “If you can't give me
the money, say so. I know a family who are
willing to give me ten dollars a month for these
rooms, and to take them to-morrow.”
An expression of pain and anxiety passed
over Ruth's face as she replied, “Indeed, you
wrong me by your distrust. But the day is
not yet done. Leave me now, and I will make a
great effort to raise the money for you.”
“Very well,” said Bangs. “I must have it
before nightfall, so be spry.”
Being left alone, Ruth reopened the desk to
look for a half-finished engraving, upon which
she thought Frank might be able to obtain a
small sum in advance. Alas! none of her woodcuts
and implements were to be found! Half
a dozen beautiful drawings on wood, by that excellent
artist, Chapman, which belonged to the
publisher who employed her, and which she had
taken to engrave, had also disappeared! Poor
Ruth was almost in despair. This was a misfortune
so utterly unexpected, and so overwhelming,
that she could not, for the moment,
check a vehement flood of tears. Weeping,
however, was not the way by which to
-- 171 --
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contrive means to extricate herself from her dilemma.
So, washing her eyes and composing her
features, she went down into the “Mounseer's”
room to relate to him her calamity.
The music-master sympathized warmly with
her distress, and declared his joy at having the
ability to relieve it. He thought of the money
he had received from Mr. Dangleton, and, putting
his hand in his pocket for his purse, drew
forth—nothing but a tuning-key! He had also
been robbed. Even the diamond ring, which
had sparkled on his little finger, was no more to
be seen. Parbleu! what a catastrophe! Should
he sell the piano—the violin? Alas! they were
not his own property; they were merely hired.
Leaving the worthy Frenchman far more afflicted
at his little pupil's loss than at any he
had himself experienced, Ruth flew for counsel
to her friend the grocer. She found him perplexed
and worried about his own affairs. A
vexatious lawsuit had been revived against him,
which was of a character to ruffle the serenest
temper. He lent, however, a kind and attentive
ear to Ruth's story, and then informed her
that he had been obliged to expend all his ready
money, with the exception of a dollar or two
in the till, in feeing his lawyer, Mr. Dangleton.
He would come round and see Bangs, and persuade
him to desist for a week or two from his
importunities, and, in the mean time, the children
could procure from his shop, free of charge,
whatever provender they might need for their
daily sustenance. With this arrangement Ruth
was constrained to be content.
-- 172 --
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The grocer did not neglect his promise.
Bangs was for a long time surly and refractory
in the interview that ensued; but, on Mr. Bibb's
openly expressing his indignation, and declaring
that he would give the children a home in
his own house, the coachman suddenly changed
his tone, and consented that they should occupy
their rooms a few days longer without
molestation.
That very night the grocery and dwellinghouse
of Mr. Bibb took fire, most unaccountably,
and were burned to the ground. The newspaper
reporters accounted for the accident in various
ways, according to the fertility of their
imaginations. One of them stated that the
owner, in a state of intoxication, had left a lighted
candle in a charcoal basket. Another confidently
informed the public that the conflagration
originated in the spontaneous combustion
of a box of Lucifer matches; but the report
most generally accepted was that, through the
culpable carelessness of Mr. Bibb, some alcohol,
which he was pouring from a gallon measure,
was accidentally ignited by a spark from his
cigar. Now, as his was a temperance establishment,
I cannot but consider this story as unfounded
as the others. I have my suspicions
as to the origin of the fire, and, when there is
fitting occasion, I may take the liberty to declare
them.
By this deplorable casualty, if so it may be
called, Mr. Bibb was at once not only stripped
of the means of aiding others, but rendered an
object for charity himself. He bitterly
-- 173 --
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regretted the circumstance, not merely on his own
account, but for the sake of the young Lovedays,
whom he had hoped to assist. A friendly
neighbour offered him and his wife a shelter—
it was all he had to offer—and the grocer gratefully
availed himself of the invitation.
For a week Bangs refrained from harassing
Ruth for her small debt, contenting himself with
keeping a vigilant and cautious eye upon the
movements of the orphans, who had promptly
decided on certain measures for retrieving their
loss. Frank was at once taken from school,
and sent into the streets again to vend newspapers.
May was ambitious to do all the sewing
that could be obtained for her, and a very nice
seamstress she was. Arthur quitted Doctor
Remington's employment to adopt a calling infinitely
more laborious and more immediately
profitable. The change cost him a pang, but a
consciousness that he was doing his duty cheered
him on. Frank had told him that money
was to be made at the “steamboat landings”
by offering his services as a porter, and transferring
the luggage of passengers. Arthur was
of a delicate constitution, though recently it
had been much invigorated by exercise in the
open air. The rough and painful tasks to which
he was now subjected, of lifting heavy trunks
on his shoulder, carrying well-stuffed carpetbags
and boxes, threatened, however, to undermine
his health and overstrain his muscles.
As for Ruth, after many unsuccessful applications
for work, she had obtained a contract
for an engraving on wood, for which she was
-- 174 --
[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]
to be paid ten dollars on delivery; and at the
execution she now laboured with unremitted
assiduity. Many little things had occurred to
annoy and dishearten her. Mr. Alison had sent
her a note,[2] informing her that her services in
the church choir were no longer wanted. Articles
of furniture and pieces of crockery were
miraculously broken or abstracted. Dresses
were torn, and soiled, and burned, no one could
tell how. Everything seemed to go wrong; and,
finally, poor Frank, as he was returning home
one evening, was struck in the leg with a loaded
cane by some person unknown, and so seriously
lamed that he was obliged to take to his
bed.
Ruth rose early and retired late, working till
she could hardly see upon the fine engraving under
her hands. Notwithstanding her numerous
trials, her cheerful and serene temper underwent
no change. Perhaps she sang somewhat
less than she had been accustomed to of late,
for she had been obliged to be more thoughtful;
but she did not waste a moment of her
time in useless lamentation and repining; for
she felt that she was in Heaven's hands, and
that, if she did but do her duty, she could not
be harmed. It was her faith, also, that, so long
as she remained pure and true, there were good
spirits hovering near her, among the brightest
of whom was her mother, who had power to
protect and gladden her. Who shall say that
to such influences she was not oftentimes
-- 175 --
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
indebted for encouragement in her struggles and
for light in her gloom?
Our attention must now be directed to a visit
received by Mr. Bibb some ten days after the
destruction of his property. That worthy individual
had been so effectually plucked by his
lawyer on the one hand, and signed by the fire
on the other, that he was left completely destitute;
and Mr. Dangleton had managed to keep
him so incessantly “bothered” about the lawsuit
as to allow him no time to visit even his
friends, the Lovedays, until that very day, when
he had found them in a state which caused him
no little concern.
Returning to his temporary abode, he was
told that a clergyman wished to speak with him
in the parlour. Entering, he encountered a very
demure-looking person, dressed in black, with a
white neckcloth, and spectacles. This individual
introduced himself, in a very solemn manner,
as the “Reverend Mr. M—,” giving the
name of a popular and eminent divine.
Mr. Bibb, though somewhat awestruck at
being in the presence of one of whom he had
heard and read so much, though he had never
seen him before, asked, tremblingly, to what he
was indebted for the honour of the visit.
“I have come, sir,” replied the man in black,
“to speak with you in regard to my young
friend, Mr. Edward Dangleton.”
“Oh, yes, I am glad to hear it,” exclaimed
Mr. Bibb, much relieved; for he had begun to
apprehend that, by some twist of the law, he
had been made a subject for clerical consolation
and “last confessions.”
-- 176 --
[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
“Alas! Mr. Bibb,” continued his solemn visiter,
“you cannot well conceive the suffering
which that excellent young man has undergone
for the last three weeks, through his becoming
enamoured of the maiden, Ruth Loveday. In
vain have I told him that there is balm in Gilead.
He knows it, but will not be comforted;
and, verily, I fear much for his life, unless we
can persuade the damsel, who, it would seem,
knows not his worth, to consent to listen to his
suit. Verily, it is sinfulness in her to be so obdurate.
I am told that she is poor; that her
family suffereth for the necessaries of life; and
that she subjects herself and her brothers to
labours which they cannot well bear, out of a
vain and foolish pride and obstinacy of spirit.
Verily, this should not be. I can vouch for my
young friend, Mr. Edward, that he is one of the
godly, and that his affection for this unworthy
maiden is his only weakness—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Mr. Bibb; “do
not call her unworthy. Ruth is one of the best,
most industrious girls of my acquaintance.”
“Vanity of vanities!” continued the stranger.
“You speak like one who loveth darkness better
than light. What good reason can the maiden
give for rejecting my young friend's offer,
and lacerating his tender spirit? Is he not
respectable, pious, all that he should be? Has
he not this world's dross in abundance—yea,
enough for Ruth and all her friends?”
“I must confess, sir,” said Mr. Bibb, “that I
wonder much at her conduct in rejecting an
offer that might be so advantageous to her and
to her family.”
-- 177 --
[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
“It is sinful, sir, absolutely sinful!” exclaimed
the visiter. “Be it your duty, then, to influence
her in the adoption of a course more consistent
with her duty to herself and her family; to persuade
her, in short, to listen to the honourable
proposals of my friend, Mr. Edward.”
“I will renew my entreaties this very evening,”
replied Mr. Bibb; “for I cannot see any
sensible reason why she should be so blind to
her own interests. Are you sure, though, that
the young man's habits are strictly correct?”
