University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
A PEEP INTO THE POOR RICH MAN'S HOUSE.

As our readers may have anticipated, Susan at
once entered into Harry's views; and, in a short
time, she and her family were transferred to a part
of a small house in Broome-street, in New-York.
One room served as kitchen, parlour, and bedroom.
It was furnished only with articles of the
first necessity. There was a snug little bedroom
for Uncle Phil, which he said suited him exactly;
and a comfortable, good-sized one for Charlotte,
with a neat rag carpet on it, “because Lottie suffered
with cold feet;” and a fireplace in it, “for
Lottie must have a fire when she had sick turns;”
and two windows, “for all Lottie's living was fresh
air;” and the only bureau and the only rocking-chair
were in Charlotte's room, because, as she
said, “Susy had always some good reason at hand
for giving her the best of every thing.”

Our friends were undeniably what the world
calls poor. But they had affection, intelligence,
temperance, contentment, and godliness. Were
they poor? We shall see. In the meantime, let
us see if there is not some misuse of terms in this
world. Morris Finley had “got in on the world.”
He had so far secured his main chance, that he
was engaged in profitable business. He lived in

a good house, fashionably furnished; and his wife,
like the wives of other flourishing young merchants,
dressed in expensive materials, made in
the latest fashion. Neither Morris nor his wife
was vicious. They were only selfish and ostentatious,
with unfurnished minds, and hearts as
empty as their purses were full.

“Husband,” said Mrs. Finley to her partner,
who had just come home from Wall-street to dinner,
his mind engrossed with some unaccountable
rise in the stocks. “Husband, mother has been
here.”

“Well, what of that?”

“She has given up her house.”

“What of that?”

“Why, you know what of that as well as I do;
she does not know what she is to do next.”

We must premise that Finley's father-in-law
had made some unfortunate, as well as fortunate
speculations; had died, and left his wife and an
unmarried daughter penniless.

“I am sure I cannot say what she is to do next,”
replied Finley; “she is lucky to have one daughter
well provided for. What does she propose?”

“She did not propose any thing. She sat and
cried the whole morning.”

“Of course she cannot expect to have a home
here.”

“Of course not. I told her, said I, `Mother, if
I were to ask husband to invite you here, we could
not accommodate you, for we have not a room to
spare: you know we must eat in the basement, to
keep the parlours in order for company; and in the
second story there is only the nursery and our bedchamber;

and one of the third-story rooms we
must keep for a spare room; and, when Sabina Jane
gets to be a little older, she must have the back upper
chamber; and so,' said I, `mother, you see, if
husband were perfectly willing, it is impossible.”'

“She could not have expected it.”

“Oh, no, she did not; but, then, a mother is a
mother, you know, and I did not wish to hurt her
feelings.”

“I presume, my dear, Helen Maria can get a
place as governess or teacher in a school; I heard
her say she had attended to music and painting,
and French, and so on, at Mrs. —'s school, for
the last six years.”

“So she has, husband; but, bless you! you
know how girls learn things at school, and she
never expected to have to teach.”

“Expect or not expect, I'd get my money's
worth out of these schools. I saw, on your father's
books, three hundred dollars a year paid for
Helen Maria's schooling for the last six years, and
this is what it has come to. Can't she teach geography,
or arithmetic, or some of them useful
branches?”

“No, she never was fond of the useful branches;
she had quite a pretty taste for music and
painting, but then people are required to understand
them so well to teach them. No, I don't see as
Helen Maria can earn any thing but by embroidering
muslin; she does that beautifully; and if
there was only a place where work might be sold
without it being known where it came from, she
might earn considerable, and no one be the wiser
for it.”

“Nonesense, wife! We have not yet got above
our relations' working for their living, though you
may not be obliged to. Why can't your mother
take a boarding-house, and then Helen Maria
might assist her?”

“Oh! Helen Maria can't do any kind of housework;
besides, she is delicate, you know. Now
mother was brought up to it; and when I proposed
a boarding-house, she said if she had any security
to offer for her rent—”

“Ah! there's the rub! I hope she don't expect
me to offer; for you know, my dear, I make it an
invariable rule never to endorse, but in the way of
business, for those who endorse for me.”

“What is to be done, husband, if she can't get
into any way of supporting herself? She must
live, you know.”

“And I must support her, hey?”

“No, I did not say that; but we can't let her
suffer. What would people say?—there are always
enough to talk, you know.”

“Yes, yes: well, I suppose I must advance the
first quarter's rent, or something towards it. Oh!
a thought strikes me; I know a house that will
just suit, belonging to some old maid or widow, or
somebody that lives up the country. The man that
has the care of it ain't particular about security.
I'll make the bargain for her—save her at least a
hundred dollars. That's just as good to her as if
I took the money out of my purse and put it into
hers. I am glad to do your mother a good turn
now and then in this way. I ain't one that holds
to shirking poor relations.”

“Nor I, I am sure, and I told mother so;

but I told her not to look to you; for, says I,
mother, you know we have a very expensive family,
and there are certain things we must have,
and husband says he will always keep on the safe
side.”

“Yes, trust Morris Finley for that. Folks that
mean to go ahead in the world must avoid unnecessary
expenses. Has the man been here about
the curtains?”

“Yes; and I find the fawn, with blue borders,
cost, for each window, twenty dollars more than
the others.”

“Bless my soul! how is that?”

“The fixtures are very showy and expensive—
I don't make a point of those—but the blue and
fawn is such a lovely contrast, and such a match
for my carpet. If there's any thing I do care about,
it's a match.”

“But the price, wife, is enormous.”

“But it is not more than Mrs. Johnson Smith
gave for hers.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Positive; Miss Saltus told me so, and Miss
Saltus made them up. I should not depend on
what Mrs. Johnson Smith said, for she always
makes it out that her things cost more than anybody
else's; but I can rely on Miss Saltus.”

“Well, if that's the case, take the blue and
fawn. I hope I can afford what Johnson Smith
can; but mind and make your bargain with that
Saltus woman before hand; work is slack just now,
and she can't afford to lie by with that old blind
mother on her hands. Get your work done as
well and as cheap as you can; for, remember, we

must avoid all unnecessary expenses. But what
keeps the dinner, my dear?”

“I am sure I don't know, my dear; I have been
out making visits all the morning. Servants are
good for nothing now-a-days—always trifling away
their time.”

“What ails Sabina Jane? seems to me she does
nothing but bawl.”

Mrs. Finley opened the door to inquire, and in
rushed a pale little girl, with a bit of plum-cake in
her hand.

“Take care, Judy,” said the mother, picking up
the crumbs the child profusely scattered; “you
should not let Sabina Jane come into the parlour—
it's no place for children.”

“She would come, ma'am.”

“Oh, Sabina Jane, my darling, go back to the
nursery, that's a good child.”

“I won't, I won't!”

Mrs. Finley, in a low voice to the nurse—“Coax
her, Judy—tell her you'll take her out to walk.”

“I can't take her out, ma'am—my foot is lame.”

“Oh, only just tell her so, to pacify her. Stop,
Sabina Jane, and listen to mother; Sabina Jane
shall go out walking in Broadway, and have on her
pretty velvet cap, and her cloak, all trimmed with
pink—there, that's a good girl! now she'll go with
Judy. Get out her things, Judy—make her look
like a little beauty!”

The little dupe returned to the nursery, and in
two minutes was bawling louder than ever, having
been quieted just that time by her mother's precious
lesson in lying and vanity.