 | Biddy Woodhull, or, The pretty haymaker |  |
6. PART VI.
Morris' blooded bays dashed along the
turnpike towards Harlem, at a rate that soon
brought him to the stage-inn door. The red
headed Scotch estler, leaving a horse that he
was rubbing down, sprung to their heads,
while all the loafers that usually lounged in
the bar and about the door, crowded up to see
what had occasioned such a hurried arrival,
and to gaze at the foaming animals.
`Wull I gie them a cule sponging, sir?' asked
Jamie; `it's a warm day for sic fat cattle
to be on the road.'
`No, no! I shall not stop,' said Edward with
impatience, and looking angrily around upon
the crowd of loaters who stood staring at him
and his horses. `Were you here when the
Chester stage came in, ostler?' he asked him
in an under tone, `and did you notice a pretty
young woman in it?'
`I dinna aften tak notice o' bonny lassesi'
stage coaches, gude frien,' said Jamie, affecting
an indifferent tone. `What, now, would
ye be willin' to gi'e a body for the information?'
Morris could not help smiling at the Scotchman's
shrewdness, and handed him a quarter
of dollar. Jamie took `the siller' in his bonny
palm, tried it between his teeth, inspected
closely the stamp, and then, as if satisfied of
its currency, deliberately took from his pocket
the thumb of an old leather glove, and added
it to a small store of coin which it contained.
Then returning his treasure to the receptacle
from which he had drawn it forth, he looked
shrewdly yet coolly up into Edward's face,
and said in his characteristic dry tone—
`Sae, its a bonny lass yer'e speerin after,
maister?'
`Yes! did you notice one in the stage?'
`Perhaps I did. Had she black een!'
`Yes, very dark black eyes!'
`Was she aboot saxteen or thereaway?' interrogated
the deliberate Jamie.
`Yes I want to know if she continued on
with the stage, or got out here.'
`Had the lassie a wee bundle wi' her?'
`Yes—I dare say—yes;' at length replied
Edward, with an impatience to which the philosophical
Jamie was quite insensible.
`Well, then, I believe that I did see the
lass, mon! I mind her bonny black een, weel.
She woulkn't alight, but sat quiet i' the coach
`till Deck the coachmon changed the cattle.
I mind her weel, man.'
`Then she kept on to the city?' said Morris,
making a sign to John to start forward.
`As to hersel' keeyin' on to the ceety, I
wunna just answer to aver to ye,' replied Jamie,
stepping aside from the horses' heads, as
he saw John was about to move, `but she left
the inn, inside the coach, and doubtless kept
her seat 'till she got to the toon.'
Edward was twenty feet off as the last
words reached his ears, and moving at the rate
of twelve miles an hour towards town. Whoever
has had the happiness to drive a pair of
fast trotting horses on that delightful pleasure
course, the Third Avenue, will easily form an
having an object so important in view, was
whirling over it towards the city. If his
horses did not fling the miles behind them
`like paving-stones, as his Irish ostler promised
they would, they seemed to fly over them
with winged hoofs! At length they approached
the great city with its hundred graceful
spires, towers and gothic turrets, and soon afterwards
turned from the avenue into that
great artery of the city, the thronged and
noisy Bowery. It now, for the first time, occurred
to Morris that he had, in his impatience
to proceed, neglected to inquire at Harlem,
where the West Chester stage put up. This
he now felt was very important for him to
know, and from that point his search for the
lovely runaway was to commence.
`John,' he said abruptly, as his servant
guided the horses along the intricated and devious
passages formed by the numerous vehicles
moving in every direction.
`Sir,' answered John, touching his hat with
his whip hand.
`Stop at the first stage office where I can
inquire where the West Chester stage puts
out its passengers.'
`Oh, I can tell you that, sir,' said John,
who, until they reached Fordham, had wondered
what had caused his master to start so
suddenly for town; and who, since he had
learned his object by his inquiries, had been
puzzled to learn why the moral and staid young
Edward Morris should be thus openly engaged
in pursuit of a young girl `with a bundle.'
Morris, however, had not seen fit to make
John his confidant, and so the valet continued
in his mystification, though with a very natural
curiosity to know in what his extraordinary
pursuit was likely to terminate. `It's
No. 21, Bowery, sir,' added John.
