Ruth Hall, by "Fanny Fern" (NY: Mason Brothers, 1854)
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CHAPTER XXXVII.
Counting houses, like all other spots beyond the pale of female jurisdiction, are comfortless looking places. The counting-room of Mr. Tom Develin was no exception to the above rule; though we will do him the justice to give in our affidavit, that the ink-stand, for seven consecutive years, had stood precisely in the same spot, bounded on the north by a box of letter stamps, on the south by a package of brown business envelopes, on the east by a pen wiper, made originally in the form of a butterfly, but which frequent ink dabs had transmuted into a speckled caterpillar, on the west by half sheets of blank paper, rescued economically from business letters, to save too prodigal consumption of foolscap.
It is unnecessary to add that Mr. Tom Develin was a bachelor; perpendicular as a ram-rod, moving over terra firma as if fearful his joints would unhinge, or his spinal column slip into his boots; carrying his arms with military precision; supporting his ears with a collar, never
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known by 'the oldest inhabitant' to be limpsey; and stepping circumspectly in boots of mirror-like brightness, never defiled with the mud of the world.
Perched on his apple-sized head, over plastered wind-proof locks, was the shiniest of hats, its wearer turning neither to the right nor the left; and, although possessed of a looking-glass, laboring under the hallucination that he, of all masculine moderns, was most dangerous to the female heart.
Mr. Develin's book store was on the west side of Literary Row. His windows were adorned with placards of new theological publications of the blue-school order, and engravings of departed saints, who with their last breath had, with mock humility, requested brother somebody to write their obituaries. There was, also, to be seen there an occasional oil painting "for sale," selected by Mr. Develin himself, with a peculiar eye to the greenness of the trees, the blueness of the sky, and the moral "tone" of the picture.
Mr. Develin congratulated himself on his extensive acquaintance with clergymen, professors of colleges, students, scholars, and the literati generally. By dint of patient listening to their desultory conversations, he had picked up threads of information on literary subjects, which he carefully wound around his memory, to be woven into his own tête-á-têtes, where such information would "tell;" always, of course, omitting quotation
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marks, to which some writers, as well as conversationists, have a constitutional aversion. It is not surprising, therefore, that his tête-á-têtes should be on the mosaic order; the listener's interest being heightened by the fact, that he had not, when in a state of pinafore, cultivated Lindley Murray too assiduously.
Mr. Develin had fostered his bump of caution with a truly praiseworthy care. He meddled very gingerly with new publications; in fact, transacted business on the old fogy, stage-coach, rub-a-dub principle; standing back with distended eyes, and suppressed breath, in holy horror of the whistle, whiz-rush and steam of modern publishing houses. "A penny saved, is a penny gained," said this eminent financier and stationer, as he used half a wafer to seal his business letters.
"Any letters this morning?" said Mr. Develin to his clerk, as he deposited his umbrella in the north-west corner of his counting-room, and re-smoothed his unctuous, unruffled locks; "any letters?" and taking a package from the clerk's hand, he circumspectly lowered himself between his coat-tails into an arm-chair, and leisurely proceeded to their inspection.
"Mr. Develin:--
"Sir,--I take the liberty, knowing you to be one of the referees about our son's estate, which was left in a
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dreadful confusion, owing probably to his wife's thriftlessness, to request of you a small favor. When our son died, he left a great many clothes, vests, coats, pants, &c., which his wife, no doubt, urged his buying, and which, of course, can be of no use to her now, as she never had any boys, which we always regretted. I take my pen in hand to request you to send the clothes to me, as they will save my tailor's bill; please send, also, a circular broadcloth cloak, faced with velvet, his cane, hats, and our son's Bible, which Ruth, of course, never looks into--we wish to use it at family prayers. Please send them all at your earliest convenience. Hoping you are in good health, I am yours to command,
"Zekiel Hall."