“Are my own correct, Mr. Bibb? Do I pass
my time in exhorting sinners to repentance, or
in riding, driving, drinking, and such like vanities?
I think I am justified in calling Mr. Edward
the most exemplary young man in New-York.
I can bring you five deacons from my
own church who will testify in his behalf. You
must read his speech at the great Temperance
meeting in the Park. I will send you a copy.
In the mean time, do me the favour to accept
these few little tracts, and to give them an attentive
perusal.”
As he said this, the reverend stranger thrust
into the grocer's hands a dozen tracts, which
were calculated to give the recipient a very exalted
notion of the donor's piety. I suspect
that a phrenologist would have found the organ
of “marvellousness” very fully developed in the
worthy grocer's head, for he swallowed everything
that the “Reverend Mr. M—” had been
saying, without a particle of distrust. He coincided
with the sanctimonious gentleman perfectly
as to the propriety of persuading Ruth to
-- 178 --
[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
receive Mr. Edward's addresses, and, in conclusion,
promised that he would use every exertion
to bring about a result so immediately advantageous
to herself, and so essential to the health
and peace of mind of the youth, who, as Mr.
M— declared, was “a perfect model for the
young men of the age.”
With a parting exhortation to Mr. Bibb “to
be virtuous if he would be happy,” the distinguished
individual gave him his blessing, and
departed. Had the grocer watched his proceedings
after he had turned the corner, he
might have had his suspicions aroused as to the
gentleman's claims to the title of “reverend.”
Jumping into a coach, where Mr. Edward was
seated in waiting, this distributor of tracts told
the driver, with a very unclerical oath, to “drive
on as if—”
I cannot consent to disfigure my page with
the rest of the exclamation.
“Well, Dick, how did you succeed in playing
the parson?” asked “the model for the young
men of the age.”
“Admirably, Ned! Not so broadly as to
waken his suspicions by a caricature. I had
your interests too much at heart for that. The
old fool was decidedly caught. I quite persuaded
him that you were the most exemplary of
young men, and that it would be positively sinful
in the girl to be any longer unkind. He
promised to see her to-night, and win her over
to repentance. The picture I drew of your sufferings
made his heart yearn with pity. There
is no mistake about it: he will plead your cause
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
with her as eloquently as you could do it yourself.”
“Tousand tanks! as Monsieur Mallet says.
Now, Dick, we will drive to my rooms, where
you shall divest yourself of your wig and spectacles,
not forgetting that pre-Adamitish white
cravat—and then, ho for woodcocks and Champagne
at Delmonico's!”
“I am your man!” replied Dick. “This
masking has given me an appetite.”
eaf333.n2[2] It was subsequently proved that the note was a forgery.
-- 180 -- p333-189
CHAPTER XIII. TRIALS OF TEMPER.
[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]
Misfortune now seemed to dog the heels of
Ruth and her little family, turn which way they
would. Before Frank could recover from his
lameness so far as to be able to walk out, Arthur
became ill and enfeebled in consequence
of a strain produced by lifting heavy burdens
in his new capacity of a passengers' porter.
Ruth, with feelings of profound grief, had seen
him come home, evening after evening, pale
and exhausted, and she had apprehended that
his constitution could not endure such severe
tasks. Apprehension was now changed into
sad conviction.
With all his exertions during the last ten
days, Arthur had been hardly able to earn
enough to supply their table with necessary
food. The debt to Bangs remained, of course,
unliquidated. That individual again became
importunate, and baited poor Ruth with incessant
applications for money. On the day at
which our narrative has arrived, she informed
him, with a cheerful face, that she had at length
finished her engraving, and, as Frank and Arthur
were unwell, she would go herself and receive
the ten dollars that had been promised on
its delivery.
“It is a long walk. You had better let
-- 181 --
[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
William go for you. He has an errand to do in
Fulton-street,” said Bangs, in an unusually gracious
tone.
“Oh, if William will be so obliging, I shall
like it,” replied Ruth; “for I ought to stay and
prepare some gruel for Arthur.”
“Give it me, and I will send him with it,”
continued Bangs.
Ruth tied it up neatly and carefully in several
folds of paper, and writing upon the envelope
the address of the person who was to buy it,
she gave it into the hands of the crafty landlord,
accompanied with a receipted bill, which the
messenger was to exchange for the money.
Bangs left the room apparently in very good
humour at the prospect of being paid his rent,
and Ruth congratulated herself in the same anticipation.
Going into Arthur's chamber, she inquired
tenderly how he felt.
“The pains in my breast are very bad indeed,
sister,” said he, with a languid smile.
“Shall I send for Doctor Remington?” she
asked.
“Not yet,” replied Arthur. “I may be better
soon. The Doctor did not seem well pleased
at my leaving him, and I thought it would
seem like begging if I told him all my reasons.”
“Is there nothing besides this gruel that you
would like?”
“I feel as if a little chicken broth would do
me good; but if it can't be got, it is no matter.”
Ruth looked into the state of her finances.
-- 182 --
[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
Not a solitary sixpence was left! She recollected,
however, that there would be two dollars
over from the amount to be received for
the woodcut, and she told Arthur that in an
hour or two he should have his broth.
It was twilight before William Bangs returned.
Rushing into Ruth's room, he exclaimed,
“Oh, Ruth Loveday! the man sends back your
engraving, and says it isn't worth any more than
a broken brick. It is scratched all over, and
spoiled!”
“Let me look at it!” said Ruth, after a
minute's silence, during which she became
quite pale.
William handed her the cut. With trembling
fingers she removed the envelope, and exposed
the engraving, on which she had expended so
many laborious hours, defaced and rendered
utterly worthless.
“I am afraid you let it rub against some
hard substance in your pocket, William,” said
she, with a slight tremulousness in her tones,
while her eyelids quivered, and a tear or two
stole forth.
“No, I couldn't have done that,” he replied,
“for I carried it wrapped up in my handkerchief
in my hat.”
“And didn't you remove it from the time it
was put into your hands until you delivered it?”
“Not once.”
“It is very strange!”
“I am sorry for you, Ruth, indeed I am; but
pray believe that it was not my fault; I carried
it very carefully.”
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[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
“I believe you readily, William, for you
have always been obliging and good.”
“I wish I could help you,” said William,
with tears in his eyes; “but father makes
me—”
“William!” exclaimed the stern voice of Mr.
Bangs upon the stairs; and William started off
without finishing what he had to say.
“Now, my dear, if you will oblige me,” said
Bangs, entering, and accosting Ruth.
How slow are the truly pure and upright to
suspect evil in others! It did not once flash
across Ruth's mind that Bangs himself had perpetrated
the mischief she was deploring; and
to his artful address she replied, “It distresses
me to be obliged to disappoint you once more.
But this cut has been injured—how, I cannot
imagine—and it is now valueless. I will again
go to work, and, if you will give me a week
more, I think I can pay you.”
“This is enough to try the patience of Job!”
cried Mr. Bangs. “Haven't you any property
upon which you could raise enough to meet my
demand? I hope you do not mean to cheat
me!”
“Oh, no!” said Ruth, while a faint smile, in
which there was the least dash of scorn, played
athwart her lips.
“This bedstead and this desk would bring,
perhaps, at auction, five or six dollars,” remarked
Bangs. “I do not see much else worth taking,
unless it is those pails and tubs.”
“Oh! we cannot do without those. We
must have water to wash in!” exclaimed Ruth.
-- 184 --
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
“You must, eh?” quoth the brutal landlord.
“Hadn't you better pay your debts first?”
“Forbear a while, sir, and I shall surely have
the ability to satisfy your demand. While I
have my hands and my eyes, I can earn enough
to support me and mine.”
“The old story! Call to-morrow, or some
day next week. I have had enough of that,
Miss Ruth. I can't stand it any longer.”
“Then do your worst!” replied Ruth, with a
sudden energy, which amazed her tormentor.
“Seize upon every article of furniture, of raiment,
and of food that we have. Drive us forth
houseless. Still we shall have a Protector, who,
if he heeds the ravens when they cry, surely
will listen to the prayer of his human children
for succour and defence.”
As she spoke, she crossed her hands upon
her breast and looked up, while a celestial
smile irradiated her face. Her eyes kindled as
with light reflected from a seraph's plumes.
With a repelling gesture, as if the fiend in
his heart had been dazzled and affrighted by
the vision, Bangs stammered out something
about “granting her a day or two longer,” and
hurried out of the room.
When he had gone, Ruth sank upon her
knees, and implored that omnipresent Being,
in whom is the source of all light, and life, and
happiness, and beauty, to guide and strengthen
her in her worldly struggles, that she might do
nothing but what was acceptable in his sight,
and leave undone nothing that duty and conscience
might dictate.
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A knock at the door disturbed her meditations,
and, opening it, she encountered her
friend, Mr. Bibb.
“Why, Ruth, where are you all?” said he.
“I knocked three times before I heard your
voice.”
“May is in the other room reading to the
boys, and I—I was lost in thought.”
“I am glad to find you alone. I have some
private matters to talk about. Come and seat
yourself by my side.”
Ruth obeyed.
“You believe me your friend—your sincere
friend—do you not, Ruth?”
“I do, most unhesitatingly.”