`Then drive thither without delay,' said
Morris, his mind very much relieved.
What with the detentions caused by omnibusses
and rail-cars, it seemed a long time to
the impatient young lover before John at
length drew up before a low, straw-colored
wooden building, just below the theatre on the
east side of the way, with `No. 21, Bowery,'
painted in large letters on the front. An awning
stretched over the sidewalk, and beneath
it, round a door leading into a bar-room, sat
several loungers and loafers, and idle stage-drivers.
Edward's dashing equipage and fine
horses instantly drew the attention of two or
three of the latter, and they got up to look at
it with professional admiration and curiosity.
Without heeding them, Edward sprang out,
and entered the low bar-room which was also
used as a stage-office. Two or three women
and an old farmer were seated there, waiting
for stages. He glanced round upon them as
he entered, as if he expected to see there the
object of his pursuit; while instantly his
thoughts revolted at the idea of finding her in
such a place. A stout man, with a `mine
host' like look, was writing on a scrap of paper
at a little desk behind the bar.
`Does the stage from West Chester County
stop here, sir?' he asked of this functionary.
The man neither lifted his eyes nor his pen,
and replied mechanically, `Yes.'
`Can you tell me, sir,' continued Edward,
whose own ardor of feeling was chilled by
this indifference to his solicitous inquiry, and
he spoke now with a respectful deference, that
he thought would draw a more civil reply
from the absorbed agent or landlord. The
man's ear was not insensible to the gentlemanly
tone of his voice, and looked up, and
seeing Morris, laid down his pen, and said with
an apologetic smile—
`Beg, pardon, sir, what did you wish!'
`Can you tell me if a young person—that
is, a young lady, came in the Chester stage
this morning?'
`Well, I cant, as I was to breakfast when
Dick Sharwood got in; but I can see Dick,
and let you know, sir.'
`I'm sorry to put you to any trouble, sir.'
`Oh, none at all, sir! Dick's just at the
door. Ho, there, boys, is Chester Dick there.'
he hallooed to those on the side-walk, looking
at, and commenting upon Edward's horses.
`What's that, Mister Corney?' officiously
asked a ragged fellow with a watery eye, a
round rubicund face, and one of those good-natured
smiles one often sees on the features
of those wrecked whole-soul'd fellows, who
have been ruined by such `devilish good hearted
chaps.' It was Tom Conklin, who had a
heart like a baby, and would drink with any
body that would kindly ask him. Tom had a
sort of tenancy for life, of the bar-room by
day, and a bed in the stable at night, through
the summer months; but in winter, he sought
the shelter of the almshouse. Tom was always
about the door, and always contrived,
when any one came in to drink, to say a civil
word to him, tell him that `his pocket ha'kerchief
was out, and the boys might pick it,' or
that he might lose `that paper in his waist-coat
pocket;' or he would see, or pretend to
see a little flour or dust on the comer-in's coat
behind, and offering to brush it off. So, as
men who go to bars to drink, always prefer
drinking with somebody than drinking alone;
poor Tom Conklin got many an invitation between
sunrise and sunset. Thus Tom got
along with the drinking part of his living;
and by keeping on good terms with the cooks
of one or two taverns near by, he got a plate
now and then, of cold meat and bread. Tom,
however, was always obliging, and ready to
do any service for any body that needed it!
bring a pitcher of water for the bar, clean the
`agents' boots; get the milk from the yelling
milkman, and bring it to the maid in the door,
and other such little matters. Sometimes he
would hold a horse, or do some other service
for a gentleman, and get money instead of
rum. But Tom was one of those `whole
souls,' and he bad a great deal rather have
had a drink with, and from the one he served,
than the money; for he loved social feeling,
to which, alas, for poor Tom, he had become
the pitiable victim! Tom had twenty thousand
dollars left him at twenty-one, and what
with his `social feelings' and dissipated associates,
he had not a dollar left at twenty-five.
was. Poor Tom! poor devil! equally to be
despised and pitied, would that thou wert alone
in thy sad and degraded estate.