Mr. Develin re-folded the letter, crossed his legs and mused. "The law allows the widow the husband's wearing apparel, but what can Ruth do with it? (as the doctor says, she has no boys,) and with her peculiar notions, it is not probable she would sell the clothes. The law is on her side, undoubtedly, but luckily she knows no more about law than a baby; she is poor, the doctor is a man of property; Ruth's husband was my friend to be sure, but a man must look out for No. 1 in this world, and consider a little what would be for his own interest. The doctor may leave me a little slice of property if I keep on the right side of him, who knows? The clothes must be sent."
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
"'Tis n't a pretty place," said little Katy, as she looked out the window upon a row of brick walls, dingy sheds, and discolored chimneys; "'tis n't a pretty place, mother, I want to go home."
"Home!" Ruth started! the word struck a chord which vibrated--oh how painfully.
"Why don't we go home, mother?" continued Katy; "won't papa ever, ever, come and take us away? there is something in my throat which makes me want to cry all the time, mother," and Katy leaned her curly head wearily on her mother's shoulder.
Ruth took the child on her lap, and averting her eyes, said with a forced smile:
"Little sister don't cry, Katy."
"Because she is a little baby, and don't know anything," replied Katy; "she used to stay with Biddy, but papa used to take me to walk, and toss me up to the wall
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when he came home, and make rabbits with his fingers on the wall after tea, and take me on his knee and tell me about little Red Riding Hood, and--oh, I want papa, I want papa," said the child, with a fresh burst of tears.
Ruth's tears fell like rain on Katy's little up-turned face. Oh, how could she, who so much needed comfort, speak words of cheer? How could her tear-dimmed eyes and palsied hand, 'mid the gloom of so dark a night, see and arrest a sunbeam?
"Katy, dear, kiss me; you loved papa--it grieved you to see him sock and suffering. Papa has gone to heaven, where there is no more sickness, no more pain. Papa is happy now, Katy."
"Happy? without me, and you, and Nettie," said Katy, with a grieved lip?
Oh, far-reaching--questioning childhood, who is sufficient for thee? How can lips, which so stammeringly repeat, 'thy will be done,' teach thee the lesson perfect?
CHAPTER XXXIX.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hall," said Mr. Develin, handing Ruth the doctor's letter, and seating himself at what he considered a safe distance from a female; "I received that letter from the doctor this morning, and I think it would be well for you to attend to his request as soon as possible."
Ruth perused the letter, and handed it back with a trembling hand, saying, "'tis true the clothes are of no use, but it is a great comfort to me, Mr. Develin, to keep everything that once belonged to Harry." Then pausing a moment, she asked, "have they a legal right to demand those things, Mr. Develin?"
"I am not very well versed in law," replied Mr. Develin, dodging the unexpected question; "but you know the doctor does n't bear thwarting, and your children--in fact--" Here Mr. Develin twisted his thumbs and seemed rather at a loss. "Well, the fact is, Mrs.
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Hall, in the present state of your affairs, you cannot afford to refuse."
"True," said Ruth, mournfully, "true."
Harry's clothes were collected from the drawers, one by one, and laid upon a sofa. Now a little penciled memorandum fluttered from the pocket; not a handkerchief dropped upon the floor, slightly odorous of cologne, or cigars; neck-ties there were, shaped by his full, round throat, with the creases still in the silken folds, and there was a crimson smoking cap, Ruth's gift--the gilt tassel slightly tarnished where it had touched the moist dark locks; then his dressing-gown, which Ruth herself had often playfully thrown on, while combing her hair--each had its little history, each its tender home associations, daguerreotyping, on tortured memory, sunny pictures of the past.
"Oh, I cannot--I cannot," said Ruth, as her eye fell upon Harry's wedding-vest; "oh, Mr. Develin, I cannot."
Mr. Develin coughed, hemmed, walked to the window, drew off his gloves, and drew them on, and finally said, anxious to terminate the interview, "I can fold them up quicker than you, Mrs. Hall."
"If you please," replied Ruth, sinking into a chair; "this you will leave me, Mr. Develin," pointing to the white satin vest.
"Y-e-s," said Mr. Develin, with an attempt to be facetious. "The old doctor can't use that, I suppose."