“Then I may speak my mind freely—may I
not?—upon any subject which affects your welfare,
no matter how delicate and tender it may
be.”
“Yes, upon any subject.”
“Then I must say, my dear, that I think your
persistance in the resolution to reject the very
handsome proposal that has been made to you
by Mr. Dangleton, is irrational, if not—excuse
me—unamiable.”
“What are your reasons for thinking so?”
“Rather let me ask, what are your reasons for
refusing his offer?”
“One reason alone is all sufficient: I do not
feel any particular affection for him; not so
much, for instance, as I do for you or for Monsieur
Mallet.”
“In that conclusion, Ruth, you are hasty and
-- 186 --
[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]
unreasonable. You will admit that his love for
you is remarkably disinterested?”
“It would seem so.”
“Then there is one good reason for a return
of the feeling on your part.”
“Granted.”
“So vehement is his regard for you, and so
deep his chagrin at his failure in winning your
favour, that he has been dangerously ill for
some days in consequence.”
“Indeed!”
“Such is the fact. I have it from a distinguished
clergyman, his friend, who called on
me this morning, and who thinks you do not
show altogether a Christian temper in causelessly
inflicting pain by discouraging an attachment
so sincere, and so advantageous to yourself
if admitted.”
“Did a clergyman say that?”
“To be sure he did. He told me, furthermore,
that Mr. Edward was a model for the young
men of the age, and that he could vouch for his
good habits and disposition. When I add that
he is rich, I do not mean to present mere wealth
as an inducement to you to marry contrary to
your inclination; but when, in connexion with
that, there are so many things in his favour, I
do not understand why you should suffer a mere
whim to stand in the way of your own interests
and those of your little family.”
“You touch me there. What would I not
give to send Arthur to college—to prepare
Frank properly for a counting-room—and to
educate May as she should be!”
-- 187 --
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
“All these things you could undoubtedly do
if you would consent to this unexceptionable
union. Pray, what do you dislike in Mr. Edward?”
“Nothing of which I am conscious.”
“Is it not, then, a little selfish in you, Ruth, to
see your brothers toiling till they are sick, and
suffering bitterly for the want of proper food
and care, when you have the power to relieve
them by a word? Even supposing that in uttering
that word you had to make a slight sacrifice
of inclination, would it not be ungenerous
to refrain on that account?”
Ruth seemed puzzled for an instant, and then
exclaimed, “My heart assures me that you are
wrong, though my tongue cannot tell you why!”
“To save your brothers and sister from penury
and disease—death perchance—will you not
accede to this proposal?” asked the grocer.
“No! As Heaven is my witness, I will not!”
“And why?”
“Because, in so doing, I would be no better
than those fallen creatures of my sex, whom I
cannot even name without a blush. Think you
not that they too have the plea of expediency
for their mercenary violation of the holy sympathies
which God has implanted in their natures?
May not they have their sick and pining
brothers, their dying parents, or their own desperate
necessities to goad them to acts at which
the angels weep?”
“Yes, Ruth; but—but the comparison is not
a fair one. The sanction of marriage—”
“Ay, the sanction of marriage! I know what
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you would say. But the religion which my
mother taught me, by example and by precept,
has made me feel that the sanction of marriage
can only render the prostitution the baser and
the more enduring; not, I well know, in the
eyes of that packed jury of the world, society,
but none the less so, on that account, in the eyes
of eternal justice, purity, and truth!”
“I hardly know what to make of you, Ruth,
you talk so strangely.”
“I feel as if it were my mother who had been
talking through my lips.”
“You have strange fancies, child; but let me
ask you whether your immediate necessities
have not been supplied through the sale of your
engraving?”
Ruth narrated the accident by which the expected
supplies from this source had been cut
off.
“And so you are left utterly destitute!” cried
Mr. Bibb. “What do you mean to do?”
“I have not yet formed any plan for providing
for my present wants,” replied Ruth.
“It distresses me, Ruth, that I cannot aid
you.”
“Do not be troubled concerning us, my dear
friend. We shall not be forsaken. Be sure of
that.”
“But, Ruth, consider how completely you can
relieve yourself, and your sister and brothers,
from all perplexities, by adopting the course so
strongly recommended, not only by myself, but
by a man of sanctity like the Reverend Mr.
M—.”
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“I have answered you fully and decidedly on
that point.”
“But how know you that your feelings may
not change towards this young man; that, as
you become better acquainted with him, you
may esteem him the more?”
“It cannot be.”
“But why?”
“I know not.”
“Surely your affections are disengaged?”
“I believe so; and yet—”
Ruth's fingers unconsciously crept towards
her bosom. What is it that they draw forth in
their tight but delicate clasp? She starts on
seeing it, while the warm blood flushes her
breast and face. It has answered the question,
which she herself was unable to solve even in
reply to the interrogation of her own mind!
It is the little silver pencil-case accidentally
left with her by Stanford at his last interview.
“What has disquieted you, Ruth?” asked
her visiter.
Smiling, she turned away her head, kissed
the cherished token, restored it to its pure resting
place, and replied, “It was but a momentary
recollection—a thought which came to confirm
my purpose, and make me iron to your
entreaties.”
“Then you persist in rejecting the means of
rescuing your family and yourself from indigence
and suffering?”
“Ay, to save them and me from death itself,
I repeat my declaration, that I would reject
such means.”
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“I am afraid that some silly novel has turned
your head, my dear. But good-by! Though
you will not take my advice, hold me still your
friend; and, though I have nothing else to give,
let me give at least my sympathy.”
“You are not offended?”
“Not offended—a little disappointed, that
is all; but let us hope for the best. Good-by!
I cannot stop to kiss May now. I will try to
see you again to-morrow. Good-by!”
And Ruth was once more alone.
“Have I acted rightly?” said she to herself.
“Ay! Though the whole world should cry
no, my heart would serenely answer yes!”
Yes! You have acted rightly, my dear Ruth.
You have shown that there is one shrine in a
pure woman's heart which the unhallowed hand
of expediency cannot reach, to lay upon it its
sordid offerings; one altar which neither the
hard gripe of penury, nor the fierce stings of
ambushed oppression, nor the famishing cries
of kindred, wasted by disease and want, nor
the specious sophistries of pretended sanctity,
nor the allurements of wealth and fashion, can
induce her to profane. You have been assayed
in the white heat of temptation, and the “most
fine gold” has come forth undimmed and without
alloy.
Other trials may be close at hand. You may
be doomed to dreary years of drudgery, sickness,
and privation; the frail remaining ties
that bind you to earth may be severed one by
one; and you may toil on in single misery, uncheered
by a ray of the hope that the full, fresh
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fount of tenderness and love in your heart may
be one day unsealed, and its channel found;
but I fear not that you will ever prove false
to the sacred sympathies of your soul, or that
all the power of Sin can tempt you to barter or
to quench one spark of their vestal fires.
-- 192 -- p333-201
CHAPTER XIV. PURITY AND SECURITY.
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
Ruth sought a consultation the next morning
with Mrs. Bangs as to the possibility of selling
the desk and the bedstead; and Mrs. Bangs told
her that if a new hinge was put upon the desk,
and the bedstead was well cleaned, almost any
auctioneer would give ten dollars for the two.
She added that her son Calvin, the carpenter,
who was now well enough to use his tools,
would willingly repair the desk; and that Ruth
and May could themselves take down and clean
the bedstead.
To this arrangement Ruth cheerfully consented.
The desk was carried to Calvin's room,
and the two sisters undertook the task assigned
to them. They were in the midst of their labours
when they were startled by Monsieur Mallet's
voice at their door.
“Entrez-vous, mon cher Monsieur Mallet!”
cried Ruth, wiping her little hands with a towel,
and pulling down her sleeves.
“You see we are all in confusion,” continued
she, in French, as he entered.
“I have good news for my dear little pupil,”
said he, shaking some gold pieces in his hand.
“All this came from my new scholar, Mrs. Blazonby,
who took her first lesson in music from
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me to-day. I told her the story of your loss,
and she sends you these two half eagles, with
the request that, should you want more, you
will let her know.”
“She is very good,” exclaimed Ruth, not
knowing by whom the Frenchman had been introduced
to his new acquaintance.
“That is true—though she knows very little
of music,” replied he. “By-the-way, she made
me promise to bring you with me to her house
this evening; she is so anxious to see you and
hear you play!”
“I am afraid to leave Arthur. He is rather
feverish to-day.”
“Oh, May will nurse him, and I will send
round from the eating-cellar some nice boiled
chicken and rice for his dinner. So please
consent to go with me, my little pupil. Mrs.
Blazonby has promised to send her own coach
for us at seven. Will you not go?”
“Since you are so desirous, I will. Besides,
I would like to thank the good lady for this
money, and tell her that I mean to repay her
as soon as I can.”
“It is a bargain, then, that we go?”
“Yes.”
“Then good-by for the present.”
“A gleam of sunshine at last, May!” cried
Ruth, as the music-master closed the door. “I
thought it was about time for it. Take this
money at once to Mrs. Bangs for her husband.
I thank Heaven that I am at length able to relieve
myself of his importunities.”
May complied, and in a minute or two
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returned with two dollars in change, which remained
after deducting the amount for rent from
the two half eagles.