`Vot's vanted, Mister Corney?' asked Tom,
who, on seeing Edward enter the office, had
followed him. `Can I do any thing for you,
sir?' he added, touching his ragged beaver,
and smiling insinuatingly.
Edward glanced at him with an emotion of
pain and commisseration, as he replied, `No,
poor fellow.'
`I am a poor fellow, that's a pos', mister,'
said Tom, with his best-humored smile, `a
d—n poor fellow. S'p'ose we take a drink,
coz I likes your looks. I knows vot a gent'leman
is, havin' been one myself, you see; but
it's a d—n loafer I've got to be now. But
happy go lucky! Vot'll you drink, master?
`I never take any thing quite so early,' said
Edward, with a smile of pity.
`I don't keep no watch, now, and liquor is
liquor at all sorts o'clock. I likes it vedever
I can get it. Come, let's take a little som'at
for old acquaintance.'
`I don't recollect that I ever saw you before,'
said Morris, staring.
`That's nothin' here nor there. God put
us all into this world strangers to one another,
for us all to make each other's acquaintance.
Come, Mr. Corney, hand down the `canter.'
`Don't pester the gentleman, Tom. You
know you can't pay if he would condescend
to drink.'
`Pay! Think I'd drink with a gen'leman
and he'd let me pay?' The Gen'leman will
not let me pay if I axes him to drink.'
`Is Dick Sherwook out there, Tom?' asked
the agent.
`No, he's jiss gone home.'
`Did you see the stage stop here?'
`Yes. But now, Corney, if you want to
pump me,' said Tom, humorously, `put some
liquor into me first, or I'm d—d if the pump
won't suck.'
The bar-keeper laughingly poured him out
a dram, which Tom took off after nodding
and touching his hat to Morris, who, from a
fixed principle which it is to be regretted did
not more generally influence gentlemen in
such cases, resolved not to pay for any thing
for him to drink. Doubtless Tom thought
him only half-souled, and the bar-keeper, avaricious,
if not mean.
`Well, that's good liquor. Yes, I seed
Dick when he druv up to the curb-stone.'
`Did all the passengers get out here?' asked
Edward, eagerly.
Tom squinted at him out of one corner of
his eye as much as to say, `No go, young un.
You don't come the catechism over Tom
Conklin.' Edward very quickly understood
him, and placed a douceur in his hand, that
produced a magic effect upon Tom's aspect.
`That's the right tongue-oil, master!' said
Tom, sticking it in his mouth for want of a
sound pocket:
`Now fire away.'
`Was there a young lady got out here!'
`I seed a young vooman as vould ha' been
a lady if as how she hadn't a bundle,' said
Tom.
`That is the one. Where did she go?'
`I seed Dick tell a niggar to take her bundle,
and show her some place she wanted to
find.'
`Did you learn what place:'
`No, but I guess Dick could tell.'
`And she went with the negro?'
`Not cozactly with him, coz he went ahead
and she behind,' replied Tom, with a gravity
that made Morris smile notwithstanding his
anxiety to discover his pretty hay-maker.
`What direction did she take?'
`Down Bowery.'
`Where is this driver to be found sir,' inquired
Edward of the bar-keeper.
`At his house, I expect, but I don't know
where it is.'
`I knows, sir,' said Tom, `if the gentleman
'll follow me. It's number five, Bayard St.
—a ricketty wooden house, with the up-stairs
all tumbling down stairs, that would a been
burned up long ago, if the fire had not been
ashamed to be seen burnin' sich a hedifice.'
`Thank you,' said Edward, leaving the bar
room; and hastily crossing the side-walk, he
sprung into his buggy, and bade John drive
down to Bayard Street, which was the next
corner.
`There goes a rum un,' said one of the
stage-drivers! `he thinks horseflesh is made
o'ingy rubber and whalebone. I never see
horses druv that devil-behind-catch-me way!
It makes me mad to see good animals abused
so, jist for a fellow with a strait coat and kid
gloves!'
`He's got som'at to drive for,' said Tom,
making his appearance. `He's after a young
vooman as is run avay, I reckon, and come to
town in Dick's coach.'