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The trunk was packed, the key turned in the lock, and the porter in waiting, preceded by Mr. Develin, shouldered his burden, and followed him down stairs, and out into the street.
And there sat Ruth, with the tears dropping one after another upon the wedding vest, over which her fingers strayed caressingly. Oh, where was the heart which had throbbed so tumultuously beneath it, on that happy bridal eve? With what a dirge-like echo fell upon her tortured ear those bridal words,--"till death do us part."
CHAPTER XL.
"Tom Herbert, are you aware that this is the sixth spoonful of sugar you ahve put in that cup of tea? and what a forlorn face! I 'd as lief look at a tombstone. Now look at me. Did you ever see such a fit as that boot? Is not my hair as smooth and as glossy as if I expected to dine with some other gentleman than my husband? Is not this jacket a miracle of shapeliness? Look what a foil you are to all this loveliness; lack-lustre eyes--mouth drawn down at the corners: you are a dose to contemplate."
"Mary," said her husband, without noticing her raillery; "do you remember Mrs. Hall?"
"Mrs. Hall," replied Mary; "oh, Ruth Ellet? yes; I used to go to school with her. She has lost her husband, they say."
"Yes, and a fine noble fellow he was too, and very proud of his wife. I remember he used to come into the
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store, and say, with one of his pleasant smiles, 'Herbert, I wonder if you have anything here handsome enough for my wife to wear.' He bought all her clothes himself, even to her gloves and boots, and was as tender and careful of her as if she were an infant. Well, to-day she came into my store, dressed in deep mourning, leading her two little girls by the hand, and asked to see me. And what do you think she wanted?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Mary, carelessly; "a yard of black crape, I suppose."
"She wanted to know," said Mr. Herbert, "if I could employ her to make up and trim those lace collars, caps, and under sleeves we sell at the store. I tell you, Mary, I could scarce keep the tears out of my eyes, she looked so sad. And then those poor little children, Mary! I thought of you, and how terrible it would be if you and our little Sue and Charley were left so destitute."
"Destitute?" replied Mary; "why her father is a man of property; her brother is in propserous circumstances; and her cousin lives in one of the most fashionable squares in the city."
"Yes, wife, I know it; and that makes it all the harder for Mrs. Hall to get employment; because, people knowing this, take it for granted that her relatives help her, or ought to, and prefer to give employment to others whom they imagine need it more. This is natural, and perhaps I should have thought so too, had it been anybody but
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Harry Hall's wife; but all I could think of was, what Harry (poor fellow!) would have said, had he ever thought his little pet of a wife would have come begging to me for employment."
"What did you tell her?" said Mary.
"Why--you know the kind of work she wished, is done by forty hands, in a room directly over the store, under the superintendence of Betsy Norris; of course, they would all prefer doing the work at home, to coming down there to do it; but that is against our rules. I told her this, and also that if I made an exception in her favor, the forewoman would know it, because she had to prepare the work, and that would cause dissatisfaction among my hands. What do you thinks he said? she offered to come and sit down among those girls, and work with them. My God, Mary! Harry Hall's wife!
"Of course, that was out of the question, wife, for she could not bring her two children there, and she had no one to leave them with, and so she went away; and I looked after her, and those little bits of children, till they were out of sight, trying to devise some way to get her employment. Cannot you think of anything, Mary? Are there no ladies you know, who would give her nice needlework?"
"I don't know anybody but Mrs. Slade," replied Mary, "who puts out work of any consequence, and she told me the other day that she never employed any of
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those persons who 'had seen better days;' that somehow she could n't drive as good a bargain with them as she could with a common person, who was ignorant of the value of their labor."
"God help poor Mrs. Hall, then," exclaimed Harry, "if all the sex are as heartless! We must contrive some way to help her, Mary--help her to employment, I mean, for I know her well enough to be sure that she would accept of assistance in no other way."
CHAPTER XLI.
"Is this the house?" said one of two ladies, pausing before Ruth's lodgings.