The dinner which Monsieur Mallet had promised
now arrived, and it was found more than
sufficient for all four. Leaving May to attend
to the domestic affairs, Ruth put on her bonnet,
and tripped out of the house to procure some
box-wood, with which to make a new copy of
the engraving that had been damaged. As she
walked at a quick pace through the Bowery,
there was little in her outward appearance to
strike the attention of the ordinary observer.
Her dress was extremely plain, and, from the
rapidity of her movements, it was evident that
she was not a young lady of leisure. Occasionally,
however, the exclamation “What a sweet
face!” would escape from some one, who had
an eye for modest beauty and grace without
the “foreign aid of ornament.” But little did
Ruth imagine that any eyes amid the great
current were fixed even with a moment's curiosity
upon her face and figure. She was too
intent upon the object of her errand for any
such thoughts.
After purchasing the article of which she was
in quest, she returned home with undiminished
speed, and before two o'clock was once more
engaged at the task of transferring to wood the
promised picture. For four hours she worked
without intermission; then, carefully putting
aside her implements, she prepared herself for
the visit to Mrs. Blazonby. In a few minutes
Monsieur Mallet announced that the coach was
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at the door; and bidding May take good care
of the invalids till her return, Ruth obeyed his
summons. The steps of the carriage were
thrown down, and the door opened by William
Bangs. It was too dark to see the face of the
driver. Not a word, save a kind “How do you
do?” from Ruth to William, was spoken; and
the coach rolled rapidly away with the music-master
and his pupil.
They soon reached their place of destination.
Mrs. Blazonby received them at the door of her
house, shaking hands in a very cordial manner
with the Frenchman, and kissing Ruth most affectionately.
She ushered them up stairs into
a parlour gayly furnished, where Ruth was introduced
to a young lady with remarkably red
cheeks, whose name was Josephine.
“I am charmed to see you, my dear,” said
Mrs. Blazonby, taking off Ruth's bonnet, and
leading her to a seat on the sofa.
“I am very grateful to you, Mrs. Blazonby,”
replied Ruth, “for the money you sent me. I
hope to be able very soon to return it.”
“Oh, do not think of it, my dear. To me it
is a mere trifle. It is my delight to do good.
Now do play me a sweet tune. I have heard
so much in praise of your playing!”
Ruth looked at her instructer, who gave her
his hand and led her to the piano, where she
played a variety of airs of his selection.
“How sweet!” cried Mrs. Blazonby.
“Charming! Was it not?” said Miss Josephine.
After the music, a servant entered with some
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ice-cream, plates, and glasses, and a bottle of
Champagne on a salver.
“Let me give you some ice,” said the mistress
of the house, handing Ruth a plate full.
Ruth tasted a little of it, but, not liking the
flavour, allowed the Frenchman to replace it on
the table.
“If you will not eat the ice, I must insist
upon your tasting some Champagne,” exclaimed
the hostess, holding a glass bubbling with foam
to Ruth's lips.
“It is wine—is it not?” asked Ruth.
“Yes, but so weak that it has no more effect
than water,” replied Mrs. Blazonby.
“I thank you—I do not wish it,” returned
Ruth, putting back the proffered glass.
“But a little of it will do you good, my dear.
It is nice and sweet.”
“I am not thirsty; and if I were, I could not
drink it.”
“Not a sip?”
“Do not urge me.”
At this instant the servant re-entered the
room with a letter, which, he said, had been left
at the door for Monsieur Mallet. The bearer
had first carried it to his lodgings, but, on not
finding him at home, and learning where he was
passing the evening, he had hurried with it to
Mrs. Blazonby's.
“By your leave, ladies!” said the Frenchman,
breaking the seal, and approaching the candelabra
over the mantelpiece. The letter was in
French, and the following is its translation:
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`My dear Friend:—Do not be too much
transported when you learn that your old companion
and admirer, Von Steinbach of Prague,
is in New-York. Yes! he arrived in the packet
of to-day, and is now at the Battery Hotel, somewhat
indisposed in body, but sustained by the
hope of seeing you. Do come to him this evening,
if you can only stay five minutes. He cannot
sleep without having seen you. Hasten,
then, at once to your devoted and expecting
friend, Von Steinbach.”
For nearly five minutes Monsieur Mallet capered
about the room like a crazy person, kissing
the letter and exclaiming, “Von Steinbach
is come! Von Steinbach is come! Quelle bonheur!
Oh! quelle bonheur!”
As soon as he could recover from his elation
sufficiently to make himself intelligible, he informed
Ruth that a very dear friend, whom he
had not met for many years, had just arrived
in the city, and that he must call on him at
once. If the ladies would excuse him, he would
go, and return for Ruth before half past nine
o'clock.
“Oh! see your friend to-morrow,” said Mrs.
Blazonby. “Stay now, and give us some music.”
Monsieur Mallet protested that he could never
look Von Steinbach in the face after consenting
to such a delay.
“Then Ruth must content herself with the
piano, and with looking at these engravings till
you come back,” resumed the hostess.
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Ruth felt an instinctive reluctance, she knew
not why, to remain; but the Frenchman assured
her that he would tear himself away from Von
Steinbach after a momentary embrace, and hasten
to accompany her home. She saw no alternative
but to consent after such a promise.
He had not been gone long before a visiter
was announced, and Mr. Edward Dangleton entered
the room, to Ruth's manifest surprise.
Mrs. Blazonby introduced them as if she were
not aware of their previous acquaintance. Mr.
Edward bowed coldly, and remarked that he had
met the young lady before. He then took a
seat by the side of Miss Josephine, and made
some grave observation about a sermon which
he said he had heard the night before.
“Josephine, my dear,” said Mrs. Blazonby,
“you must go up in the children's chamber,
and hear them say their prayers. Tell them
that I will come and kiss them before I go to
bed, but that I have company now whom I cannot
leave.”
Josephine left the room, and Mr. Edward
took up a book, and applied himself to its perusal
with a very solemn expression of countenance.
A servant entered with a message that
one of the children was crying for its mother.
“How provoking!” cried Mrs. Blazonby,
rising from her chair. “I will be back in one
instant, my dear Ruth.”
“May I not go with you?” asked Ruth. “I
am very fond of children, and would like to see
yours.”
Mrs. Blazonby appeared embarrassed for a
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[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
moment, and then said, “The fact is, my dear,
that my youngest is just recovering from the
scarlet fever, and I am a little timid about having
you breathe the atmosphere of the room.”
“Oh, that is reason enough why I should not
go,” replied Ruth, as her thoughts recurred to
May and her brothers.
“I will not be gone two minutes, my dear,”
continued Mrs. Blazonby; and she hurried out
of the parlour.
Ruth felt a good deal annoyed at being left
alone with Mr. Dangleton, but a thought of
danger did not cross her brain.
The young man, after a few moments' silence,
approached her, and remarked that fate seemed
to throw her in his way, in spite of his strenuous
exertions to banish her image from his
heart.
“Shall I not play you a tune—the overture
to La Bayadere, for instance?” asked Ruth, eager
to escape the subject of his griefs.
“You will but probe the wound by so doing,”
replied he. “Hear me but one moment, Ruth.
Tell me that I am not utterly exiled from your
presence; that, if I may not hope to move you
to kindness, I may at least have the privilege of
visiting you from time to time—of gazing in
that lovely face—of listening to those ravishing
tones. Surely you will not object?”
“I beg you never more to address me in such
terms. Were I differently situated—were my
parents living—I might not, perhaps, refuse
you the poor privilege of visiting me; but, under
present circumstances, I must. So, if you
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[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
would have me still think of you with respect,
do not try to change my purpose; and, should
we accidentally meet again as now, do not allude
to a subject which cannot but embarrass
and pain me.”
“Do you, then, utterly exclude me from all
hope of winning your favour?”
“Yes, utterly. I am sure there could be no
earthly contingency which could move my decision
a jot.”
“But there are contingencies of which you
may never have dreamed, Ruth Loveday!” exclaimed
Dangleton, while his eyes flashed and
his voice changed.
“What mean you?”
“That I am not tamely to be made the victim
of a mere girl's groundless caprice. If gentleness
and entreaty cannot lead you to do that
which will raise you and yours from the vilest
poverty to opulence and respectability, then—”
“What then?”
“The moment for plain speaking has come
at last. Choose now between two alternatives.
You well know that I seek your hand in all
sincerity. I offer you honourable marriage; a
union that will enable you to enjoy and distribute
all the luxuries of wealth without a limit.
You can oppose no other objection save a
mere whim to my proposal; and I am resolved
that my life's happiness shall not be wrecked
through such a cause. I have, therefore, taken
most efficient measures to secure my object.
I will prove a better friend to you than you are
to yourself. Not far distant a magistrate is in
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[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
waiting with a marriage contract. You must
sign it this very night; and I do not doubt that
you will do it willingly, when all the inducements
are presented.”
Before Dangleton had stopped speaking, Ruth
had sprung to the door and tried the handle.
It was locked on the outside. She glanced at
the windows. They were secured beneath the
curtains by shutters iron-barred. She cried in
a loud, indignant voice for “help.” No answer
was returned; and, folding her hands upon her
breast, she drew up her lithe, erect figure to its
full height, and gazed silently in the face of her
opponent.
“I see that you are by this time aware,” continued
the young man, “that the people in the
house are as much your friends as I am. Now
say, will you not consent that the little ceremony
of signing your name shall take place at
once?”