`I saw the girl, and a fine pretty one she
was, too,' said another of the men; `and she
was poor, too, I guess, for Dick gave a niggar
a sixpence for showing her some place she
was after.'
`Them horses is worth all the young women
in York,' said the first stage-driver; `I
wouldn't drive 'em so for any on 'em, I'll be
blest!'
`Not even for Jane Bailey, Barney,' said
Tom, winking round.
Barney's red face looked more crimson still
and he levelled a blow of his whip at Tom's
head amid the laughter of his companions.
But Tom dodged it from long practice, and it
descended obliquely, with all its force, upon
the shins of the rascally negro who had guided
Biddy to the Intelligence office. He set
up a yell of pain and danced round on the
side-walk, for a few seconds, as if he had stepped
in boiling water.
`Keep it up, darkey! that's y'er sort! jump
Jim Crow,' cried Tom, with delight, as much
at his own escape as at the other's suffering
and antics. `When you get tired, nig, come
in and take a drink! D—n me if I'm ashamed
to drink with a niggar who's prove so good a
friend, if he is black! I'm no abolitionist
though! Come along, Cuffee! I've got the
dram? Hullo, boys, come along! I've got a
quarter, and so let's have a treat all round!
Hang the expense! What's money for, if it
a'nt to spend. Come, boys, step up, and let
Tom Conklin treat?'
Scarcely one present declined the invitation
to drink, and so Morris' generosity contributed
to the inebriation of half a dozen, instead
of one, as would have been its limit,
had he paid for a drink for Tom, which he
would have been as well satisfied with as with
the quarter. But this does not affect the
principle by which he was governed. In one
instance, though the evil would have been
less, he would have been morally culpable:
in the other, though the evil was greater, he
was blameless! Uprightness and integrity of
principle and action, are always safest; the
effects must be left to themselves.
Passengers in the street, and neighbors from
the opposite window, gazed with surprise and
curiosity to see a handsome equipage, with a
man in livery, draw up in Bayard Street, before
No. 5, and a fashionable young gentleman
alight, and survey, with some hesitation,
the premises, previous to entering them.
Tom's description of the old wooded cluster
of houses was not exaggerated; and those
who have seen them, will not think it surprizing
Edward should pause. They were an
old wooden row, black, and out of repair, with
broken steps and windows, and inhabited,
seemingly, by a dozen tenants. At No. 5,
which was about the midst of the buildings,
was a sort of stoop, over which hung a dirty
sign, with a boot painted on it.
`Is this the house of Mr. Sherwood, the
stage-driver?' asked Edward of a woman,
sitting with a child on her lap, in one of two
doors which seemed equally to lay claim to
No. 5.
`No, yer honor,' she screamed; `it's number
fave he lives, the nix' door up stair! Go
right up them little steps on the stoop, yer
honor, and thin ye'll see the stair right afore
ye! Is't washin' doon ye want?'
`No,' said Edward, and turned to obey her
direction; but the stairs before him were so
one-sided, that he hesitated to ascend them,
and he knocked on the wainscot with his
knuckles. A little girl, cleanly and neatly
dressed, came to the head of the stairs, and
he asked her if Mr. Sherwood lived there.
`Yes, sir. Papa,' she called, `here's somebody
come to see you.'
`Ask him to come up,' answered the voice
of honest Dick, as if his mouth was full of his
breakfast; `tell 'em to mind and not break
their necks on the stairs!'
Edward thought the caution was very
necessary, and carefully ascended to the
landing, when, through an open door, he saw
the stage-driver seated at his breakfast. He
stopped in doubt, whether to advance or not,
when Dick, turning round, and seeing him,
instantly got up from the table, while his wife
bustled about for a chair.
`Oh, sir, I beg pardon; I thought it some
of the boys from 21. Walk in, sir. It's a
poor place for a gentleman to come into—but
it's the best I can afford these hard times, sir.
These railroads and steamboats destroy the
poor coachman, sir! Please to sit down.
Wife, dust the chair for the gentleman!'
Edward entered the room, which was neat,
and better furnished than the outward appearance
of the house promised, and took a
chair, which the tidy Mrs. Sherwood wiped
out for him with her check apron.
`I fear I am an intruder,' said Morris, `but
I called to ask about a young woman, who
came down from the country in the stage this
morning.'