"I suppose so," replied the other lady; "they said it was No. 50 ---- street, but it can't be, either; Ruth Hall could n't live in such a place as this. Just look at that red-faced Irish girl leaning out the front window on her elbows, and see those vulgar red bar-room curtains; I declare, Mary, if Ruth Hall has got down hill so far as this, I can't keep up her acquaintance; just see how they stare at us here! if you choose to call you may--faugh! just smell that odor of cabbage issuing from the first entry. Come, come, Mary, take your hand off the knocker; I would n't be seen in that vulgar house for a kingdom."
"I seems heartless, though," said the other lady, blushing slightly, as she gathered up her six flounces in her delicately gloved-hand; "do you remember the after-
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noon we rode out to their pretty country-seat, and had that delicious supper of strawberries and cream, under those old trees? and do you remember how handsome and picturesque her husband looked in that broad Panama hat, raking up the hay when the thunder-shower came up? and how happy Ruth looked, and her children? 'Tis a dreadful change for her, I declare; if it wer me, I believe I should cut my throat."
"That is probably just what her relatives would like to have her do," replied Mary, laughing; "they are as much mortified at her being here, as you and I are to be seen in such a quarter of the city."
"Why don't they provide for her, then," said the other lady, "at least till she can turn round? that youngest child is only a baby yet."
"Oh, that's their affair," answered Mary, "don't bother about it. Hyacinth has just married a rich, fashionable wife, and of course he cannot lose caste by associating with RUth now; you cannot blame him."
"Well, that don't prevent him from helping her, does it?"
"Good gracious, Gertrude, do stop! if there 's anything I hate, it is an argument. It is clearly none of our business to take her up, if her own people don't do it. What a love of a collar you have on; it is handsomer than mine, which I gave fifty dollars for, but what is fifty
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dollars, when one fancies a thing? If I did n't make my husband's money fly, his second wife would; so I will save her ladyship that trouble;" and with an arch toss of her plumed head, the speaker and her companion entered the famous saloon of La Temps, where might be seen any sunny day, between the hours of twelve and three the disgusting spectacle of scores of ladies devouring, ad infinitum brandy-drops, Roman punch, Charlotte Russe, pies, cakes, and ices; and sipping "parfait amour," till their flushed cheeks and emancipated tongues prepared them to listen and reply to any amount of questionable nonsense from their attendant roué cavaliers.
CHAPTER XLII.
"Some folks' pride runs in queer streaks," said Betty, as she turned a beefsteak on the gridiron; "if I lived in such a grand house as this, and had so many fine clothes, I would n't let my poor cousin stand every Monday in my kitchen, bending over the wash-tub, and rubbing out her clothes and her children's, with my servants, till the blood started from her knuckles."
"Do you know what dis chil' would do, if she were Missis Ruth Hall?" asked Gatty. "Well, she 'd jess go right up on dat shed fronting de street, wid 'em, and hang 'em right out straight before all de grand neighbors, and shame Missus Millet; dat's what dis chil' would do."
"Poor Mrs. Ruth, she knows too much for that," replied Betty; "she shoulders that great big basket of damp clothes and climbs up one, two, three, four flights of stairs to hang them to dry in the garret. Did you see
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her sit down on the stairs last Monday, looking so pale about the mouth, and holding on to her side, as if she never would move again?"
"Yes, yes," said Gatty, "and here now, jess look at de fust peaches of de season, sent in for dessert; de Lor' he only knows what dey cost, but niggers mus n't see noffing, not dey, if dey wants to keep dere place. But white folks is stony-hearted, Betty."
"Turn that steak over," said Betty; "now get the pepper; work and talk too, that 's my motto. Yes, Gatty, I remember when Mrs. Ruth's husband used to ride up to the door of a fine morning, and toss me a large bouquet for Mrs. Millet, which Mrs. Ruth had tied up for her, or hand me a box of big strawberries, or a basket of plums, or pears, and how all our folks here would go out there and stay as long as they liked, and use the horses, and pick the fruit, and the like of that."