“Never!”
“Perhaps the other alternative will suit you
better. It is—dishonour!” and he hissed the
word in her ear with a venomous energy.
Ruth remained silent, following his wavering
eyes with hers, till Dangleton, shaking off their
influence with a desperate effort, and advancing
a step with outstretched arms, exclaimed, “Decide!
and at once! We are alone, and there is
no aid for you!”
“We are not alone, and there is aid!” replied
Ruth. “Even now, while your brutal menace
is yet hot upon your lips, a special Providence
is present, which holds me safe. We see it not,
-- 202 --
[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
but it is nigh. I feel it in the very air! Its
clasp is tight about me! Oh! bow down, and
ask forgiveness for your intended sin. You
have my pardon. Seek Heaven's, before the
crime expands till it blacken your whole soul.”
“What, Ned! shall this canting hussy make
you tremble and retreat at the very moment
when the game is in your own hands?” muttered
the young man. “No! 'Twas a bold
stake, and it shall be boldly played for!”
Summoning up all his bad motives to give
vehemence to his purpose, he again advanced,
when a loud ringing at the street-door checked
him, and made him turn pale. Ruth betrayed
no other outward signs of surprise at the sound
than those of raising her forefinger in a listening
attitude to her lips, and nodding her head
as if in response to an expected signal.
The ringing was succeeded by noises of more
decided import. The panels of the door, which
was fastened by an iron bar, were vigorously
battered, till there came a sound as if they had
been staved in.
Shivering with dismay, and cowering as if he
would shrink himself into imperceptible dimensions,
the guilty young man exclaimed, “Oh, do
not expose me! Be merciful!”
“Kneel!” said Ruth, pointing to the floor.
He obeyed.
“I implore you—” resumed he.
“Not to me—oh! not to me—did I intend
that you should kneel in contrition,” cried
Ruth. “Freely, and from the bottom of my
soul, do I pardon you; but there is a higher
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tribunal to which you must look for that forgiveness
which shall avail; and it is the prayer
of my heart, even now, that your appeal may not
be in vain, but that your repentance of this
night's sin may be the means of leavening your
whole spirit with a purifying influence.”
As Ruth ceased, the door was unlocked, and
Dangleton started to his feet. The persons
who entered were Doctor Remington, Mr. Maverick,
a respectable young lawyer, and several
gentlemen, whose names I have been unable to
learn. The object of their visit, and the causes
which led to it, shall be explained in another
chapter.
-- 204 -- p333-213
CHAPTER XV. AN UNTIMELY END AND A TIMELY DISCOVERY.
[figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]
The coachman who drove Ruth and the music-master
to the residence of the so-called Mrs.
Blazonby was, as the reader may have suspected,
no other than Bangs. Depositing them at
the door, he walked his horses as far as Broadway,
and stopped before a small shop in the
vicinity of one of the minor theatres, where
there were placards at the windows with such
inscriptions as “Tom and Jerry;” “Milk
Punch;” “Sherry Cobblers;” “Mint Juleps;”
with various other mysterious titles, the precise
meaning of which was known only to initiated
topers.
Bangs was even at that moment under the influence
of strong drink; but the vampire intemperance
within him continued to cry “Give,
give!” Tying the reins to one of the iron arms
of his coach-seat, he attempted to jump to the
sidewalk; but, in the act, his foot caught in
the tightened reins, and he was thrown with
violence to the ground, his head striking against
the curbstone. He did not rise again of his own
strength. Some humane passers-by, among
whom was young Maverick, bore him to a neighbouring
shop. Doctor Remington was immediately
sent for, and he pronounced the wound
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[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]
fatal. It was impossible that the unhappy man
could live another hour.
“What! Will the frolic be over so soon, doctor?”
asked the drunkard, suddenly lifting his
head.
Till this question, every one had supposed
that the sufferer was totally unconscious.
“I think,” replied the doctor, “that if you
have any directions you would like to give—any
unsettled business upon your mind that concerns
your family, if you have a family—you
would better speak now.”
“I understand—you think he is at the end of
his last heat: he'll balk you, doctor—there's
some fun left in him yet. Ha, ha, ha! Go it,
Ned! She's young, and fair, and tender—is she
not? a rich prize for the old soul-trapper! By
this time she is yours. At Blazonby's she is
as safe as she could be in the hottest abode of
fiends.”
“He raves,” said the doctor, turning to one
of the gentlemen near.
“If I mistake not, there is some meaning in
his madness,” whispered young Maverick, who,
with a lawyer's practised alertness of apprehension,
had detected a purport in the wild words
of the dying man. “Hark! he speaks again.”
“But the money, Ned! the money! Where
is that? The job must be well paid for. It
was black and tough. So hand over. Ha! you
think that death settles all accounts—that a dying
man can't claim his own. Not so, Ned!
not so!”
“Tell me where Ned is to be found, and I
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[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
will run and get you the money,” whispered
Maverick in the madman's ear. “But I fear
you have not strength to tell me, and that you
must die without getting your dues.”
Bangs stared wildly at his questioner a moment,
and, motioning him to place his ear near
his lips, whispered something that was not
heard by the rest of the spectators. Then, with
a hollow laugh, he cried out, “Ha, ha! Now I
am even with you, Ned! If my fun is to be
spoiled, yours shall be too. Oh!”
A deep, tremulous groan succeeded this exclamation,
and, after a violent paroxysm, the
drunkard, in tones of anguish, ejaculated,
“Blasted be the hand that brewed that last
draught! Accursed be those whose example
has made me the fiend I am! Can it be that I
was once a little child! Yes, I remember it
well; and the old poplar-trees, and the haymow,
and the schoolhouse on the hill! Why
madden me with these things! Am I not tortured
enough already? No! they are coming!
I feel their hot breath! Not yet! not yet! Ah!
save me! save me!”
The conjurations of a violated conscience
seemed to glare like spectres into his soul.
He started wildly from the couch on which he
had been laid. Not even the strength of four
men could restrain him. He staggered, with
frantic horror in his looks, across the floor, as
if escaping from some terrible pursuer, tossed
his arms fiercely in the air, and fell dead.
“What a lesson to evil-doers is this!” said
an old man who was present.
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“I will sign the Temperance pledge this very
night!” murmured a youth who had taken a
glass of brandy and water an hour or two before.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Maverick, “I beg
you to accompany me, without delay, to a house
indicated to me by the dying man, where, from
some words that he dropped, I fear there is an
innocent girl in durance.”
“We will all follow you!” said the persons
present.
Maverick at once led the way to the abode
of Mrs. Blazonby. The timely consequence of
his visit has been already shown.
Shortly after the party had burst into the room
where Ruth stood with her persecutor, Monsieur
Mallet arrived, overwhelmed with indignation
at the trick that had been played upon
him. No such person as Von Steinbach could
be found! But when the good Frenchman was
apprized of the extent of the danger in which
his little pupil had been, and into which he himself
had been unwittingly made the instrument
of drawing her, his Gallic fury knew no bounds.
It seemed as if he would chaw up Mr. Edward
Dangleton into very small pieces. As for Mrs.
Blazonby, it was found that she and every one
of the inmates of her house had decamped by
the back door at the moment of the first alarm.
There was a question among Ruth's rescuers
as to what course should be taken with regard
to Mr. Dangleton. The ends of justice seemed
to demand his arrest; but, as Ruth could not
swear that he had done anything more than use
violent and menacing language, he was, at her
solicitation, permitted to depart in peace.
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A carriage was now ordered, and Ruth and
the Frenchman, accompanied by Doctor Remington
and Mr. Maverick, drove to the lodgings
of the former. The doctor was surprised at
finding Ruth's brother in his young friend Arthur.
He blamed him a little, however, for not
sending for him to prescribe in his sickness.
Arthur vindicated himself by maintaining that
Ruth's nursing was the best of medicines—not
that he meant any disrespect to the apothecaries.
The doctor replied by laughing, and admitting
that Arthur was more than half right.
While the gentlemen were conversing with
May and the boys, Ruth was called to the door
to see Mrs. Bangs, who handed her a file of papers
tied with red tape. Calvin, she said, in
repairing the desk, had discovered a false bottom,
between which and the lower one the
package had been found.
Ruth's thoughts immediately recurred to the
dying moments of her father, and to his ineffectual
efforts to communicate some information
to her in regard to the position of papers
relating to her mother's family. She eagerly
glanced at the papers in her hand, and discovered
that the conjecture which had arisen in her
mind was correct. Her mother's marriage certificate,
letters addressed to old Mr. Gordon
and returned, a register of the dates of the
children's births, and several other important
documents, were found in the parcel. Clasping
them tightly to her bosom, Ruth went into the
chamber of her brothers.
“What have you there, Ruth?” asked Arthur.
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“The papers for which we hunted so long just
before leaving our old lodgings,” she replied.
“And do they tell who grandfather was?”
cried Frank.
“Yes. His name was Frederic Stanhope
Gordon, and his residence, Philadelphia.”
“What!” exclaimed Maverick. “Are you,
indeed, the descendants of that man?”
“So it would seem from this certificate and
these letters,” said Ruth.
“Then it was to compel you into a marriage
with him that young Dangleton inveigled you
into that house?”
“That seemed to be his principal anxiety.”
“Are you at all aware of the consequences
of this discovery?”
