University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
A GOOD MOVE.

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 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?

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 Craven-street.
On entering, the first sound that Ruth
heard was the voice of a man raised to an 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

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

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 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

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 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

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:

“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

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 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?