"Whar 's her brudder, Massa Hyacinth? Wonder if he knows how tings is gwyin on?" asked Gatty.
"He knows fast enough, only he don't know," replied Betty, with a sly wik. "I was setting the table the other day, when Mrs. Millet read a letter from him to her husband. It seems he 's got a fine place in the country, where he lives with his new bride. Poor thing, I hope he won't break her heart, as he did his first wife's. Well, he told how beautiful his place was, and how much money he had laid out on his garden, and hot-house, and
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things, and invited Mrs. Millet to come and see him; and then he said, 'he 'sposed Mrs. Ruth was getting on; he did n't know anything about her.[']"
"Know about de debbel!" exclaimed Gatty, throwing down the pepper castor; "wonder whose fault dat is, Betty? 'Spose all dese folks of ours, up stairs, will go to de bressed place? When I heard Massa Millet have prayers dis morning, I jess wanted to ask him dat. You 'member what our minister, Mr. Snowball, said las' Sunday, 'bout de parabola of Dives and Lazarus, hey?"
"Parable," said Betty contemptuously; "Gatty, you are as ignorant as a hippopotamus. Come, see that steak now, done to a crisp; won't you catch it when you take it into breakfast. It is lucky I can cook and talk too."
CHAPTER XLIII.
"Something for you, ma'am," said the maid-of-all-work to Ruth, omitting the ceremony of a premonitory knock, as she opened the door. "A bunch of flowers! handsome enough for Queen Victory; and a basket of apples all done up in green leaves. It takes widders to get presents," said the girl, stowing away her tongue in her left cheek, as she partially closed the door.
"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed little Nettie, to whom those flowers were as fair as Eve's first view of Paradise. "Give me one posy, mamma, only one;" and the little chubby hands were outstretched for a tempting rosebud.
"But, Nettie, dear, they are not for me," said Ruth; "there must be some mistake."
"Not a bit, ma'am," said the girl, thrusting her head into the half-open door; "the boy said they were 'for Mrs. Ruth Hall,' as plain as the nose on my face; and
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that 's plain enough, for I reckon I should have got married long ago, if it had n't been for my big nose. He was a country boy like, with a ploughman's frock on, and was as spotted in the face as a tiger-lily."
"Oh! I know," replied Ruth, with a ray of her old sunshiny smile flitting over her face; "it was Johnny Galt; he comes into market every day with vegetables. Don't you remember him, Katy? HE used to drive our old Brindle to pasture, and milk her every night. You know dear papa gave him a suit of clothes on the Fourth of July, and a new hat, and leave to go to Plymouth to see his mother? Don't you remember, Katy, he used to catch butterflies for you in the meadow, and pick you nosegays of buttercups, and let you ride the pony to water, and show you where the little minnies lived in the brook? Have you forgotten the white chicken he brought you in his hat, which cried 'peep--peep,' and the cunning little speckled eggs he found for you in the woods, and the bright scarlet partridge berries he strung for a necklace for your throat, and the glossy green-oak-leaf-wreath he made for your hat?"
"Tell more--tell more," said Katy, with eyes brimming with joy; "smile more, mamma."
Aye, "Smile more, mamma." Earth has its bright spots; there must have been sunshine to make a shadow. All hearts are not calloused by selfishness; from the lips of the honest little donor goeth up each night and morn-
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ing a prayer, sincere and earnest, for "the widow and the fatherless." The noisome, flaunting weeds of earth have not wholly choked the modest flower of gratitude. "Smile more, mamma!"
How cheap a thing is happiness! Golconda's mines were dross to that simple bunch of flowers1 They lit the widow's gloomy room with a celestial brightness. Upon the dingy carpet Ruth placed the little vase, and dimpled limbs hovered about their brilliant petals; poising themselves daintily as the epicurean butterfly who circles, in dreamy delight, over the rose's heart, longing, yet delaying to sip its sweets.