“I am only aware that it may make known
to us kindred who are or have been wealthy.
Perhaps we would better have remained in ignorance
of their names.”
“Your grandfather and his children are all
dead, and you are the lawful heirs to his estate!”
cried Maverick.
“Good!” exclaimed Frank, starting up, quite
forgetful of his bruised leg. “How much is it?
Will my share be enough to let me buy a pony
and keep him?”
“This is a discovery indeed!” said Doctor
Remington.
“And shall I have enough, Ruth, from my
share, to make Lucy Marvell a present of a new
gown?” asked May.
Ruth smiled, and replied that she hoped the
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estate would not be materially diminished by
such a piece of extravagance.
“There is a probability, my young friends,”
said Maverick, “that this development will
place you all in a situation, not of competence
merely, but of wealth. I am a lawyer, Ruth,
and if you wish it, I will at once enter upon the
investigation of your claims. Shall I take these
papers with me?”
“Do so,” replied Ruth, “for they would hard
ly be safe here. Locks and bolts do not seem
to protect us against depredations.”
“I will call upon you some time to-morrow,”
continued Mr. Maverick, “and let you know
the result of my inquiries. In the mean while,
Ruth, let me leave this purse with you. Nay,
do not hesitate to take it. The money is advanced
upon good security. There is not a
lawyer in the city who would not advance you,
if he had it, ten thousand times as much, upon
grounds as promising. So good-night! and
pleasant slumbers to you all!”
Doctor Remington and the young lawyer took
their leave. Monsieur Mallet, not understanding
much of the English language, did not become
apprized that evening of the prospective
change in the fortunes of his pupil, or, in spite
of the lateness of the hour, he would have insisted
on extemporizing some incomprehensible
fantasia in honour of the felicitous event.
Ruth reserved the story of her day's adventures
for some occasion when the children might
be less excited. They could at present talk of
nothing but plans for the future, in the event of
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the fulfilment of the expectations which Mr.
Maverick had raised.
“For my part,” said Arthur, “I shall spend
my portion in going to College.”
“Wouldn't it be first-rate if I could have a
pony of my own?” asked Frank.
“I hope you will be able to throw away that
ugly old hat, now, Frank.”
“I would rather own it than the best hat
Leary can show!” said Frank, with warmth.
“When it can't be worn any longer, I'll have a
glass case made to keep it in.”
“It is late, dear ones,” interrupted Ruth. “I
think we would better all retire to our beds.
Little May's eyes are already drooping. But
first let us thank our heavenly Father for his
care.”
Ruth's cheeks were yet flushed with the excitement
of the day. Kneeling, she remained
silent for a few moments till her thoughts were
collected, and then, in low, earnest tones, uttered
a brief and simple prayer. She acknowledged
the providential care which had sustained
them through the trials of adversity, and
prayed that, should their worldly fortunes assume
a more prosperous aspect, the same gracious
protection might be vouchsafed; that
they might be saved from all vainglory and
pride; from idleness, selfishness, sensuality,
and avarice. “Rather let us remain in penury,
O heavenly Father!” she cried, “than permit
the fascinations of wealth and power to sway
us so that we are drawn one step from the path
that leadeth unto thee!”
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She ceased, and the eyes of all the children
were soon fast locked in sleep.
The news of the death of Bangs did not reach
his family till the next day; for neither Ruth
nor her visiters had dreamed of his identity
with the drunken coachman. Although intemperance
had made him a burden and a curse
to himself and his family, yet their tears fell
profusely on hearing of his fearful end. In his
trunk were found the engravings and drawings
which had been stolen from Ruth, and she returned
them to their lawful owner, having now
no farther occasion to prosecute her ingenious
art for a subsistence.
The mists were fast rolling away from the
track through which the leaky and weatherbeaten
little shallop which bore the young
Lovedays and their worldly fortunes had been
moving. A fair and serene haven, glittering
in the sunshine, was now in view.
-- 213 -- p333-222
CHAPTER XVI. CHANGE AND NO CHANGE.
[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
Eighteen months have passed since Calvin s
discovery of the important papers in the old
desk. What is now the situation of the orphans?
Do you see that plain but elegant structure
of granite in La Grange Place? There is nothing
ambitious either in its dimensions or its
adornments; nothing about it to attract the
eye which seeks for imposing architectural effects.
But the first time I ever gazed upon its
simple proportions, I thought to myself, “That
must be a happy home!”
On a cold and stormy evening in December,
just as the street-lamps had been lighted, a
grave, elderly-looking man-servant came to the
front windows and closed the shutters. Such
obstacles, however, shall not prevent us from
spying out the interior with our privileged
eyes.
It is a room with folding-doors, which are at
present closed. The furniture is rather light
than massive. The carpet resembles as much
as possible an enamelled garden-plat—leaves
and wreaths of a light green colour being interspersed
with tulips and flowers of a lively
hue upon a slatish ground. It is soft and thick
-- 214 --
[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]
to the foot, and I should guess that some Turkish
loom had laboured long in its fabrication.
The walls are of a light tinge, but not so light
as to mar the effect of the fine landscape paintings
which are hung around them. The curtains,
which hide the windows, and depend to
the floor, are of muslin, faced with a straw-coloured
figured satin. The cornices of the walls
are gilt. The fireplace is of a pure cream-like
marble, the mantelpiece being supported by pillars
composed of carved figures on pedestals.
One of them is Hope with her anchor, the other
a beautiful emblematic figure of Charity. A
cheerful wood fire is blazing on the marble
hearth.
Around the centre-table, which is wholly of
white marble, and upon which stands a lighted
astral lamp and a vase of hothouse flowers, are
four beings in the prime of youth, two of them
boys and two of the other sex. The eldest, a
girl, apparently about seventeen, sits in an armchair,
reading. The boys appear to be studying
their lessons, and the younger girl is arranging
some music to be bound. A large mirror, extending
from the wall to the floor in the space
between the windows, reflects them all, and
seems to love the reflection.
“The air is overheated. John has built up
too much fire,” said the elder girl, laying down
her book.
Yes, dear reader, it is Ruth! Time has
touched her lightly since we saw her last, or
touched her only to beautify. Her hair, instead
of being closely tied up behind in convenient
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snugness, as of old, gushes in black glossy ringlets
down her white neck. Her cheeks are no
longer wan, and her delicately-moulded limbs
rest unconstrainedly within their tasteful, uncorseted
attire. She wears no jewels save
those which Nature has showered upon her;
and Art may thank her that she does not mortify
him by the contrast of his tinsel gifts. To
this assertion there is, however, a single exception.
A slender gold chain hangs about her
neck, and attached to it is a pencil-case, which
she holds in her hand. A pencil-case is of service
sometimes in reading, when we wish to
mark favourite passages. But why, my dear
Ruth—why, in the name of all that is fashionable,
do you carry one of silver, when you know
that you can afford one curiously wrought of
gold, and set around with diamonds?
Truly there is no accounting for the freaks
which young girls sometimes take into their
heads.
“Do me the favour, Frank, to open the folding-doors,
and let in a little fresh air,” says
Ruth, whose prejudices in behalf of that luxury
seem as strong as ever.
Frank does as he is requested, and, though
the other room is not lighted, I can plainly see,
through the opposite windows, that the broad
piazza before them has been converted into a
conservatory, and is filled with tiers upon tiers
of hothouse plants. And, by-the-way, a gossiping
neighbour tells me that Ruth rather prides
herself upon her taste in arranging bouquets, if
pride be the proper word to signify the gentle
-- 216 --
[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]
pleasure which she derives from the employment.
“Now let me hear you play the air from
Norma, May,” says Ruth, carelessly taking up
the newspaper of the evening.
May flings back her yellow curls, and turns
over the leaves of one of the numerous musicbooks
under the piano.
But what has so suddenly startled Ruth? She
has read in the newspaper the following brief
advertisement: “Mr. Franklin Stanford, portrait-painter,
respectfully informs the public
that he has resumed the practice of his art at
his old rooms in Vesey-street.”
Ruth rings the bell, and the grave, elderly-looking
servant already alluded to makes his
appearance.
“John, you will please have the carriage at
the door as soon as possible.”
“The carriage!”
“Yes. You seem surprised.”
“It is a dark, disagreeable night, Miss Ruth;
and it is such an unusual thing for you to go
out in the evening!”
“I know it, John; but it is an unusual inducement
which draws me out now. So be quick
with the carriage. But, before you go, tell
Bridget to make a fire in the closed chamber
that looks towards the south; to air the room,
and put fresh sheets on the bed.”
“Yes, Miss Ruth, it shall be done, and the
carriage at the door in ten minutes.”
John was an Englishman, who had been a
servant from his childhood to his fiftieth year in
-- 217 --
[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
the family of a wealthy English banker. The
banker shot himself one day, in consequence of
some heavy losses, by which he was reduced
to penury; and John expended the little property
he had laid up for himself in providing for
his master's destitute children. The recipients
of his bounty proved ungrateful, and John, in
the hope of finding employment, sailed in one
of the first steam-ships for the United States.
In New-York, by one of those coincidences
which are frequently brought about in this new
and changing country, he met an old female
acquaintance, for whom he had felt a particular
regard some thirty years before. Adverse circumstances
had prevented their union; but
each had always recollected the other with affection,
and each had remained single, perhaps
for the other's sake. At any rate, many months
had not passed after their encounter in America,
before Miss Bridget Wakely became Mrs.