Oh, yes! Wife and I was just this minute
talking about her! Didn't I tell you, wife,
how I thought after she left the stage, she was
a respectable young person, as run away from
her home—she was so pretty and lady-like!
You know'd her, sir?'
`Can you tell me any thing about her?'
asked Morris eagerly.
`Well, all I know, sir, is, that seeing as how
she was alone, and a stranger like in the city
and being so gentle and pleasant, I took a
liking to her, and asked her where she wanted
to go, and she said to some Intelligence
office!'
`Good Heaven! I may be too late!' exclaimed
Edward with a sudden energy, that
surprized them.
`She is your relation, sir, perhaps,' ventured
Sherwood.
`No—but I feel an interest in her welfare.'
`So would any body, I'm sure, sir.'
`What Intelligence office did she go to?'
`I can't tell that, as I couldn't go with her
myself, as I would ha' liked to, she was sich a
young and innocent thing, and so paid a nigger
to show her one as she, poor thing, hadn't
any money but a short shillin', which I
wouldn't take from her. She paid me four
ten cent-pieces, instead of half a dollar, but
then I'll gladly make this up to the company,
out o' my own pocket.'
`You are very kind, sir,' said Morris, with
grateful emotion. `She—that is, I—will yet
remember your disinterested generosity. Can
you give me no clue to find where she went.'
`I can if I see that niggar, Jim Johnson,
that went with her, and carried her bundle for
her.'
`Could you not find him sir? Think! I will
amply reward your trouble.'
`I don't want to be paid, sir; I'd do any
thing for her I thought would benefit her.
Sam is always loafin' about the stage office,
sir, when he han't money: but just as sure as
he gets a sixpence, he streaks it off to Fve
Points to spree it out! I'll go up with you,
sir, to Twenty-one, and see if he is about
there. If I can find him, you can easily find
out where she is!'
`I am very sorry, sir, to interrupt your
breakfast,' said Edward: `but if you will go
up there with me, I will make it worth your
while.'
`I don't mind the trouble, sir, for I'd like to
have the young woman found, and better
taken care of than with her pretty face she
Betty, wife, just put my breakfast to the fire;
I'll be back in a quarter of an hour. Come,
sir, I will go with you, and if Jim's to be
found, I'll find him.'
Morris thanked him for his readiness, while
he felt grateful to him for the honest and kindhearted
interest he took in the lovely fugitive,
who, as he learned more and more of her
trials, grew more and more dear to him.
`John, you may drive back to No. 21,' he
said, as he regained the street; `I will walk
there with you, Mr. Sherwood.'
When Dick saw the fine establishment in
which our hero drove to his dwelling, and
saw with a practiced eye the blood of the
horses, he, insensibly to himself, showed more
alacrity to serve him. Dick liked a good
horse, and from the animal, always felt disposed
to transfer his admiration to the owner
`Sam Johnson, however, was not to be
found about the stage office, nor in the precincts.
He had left, Tom Conklin said, after
his drink, and taken the direction towards
Chatham Street.
`He's gone to the Five Points, sir,' said
Dick; `but if you was willing to go there,
you might as well expect to find a fat horse
in an omnibus, as find Sam, once he gets into
them dark holes there.'
`I would willingly drive there, and make
the search,' said Morris, with a look of disappointment.
`No, I'll tell you the best course to take,'
said Dick, brightening up at the idea; `I
know the niggar is too lazy to go far for an
Intelligence office, if he could find one near:
besides, I know he wa'n't long afore he came
back to me for the sixpence I promised to give
him, if he took the young woman safely to
one. So I think the best way'll be to go to
the nearest one, and so on, 'till you find the
right one. This can be sooner done than
finding the nigger.'
`You are right, my good friend, said Morris.
`I will do so.'
`You'll find a directory in the office, sir,'
said Dick, `and it'll show you the number
and street of all the 'telligence offices. Look
for them as is in the Chatham Street direction,
for that's the course Jim took her. Perhaps
she may have gone to the `benevolent office,
in Broadway, near Canal.'
In a few minutes, Edward had pencilled
down in his pocket-book the number of a
dozen offices, and returned to his buggy.