A simple bunch of flowers, yet oh, the tale they told with their fragrant breath! "Smile, mamma!" for those gleeful children's sake; send back tot he source that starting tear, ere like a lowering cloud it o'ercasts the sunshine of those beaming faces.
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XLIV.
"My dear," said MRs. Millet, as the servant withdrew with the dessert, "Walter has an invitation to the Hon. David Greene's to-night."
No response from Mr. Millet, "the wooden man," one of whose pleasant peculiarities it was never to answer a question till the next day after it was addressed to him.
Mrs. Millet, quite broken in to this little conjugal eccentricity, proceeded; "It will be a good thing for John, Mr. Millet; I am anxious that all his acquaintances should be of the right sort. Hyacinth has often told me how much it made or marred a boy's fortune, the set he associated with. Herbert Greene has the air of a thorough-bred man already. You see now, Mr. Millet, the importance of Hyacinth's advice to us about five years ago, to move into a more fashionable neighborhood; to be sure rents are rather high here, but I am very sure young Snyder would never have thought of offering himself to Leila had not we lived at the court-end of the town. Hyacinth considers a great catch in point of
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family, and I have no doubt Snyder is a nice fellow. I wish before you go, Mr. Millet, you would leave the money to buy Leila a velvet jacket; it will not cost more than forty dollars (lace, trimmings, and all); it will be very becoming to Leila. What, going? oh, I forgot to tell you, that Ruth's father was here this morning, bothering me just as I was dressing my hair for dinner. It seems that he is getting tired of furnishing the allowance he promised to give Ruth, and says that it is our turn now to do something. He is a great deal better off than we are, and so I told him; and also, that we were obliged to live in a certain style for the dear children's sake; beside, are we not doing something for her? I allow Ruth to do her washing in our kitchen every week, provided she finds her own soap. Stop a minute, Mr. Millet; do leave the forty dollars for Leila's jacket before you go. Cicehi, the artist, wants her to sit for a Madonna--quite a pretty tribute to Leila's beauty; he only charges three hundred dollars; his study is No. 1, Clive street."
"S-t-u-d-i-o," said Mr. Millet, (slowly and oracularly, who, being on several school committees, thought it his duty to make an extra exertion, when the king's English was misapplied;) "s-t-u-d-i-o, Mrs. Millet;" and buttoning the eighth button of his overcoat, he moved slowly out the front door, and down the street to his counting-room, getting over the ground with about as much flexibility and grace of motion as the wooden horses on the stage.
CHAPTER XLV.
"Come here, Katy," said Ruth, "do you think you could go alone to your grandfather Ellet's for once? My board bill is due to-day, and my head is so giddy with this pain, that I can hardly lift it from the pillow. Don't you think you can go without me, dear? Mrs. Skiddy is very particular about being paid the moment she sends in her bill."
"I 'll try, mamma," replied little Katy, unwilling to disoblige her mother.
"Then bring your bonnet, dear, and let me tie it; be very, very careful crossing the streets, and don't loiter on the way. I have been hoping every moment to be better, but I cannot go."
"Never mind, mother," said Katy, struggling bravely with her reluctance, as she kissed her mother's cheek, and smiled a good-by; but when she gained the crowded street, the smile faded away from the little face, her steps
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were slow, and her eyes downcast; for Katy, child as she was, knew that her grandfather was never glad to see them now, and his strange, cold tone when he spoke to her, always made her shiver; so little Katy threaded her way along, with a troubled, anxious, care-worn look, never glancing in the shopkeepers' tempting windows, and quite forgetting Johnny Galt's pretty bunch of flowers, till she stood trembling with her hand on the latch of her grandfather's counting-room door.
"That you!" said her grandfather gruffly, from under his bent brows; "come for money again? Do you think your grandfather is made of money? people have to earn it, did you knwo that? I worked hard to earn mine. Have you done any thing to earn this?"
"No, Sir," said Katy, with a culprit look, twisting the corner of her apron, and struggling to keep from crying.
"Why don't your mother go to work and earn something?" asked Mr. Ellet.