John Murray. They had both been strongly
recommended to Ruth for servants; and I have
been always suspicious that she had some hand
in bringing them together in the bonds of matrimony.
Mrs. Murray was taken into the family
as a sort of sub-housekeeper; and a most
notable one she was! Wo to the chambermaid
who suffered a speck of dust to be seen in any
of the rooms committed to her care! Unless
specially pardoned by Ruth, which, except in
flagrant instances, generally was the case, she
had to “pack up and be off,” as Mrs. John would
express it, “quick as she could say Jack Robinson.”
-- 218 --
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With such domestic assistants, Ruth did not
find the management of her little household at
all difficult. Mrs. Murray undertook the supply
of the table, and she discharged the task in a
manner suited to the simple tastes of the children.
John attended to all the out-door affairs
of the establishment, and was, in fact, coachman,
groom, and steward, all in one. As both
he and his wife were scrupulously honest, Ruth
considered herself singularly fortunate in having
them in her employment. Their attachment
to her was unbounded, and was only equalled
by their respect for her discretion and goodness.
While I have been indulging in these details,
the coach has arrived. Ruth requests Arthur
to put on his cloak and accompany her. In two
minutes, under John's steady guidance, they
are skimming along the smooth wooden pavement
with which a patch of the upper part of
Broadway is floored.
We will stride a little before them, and enter
the painter's room. It is the same to which
I introduced the reader in the first chapter of
this work. The alterations are trifling, which
have been made in it since the date of that occasion.
A different painting is on the easel.
An old sofa-bedstead stands behind a screen.
There is no fire in the grate, although the night
is chilly.
Stanford is sitting in much the same posture
that we found him in at our first meeting. Two
years, however, have wrought a sad change in
his appearance. His cheeks are pale and sunken.
His copious, bushy hair is here and there
-- 219 --
[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]
streaked with gray. The cheerful smile, which
once played about his lips and beamed from
his eyes, is gone. Care and sickness have left
their marks upon his face.
Upon a table near him lies an unfinished letter,
in his own hand-writing. It is addressed
to his mother. As it may throw some light upon
his recent history, I hope it will not be deemed
impertinent in me to glance over it, and quote
some few passages:
“I had not been in Paris three weeks, when
the gentleman with whom the contract for
copying pictures had been made, died, and I
was left to provide for myself. For months I
lived upon an incredibly small sum, frequenting
the galleries, and studying the choicest works
of the great masters.
“The following summer I travelled on foot
into Italy, and passed some time in Florence
and in Rome. In the latter place I was ill some
months, through exposure to the malaria, and
was obliged to abstain from the practice of my
art.
“Feeble and impoverished, I arrived in Leghorn
about four months since. There I painted
the portraits of some American sea-captains,
and finally took passage for New-York. Our
voyage was long and tedious. A malady, called
the ship-fever, broke out among the poor passengers
in the steerage. I attended rather too
incautiously upon the sick, and contracted the
disease. When we reached the Quarantine
Ground at Staten Island, I was obliged to place
myself under the charge of the resident
-- 220 --
[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
physician of the port. After weeks of severe illness
I was able to be removed to the city, where
I re-engaged my old rooms in Vesey-street,
and told the public I was ready to paint their
portraits.
“Such has been and is the depression in all
branches of business, however, that I have hardly
succeeded in earning my salt. Among those
who have the ability to pay for good paintings,
there is, moreover, an insensibility to the true
and beautiful in art, which leads them to apply
the same rules of calculation to a painting that
they would to a bale of cotton or a load of
wood. Let the canvass be large enough, lay
on any quantity of gaudy colours, and they are
content. Now I can never deal with such people.
I cannot bear to let a crude, unfinished
production go from my easel. Study and labour
must be expended on it, even though I might
earn the scanty remuneration awarded to it
with an expenditure of a twentieth part of that
study and labour.
“After a dispassionate consideration of all
these circumstances, I have resolved, my dear
mother, to abandon my art and return to my
native village, where, in agricultural pursuits, I
may possibly renovate my shattered constitution.
Although, after all my brave hopes, and
all the prognostications of my too sanguine and
partial friends, in whose rustic estimation I was
years ago a Sir Benjamin West, I shall come
back almost as attenuated in person as in purse,
yet I do not fear but that I shall be welcome to
your humble roof.
-- 221 --
[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
“I have been fearing to-night that symptoms
of a relapse in my fever had appeared—so weak
and hot am I, although, for economy's sake, I
am sitting without a fire, with my old cloak
about me. By morning, perhaps—”
Here the manuscript abruptly ends.
“Yes!” says Stanford, “I must bid farewell
to my art—my beautiful art—in which I once
dreamed I should win distinction. Ay! I remember
sitting in this very room one cold,
cheerless evening, some two years since, and
hewing out of hope's inexhaustible quarries
gorgeous fabrics—magnificent palaces for the
future! Where are they now? Faded—faded!
Yes, I well remember that night. It was dark
and wet like this; and, in returning to my lodgings,
I met a little girl in the street asking charity.
Ruth—ay, that was her name—Ruth Loveday!
Poor Ruth! Where art thou now, with
thy little family? I have sought thee in the
abode where I left thee. It was half consumed
by a recent fire. None of the dwellers near
could tell me of thy whereabout. God grant
that the rude world has used thee well!”
As Stanford finishes his soliloquy, he puts
both hands to his forehead as if to subdue a
sudden pain.
“If that fever comes back, I fear my career
in this world will soon be brought to a conclusion!”
says he.
There is a noise of carriage-wheels before
the street-door. It does not excite his attention,
for little dreams he that there are human
beings near, at that time of the day, eager to
-- 222 --
[figure description] Page 222.[end figure description]
hear of his welfare. Footsteps approach the
door of his room; a knock is heard and answered;
and Ruth and Arthur enter.
“Mr. Stanford!”
“By whom have I the honour of being accosted?”
asks the painter, in surprise.
“By one who owes you more than she can
easily repay.”
“Can it be? Is it Ruth? Is it Arthur?”
“Yes, Mr. Stanford, you have guessed aright.”
The painter, obeying his first impulse, kisses
Ruth, and shakes hands with Arthur. So sudden
are his movements, that our young lady
does not anticipate, and, of course, cannot prevent,
the act. He sinks into his chair with an
appearance of fatigue.
“You have been well, I hope, dear Mr. Stanford?”
“Nay, Ruth; were there more than one candle
in the room, you need not have asked the
question. I have been very ill, and am even
now feverish and weak. But you—you, my
child, if my eyes do not deceive me—you have
been, and are well? And how is little blue-eyed
May? And how is Frank?”
“Well—both of them! You shall see them
this very night.”
“Not to-night, I fear. I am too unwell to
quit my room.”
“Rather say, too unwell to remain in it, chilly
and desolate as it is!”
“Do you propose that I shall not return to it
this evening?”
“Certainly. My carriage is at the door. My
-- 223 --
[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]
house is not far distant. The best chamber in
it has been long kept sacred for you.”
“Carriage! House!”
“Yes, my dear friend. You remember the
documents relating to my mother's family, for
which we searched long in vain? They were
found at last. In one word, we have inherited
a large estate, and this is the first moment that
I have felt a thrill of unalloyed joy because of
the inheritance; for I now have the means of
testifying my gratitude, my—regard. So do
not attempt to exhaust yourself by words. It
is my turn now to play the nurse. Alas! you
are quite weak! Arthur, take hold of his other
arm, and, with me, aid him to rise. So! Now
let me lift the cloak around your shoulders.
The dear cloak! It once sheltered me—it did—
when my limbs were half frozen. Cheerily!
We shall soon reach the carriage. Here are
the stairs. Do not fear a fall. We are stronger
than you think for. One step more. We
are at the foot. The street-door is open. A
few paces more, and we are at the carriage.
Slowly and surely! So! The steps are down.
Now—gently, Arthur. Is he seated? Then
make room for me. Now drive carefully home,
John.”
“Yes, Miss Ruth.”
John puts up the steps, closes the door, and,
mounting the coach-box, guides homeward his
well-trained horses.
-- 224 -- p333-233
CHAPTER XVII. THE DOUBLE RESTORATION.
[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]
Stanford's illness proved more serious than
he had anticipated. During a whole week it
seemed as if the vital forces might be destroyed
by a breath. The most skilful physicians
were almost hourly in attendance; but the soft
hand and tender voice of affection did more for
the invalid than drugs. Ruth hardly allowed
herself the degree of sleep essential to her own
health. She was by his bedside by day and by
night, administering his potions, and suggesting
a thousand little comforts.
The recuperative energies of a sound constitution
at length began to rally, and assert their
dominion over a disease foreign to their nature.
The patient was convalescent. With what tears
of joy did Ruth receive the announcement from
her trusty friend, Doctor Remington!
Stanford could now sit up the greater part of
the day, and walk in his room. Yet still would
Ruth hover around him, watch his restoration,
and protest against any undue exertion on his
part. She ordered her harp to be carried into
his room, and there, through delightful hours,
would she sit, playing enthralling melodies, and
singing sweet, cheerful songs. At times she
would read to him some light, engaging book,
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[figure description] Page 225.[end figure description]
every page of which seemed strewed with
smiles, and the sparkling fancies of which came
radiant with new charms from her tongue. But
it was in narrating the incidents that had befallen
her and her brothers after Stanford's departure
that she most interested her hearer. As
she recounted her struggles and successes, the
unseen persecutions to which she had been subjected,
her temptations and triumphs, the painter's
breast would heave with emotion, and he
would turn away his eyes from the fair face before
him as from a bright, alluring danger.
The weeks and months which Ruth had devoted
to attendance upon her invalid guest had
flown rapidly by to both. During that time she
had not been wholly free from the calls and
inquisitive supervision of acquaintances and
friends. Her fortune, her beauty and discretion,
her singularly independent position, all
contributed to render her an object of attention
and interest to the fashionable and designing.
Ruth had hitherto avoided gay society, not
that it was altogether distasteful, but because
she apprehended it would interfere with studies
and pursuits which would contribute to her intellectual
advancement. She was also, as yet,
too young, in her own estimation, to find her
proper sphere in a ballroom; and, were there
not this objection, the fact that she had only
Arthur, who was still a boy, for a protector in
her visits, was enough to induce her to refuse
all persuasions to mingle in society. Occasionally
she was entrapped by some adroit mother
into visiting, when she would find, to her
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[figure description] Page 226.[end figure description]
surprise, a large party assembled, and herself the
principal object of notice. At these times,
every notable young man would of course seek
an introduction, and afterward, presuming upon
the accident, would call upon her at her house.
But John's stereotyped answer was, “Miss Ruth
does not see company;” and the baffled visiters
would leave their cards and depart.
One of the most annoying results of these
accidents soon displayed itself. Ruth could not
enter Broadway without being joined by some
one of these beaux of a moment. In self-defence,
she at length rarely went out on foot; and then
she was relieved of the persecutions of the “dandies,”
except when they chanced to waylay her
as she was stepping from her carriage into
Stewart's to make a purchase.
Spring had come ere the invalid was strong
enough to quit his room. The soft, restorative
airs of May seemed to hasten his convalescence;
and one bright, balmy morning, after returning
from a ride with Ruth, he entered the parlour
with her. The windows were open, and
the odour from the blossoming trees in the yard
was sweet and fragrant.
“You are weary?” said Ruth, as she saw
Stanford sink into a chair, and lean his brow
upon his hand.
“Not weary, but thoughtful,” returned he.
“And is not the thought a glad one?”
“A most unwelcome one—for it was the
thought of leaving you.”
“But why—what necessity—why should you
go?” asked Ruth, hurriedly, while the blood
vanished from her cheeks.
-- 227 --
[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]
“Have I not taxed your gratitude sufficiently?”
“Taxed! Gratitude! Words most unkind!
As if gratitude merely—”
“Ah! Ruth, you have now so overweighed
the balance of that debt in your favour, that
you have made me bankrupt.”
“Have you not other motives that influence
you in conceiving the idea of departure?”
“I have.”
“May I not ask what they are?”
“It would be ungenerous in me to tell you.”
“That is impossible. I pray you, inform
me why it is you cherish the wish.”
“Can you not imagine?”
“I cannot.”
“It is, Ruth, for this good and sufficient reason:
a time for parting must come, sooner or
later.”
“And why?”
“Because I have already subjected you to
the remarks and inquiries of gossiping neighbours
by my presence here.”
“What do I care for gossiping neighbours?”
“You are too generous and pure, I well
know, to be affected by the breath of detraction
under such circumstances; but that is no
cause why I should not preserve you from it,
if I can, especially when it is to be done by my
absence.”
“Are these your only inducements for going?”
“There is one more, which I would rather
not mention.”
-- 228 --
[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]
“I claim the privilege of asking it.”
“The longer I stay with you, Ruth, the more
appalling to my heart will be the prospect of
separation. I first met you as a child—a sweet
and lovely one, but still a child. The disproportion
of our years forbade the awakening of
any other sentiment in my breast than one of
paternal affection. I loved you as I might love
a daughter—as I now love your little sister.
Two years intervene. I return, and find you a
woman in intellect and soul, with a person
which all the graces seem to have had a share
in moulding. What has been the consequence?
I have felt, and yet feel in your society, as I
never felt before towards any one of your sex.
There is peril in such a feeling, Ruth—a peril
from which I must flee.”
“Then whither thou fleest I will flee, and
where thou lodgest I will lodge!”
Why do you start so, Stanford? The idea
was almost incomprehensible, and the joy too
bewildering. It was not till Ruth exhibited the
treasured pencil-case, and told him what a talisman
it had been to her, that he could absolutely
realize that she was in earnest. With an exclamation
of—
My maiden aunt suggests that I would better
drop the curtain upon the scene that ensued.
As the old lady is a pretty large holder of real
estate in Fourteenth-street, I think, upon the
whole, that it will be for my interest to comply
with her prejudices in this instance.
-- 229 -- p333-238
CHAPTER XVIII. LAST SCENE OF ALL.
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Before I finally dismiss the personages of my
little drama, let me indulge the delusion that
my audience, by an encouraging round of applause,
have “called them out” to be marshalled
yet once again in their sight.
It must have been apparent to my readers,
from the turn things were taking at the close
of my last chapter, that Ruth and Stanford have
been worthily provided for, long before this
work reaches the public eye. Let us hope that
in their prosperity they will lose none of those
generous traits that distinguished them while
they were struggling with worldly ills and privations;
but that their union, in enhancing their
joys, may also enhance their virtues.
Arthur Loveday is at present engaged in his
collegiate studies, after the completion of which
he looks forward to entering upon the study of
medicine. Frank is still at school. He has not
lost his old predilections for a mercantile life.
Over the mantelpiece in his chamber is a glass
case, enclosing the memorable hat, which, in his
days of poverty, was wont to expose him to so
much persecution and remark. He has liberally
assisted many of his old associates in procuring
occupations by which they can gain a
-- 230 --
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subsistence. He owns a “first-rate” pony, and
is in the habit of taking a ride on horseback
every morning before breakfast.
As for our friend May—sunny, smiling little
May—she is fast blooming into girlhood. Long
since has she made the coveted present to her
friend Lucy Marvell; and not one present merely,
but more than I can count.
The Bangs family have been taken under the
especial protection of Ruth, who has provided
for them all in the handsomest manner, placing
the boys in situations where, with industry and
perseverance, they can aspire to the most honourable
stations in the community.
I must not forget our old acquaintance, Mr.
Bibb. Ruth has set him up in business, and he
is now fatter, more jocose, and prosperous than
ever, notwithstanding the irreparable loss he
has sustained in the death of Mrs. Bibb. That
notable lady burst a bloodvessel not long since
while scolding a book-pedler, who had trodden
with muddy feet on her best carpet—a newyear's
gift from Frank Loveday. It is still the
old grocer's delight to collect the children of
the neighbourhood about him, and feast them
with candy and raisins—a pastime which he
can now indulge in unrebuked. He has made
one good resolve for the future: never to meddle
again in affairs of the heart, nor to try his
talents at match-making.
A singular fate has befallen Mr. Edward Dangleton.
Overcome by a terrific sense of his
past delinquencies and transgressions, his mind
seems to have rebounded from its vicious apathy
-- 231 --
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into the extreme of fanaticism. He is now a
strolling preacher, and he finds many hearers
among the poorer classes of society, with whom
his franticly fervid appeals and sulphurous exhortations
are popular and effectual. That he
is sincere, no one can listen to him and doubt;
but in his eyes, the Supreme Being is a penal
God of terror, and vindictiveness, and hoarded
wrath, not a Father of infinite benignity, mercy,
justice, and love, as he manifests himself to
us in his works. And thus does poor human
frailty make for itself and for the world a Deity,
investing him with attributes which can have
no existence save in the depraved and affrighted
imagination of the inventor!
“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall
see God.” What more shall we ask? Heaven
must be looked for in the soul; and, as we grow
in goodness, we draw nearer to God, who is
infinitely good. Fallible brother! how shalt
thou presume to measure the distance between
me and the Divinity, or to analyze that which
God and his commissioned angels can alone
discern? Dost thou, who cannot explain to me
the principle of life in the meanest reptile, dare
to pronounce judgment against an immortal
soul? Go pray for that knowledge which may
enlighten thee as to the extent of thine own
ignorance. Thou hast brazen, stentorian lungs,
but there is a still, small, pleading voice, whose
lightest whisper can drown thy noisy fulminations:
it is the voice of conscience!
There is yet another of my characters who
should not be forgotten in this farewell glance.
-- 232 --
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I allude to Monsieur Mallet, the friend of Von
Steinbach, the composer of—Chaos can tell
what. As he sympathized with Ruth in her misfortunes,
so did he bask in the sunshine of her
prosperous days. Through Arthur's agency,
publishers have been found for his favourite
compositions, all of which are dedicated, in
grandiloquent terms, to his former pupil. Rumours
have reached me that one of his operas
was recently put in rehearsal at the Park Theatre,
but that it was hastily withdrawn on the
manager's finding, to his dismay, that the piece
was in twelve acts—a most unexampled instance
of musical fertility!
My task is done. The little structure which
my pen has raised is complete. Time may
soon rend its fragile foundations, and cover it
with the dust of merited oblivion; but its truths,
if it contain any, shall be imperishable.
THE END.