"She cannot get any work to do," replied Katy; "she tries very hard, grandpa."
"Well, tell her to keep on trying, and you must grow up quick, and earn something too; money don't grow on trees, or bushes, did you know that? What 's the reason your mother did n't come after it herself, hey?"
"She is sick," said Katy.
"Seems to me she 's always sick. Well, there 's a
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dollar," said her grandfather, looking at the bill affectionately, as he parted with it; "if you keep on coming here at this rate, you will get all my money away. Do you think it is right to come and get all my money away, hey? Remember now, you and your mother must earn some, somehow, d' ye hear?"
"Yes, Sir," said Katy meekly, as she closed the door.
There was a great noise and bustle in the street, and Katy was jostled hither and thither by the hurrying foot passengers; but she did not heed it, she was so busy thinking of what her grandfather had said, and wondering if she could not sell matches, or shavings, or sweep the crossings, or earn some pennies somehow, that she need never go to her grandfather again. Just then a little girl her own age, came skipping and smiling along, holding her father's hand. Katy looked at her and thought of her father, and then she began to cry.
"What is the matter, my dear?" said a gentleman, lifting a handful of Katy's shining curls from her face; "why do you cry, my dear?"
"I want my papa," sobbed Katy.
"Where is he, dear? tell me, and I will take you to him, shall I?"
"If you please, Sir," said Katy, innocently, "he has gone to heaven."
"God help you," said the gentleman, with moistened eyes, "wher had you been when I met you?"
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"Please, Sir--I--I--I had rather not tell," replied Katy, with a crimson blush.
"Very odd, this," muttered the gentleman; "what is your name, dear?"
"Katy, Sir."
"Katy what?" asked the gentleman. "Katy-did, I think! for your voice is as sweet as a bird's."
"Katy Hall, Sir."
"Hall? Hall?" repeated the gentleman, thoughtfully; "was your father's name Harry?"
"Yes," said Katy.
"Was he tall and handsome, with black hair and whiskers?"
"Oh, so handsome," replied Katy, with sparkling eyes.
"Did he live at a place called 'The Glen,' just out of the city?"
"Yes," said Katy.
"My child, my poor child," said the gentleman, taking her up in his arms and pushing back her hair from her face; "yes, here is papa's brow, and his clear, blue eyes, Katy. I used to know your dear papa."
"Yes?" said Katy, with a bright, glad smile.
"I used to go to his counting-house to talk to him on business, and I learned to love him very much, too. I never saw your mamma, though I often heard him speak of her. In a few hours, dear, I am going to sail off on
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the great ocean, else I would go home with you and see your mamma. Where do you live, Katy?"
"In ---- court," said the child. The gentleman colored and started, then putting his hand in his pocket and drawing out something that looked like paper, slipped it into little Katy's bag, saying, with delicate tact, "Tell your mamma, my dear, that is something I owed your dear papa; mind you carry it home safely; now gve me a good-bye kiss, and may God forever bless you, my darling."
Little Katy stood shading her eyes with her hand till the gentleman was out of sight; it was so nice to see somebody who "loved papa;" and then she wondered why her grandfather never spoke so to her about him; and then she wished the kind gentleman were her grandpapa; and then she wondered what it was he had put in the bag for mamma; and then she recollected that her mamma told her "not to loiter;" and then she quickened her tardy little feet.
CHAPTER XLVI.
Katy had been gone now a long while. Ruth began to grow anxious. She lifted her head from the pillow, took off the wet bandage form her aching forehead, and taking little Nettie upon her lap, sat down at the small window to watch for Katy. The prospect was not one to call up cheerful fancies. Opposite was one of those large brick tenements, let out by rapacious landlords, a room at a time at griping rents, to poor emigrants, and others, who were barely able to prolong their lease of life form day to day. At one window sat a tailor, with his legs crossed, and a torn straw hat perched awry upon his head, cutting and making coarse garments for the small clothing-store in the vicinity, whose Jewish owner reaped all the profits. At another, a pale-faced woman, with a handkerchief bound round her aching face, bent over a steaming wash-tub, while a little girl of ten, staggering under the weight of a basket of damp clothes
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was stringing them on lines across the room to dry. At the next window sat a decrepit old woman, feebly trying to soothe in her palsied arms the wailings of a poor sick child. And there, too, sat a young girl, from dawn till dark, scarcely lifting that pallid face and weary eyes--stitching and thinking, thinking and stitching. God help her!
Still, tier above tier the windows rose, full of pale, anxious, care-worn faces--never a laugh, never a song--but instead, ribald curses, and the cries of neglected, half-fed children. From window to window, outside, were strung on lines articles of clothing, pails, baskets, pillows, feather-beds, and torn coverlets; while up and down the door-steps, in and out, passed ever a ragged procession of bare-footed women and children, to the small grocery opposite, for "a pint of milk," a "loaf of bread," a few onions, or potatoes, a cabbage, some herrings, a sixpence worth of poor tea, a pound of musty flour, a few candles, or a peck of coal--for all of which, the poor creatures paid twice as much as if they had the means to buy by the quantity.
The only window which Ruth did not shudder to look at, was the upper one of all, inhabited by a large but thrifty German family, whose love of flowers had taken root even in that sterile soil, and whose little pot of thriving foreign shrubs, outside the window sill, showed with what tenacity the heart will cling to early associations.
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Further on, at one block's remove, was a more pretentious-looking house, the blinds of which were almost always closed, save when the colored servants threw them open once a day, to give the rooms an airing. Then Ruth saw damask chairs, satin curtains, pictures, vases, books, and pianos; it was odd that people who could afford such things should live in such a neighborhood. Ruth looked and wondered. Throngs of visitors went there--carriages rolled up to the door, and rolled away; gray-haired men, business men, substantial-looking family men, and foppish-looking young men; while half-grown boys loitered about the premises, looking mysteriously into the door when it opened, or into the window when a curtain was raised, or a blind flew apart.
Now and then a woman appeared at the windows. Sometimes the face was young and fair, sometimes it was wan and haggard; but, oh God! never without the stain that the bitterest tear may fail to wash away, save in the eyes of Him whose voice of mercy whispered, "Go, and sin no more."
Ruth's tears fell fast. She knew now how it could be, when every door of hope seemed shut, by those who make long prayers and wrap themselves in morality as with a garment, and cry with closed purses and averted faces, "Be ye warmed, and filled." She knew now how, when the heart, craving sympathy, craving companionship, doubting both earth and heaven, may wreck its all
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in one despairing moment on that dark sea, if it lose sight of Bethlehem's guiding-star. And then, she thought, "if he who saveth a soul from death shall hide a multitude of sins," oh! where, in the great reckoning-day, shall he be found who, 'mid the gloom of so dark a naight, pilots such struggling bark on wrecking rocks?
"Dear child, I am so glad you are home," said Ruth, as Katy opened the door; "I began to fear something had happened to you. Did you see your grandfather?"
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Katy, "please never send me to my grandpa again; he said we 'should get away all the money he had,' and he looked so dreadful when he said it, that it made my knees tremble. Is it stealing, mamma, for us to take grandpa's money away?"
"No," replied Ruth, looking a hue more pallid, if possible, than before. "No, no, Katy, don't cry; you shall never go there again for money. But, where is your bag? Why! what 's this, Katy. Grandpa has made a mistake. You must run right back as quick as ever you can with this money, or I 'm afraid he will be angry."
"Oh, grandpa did n't give me that," said Katy; "a gentleman gave me that."
"A gentleman?" said Ruth. "Why it is money, Katy. How came you to take money from a gentleman? Who was he?"
"Money!" exclaimed Katy. "Money!" clapping her
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hands. "Oh! I 'm so glad. He did n't say it was money; he said it was something he owed papa;" and little Katy picked up a card from the floor, on which was penciled, "For the children of Harry Hall, from their father's friend."
"Hush," whispered Katy to Nettie, "mamma is praying."