`I thank you for your kindness,' he said to
Sherwood, who stood patting the off horse on
the neck; `do me the favor to accept this,'
and he thrust a five dollar note into his hand.
`No, I am obliged to you, sir,' said Dick,
bluntly; `I never likes to be paid for doing
any body sich a service as this; I'd rather
you'd give me a good hearty shake o' the
hand, if it's the same to you.
`I'll do both,' said Edward, laughing, and
grasping his hand. `Good bye! I'll not forget
you, though, for all that.'
Thus speaking, he got into his buggy, bade
John drive first through Walker Street to the
office founded by a benevolent society to assist,
gratuitously, servants to situations.—
On alighting before the door, which was
thronged with persons of both sexes, who
looked at him, as he entered the crowded
room, anxiously, as if he might have come
for one of themselves. An old, benevolent
gentleman, with rough kind manners, presided
at the little desk, like the patliarch of the
varied throng.
`Sir,' said Edward, `is there a young woman
here by the name of Woodhull, who came
to town in the morning stage?'
`Woodhull?' said the old gentleman, looking
round, and then lifting up his voice so as
to reach into the farther of the two rooms into
which his office was divided; `is there a
young woman here by the name of Woodhull?
What's her other name, sir!'
`Biddy or Bridget,' answered Morris with
embarrassment.
`Bridget Woodhull, answer to your name?'
added the old man.
There was a deep silence provailed through
the office, and Edward began to despair!
There was, at least, fifty females, of all ages
and varieties of appearance, seated on benches
along the sides of both rooms; perhaps
Biddy might be there, and afraid or ashamed
to answer to her real name.
`Shall I look through the office, sir?' he
asked.
`Oh, yes, to be sure! Take off your veils,
and show your faces, all you that have honest
ones,' said the old gentleman, smiling; `this
person wants to see if any of you an't Bridget
Woodhull. Edward walked through the
rooms, and gave a hasty glance at each countenance,
some of them smiling, some cross,
others saucy, and others anxious and expecting,
but he saw no one there that looked like
the pretty hay-maker.
`Should such a person call here,' he said to
the director, `I would be obliged to you to
send me word, and detain her. Here is my
address.'
`Certainly, Mr. Morris; I will do so. Are
you a subscriber?'
`Subsbriber?'
`Yes, to the society. Every subscriber can
have the choice of servants 'till they are suited
for a whole year, without additional expense;
and all warranted good and faithful
domestics.'
`Oh, yes, I understand you! but I don't
wan't a servant just now.'
`Oh, very well—if you take this Bridget,
of course you'll subscribe?'
`Certainly, sir, in that case,' said Morris,
confused. `Good morning, sir.'
`Good morning, Mr. Morris; I will look
for her. Do you want her for a nurse, or
chambermaid?'
`Confound the old fellow,' exclaimed Morris,
getting into his buggy, with a heightened
cheek! `Am I really in love with, and in
pursuit of a possible chambermaid! Well, I
will not stop to think about it—for I feel afraid
of reflection upon my present pursuit! I must
fulfil my destiny, and since it is that this
See her—find her I must!'
`Where shall I drive now, sir?' asked
John, with a covert smile, which the sensitive
young man instantly understood; he hesitated,
colored, and then said sharply—
`To the stables, and put up your horses;
but be ready to leave town at any moment,
I will walk the rest of the way I have to go.'
With these words, Morris sprung to the
ground, and John drove alone off in the direction
of Crosby Street. `And am I really
engaged in a pursuit that I am ashamed to
confess to my valet?' he asked of himself, as
his horses turned down Grand Street. I will
persevere, however. If she be all my memory
and dreams have made her, she is well
worthy all my efforts to rescue her. She is
lovely, spirited, and all innocence! I will
not delay another moment, but seek her
through every Intelligence office in town, but
what I will find her!' With this generous determination
he proceeded down Broadway to
Walker Street, and stopped at a neat little
office with No. 68 over the door. A young
pleasant smiling man, of genteel appearance,
stood at the desk, laughing and talking with
a fine looking English girl, while three or
four others were seated. Every eye was upon
him, and the girls put on their best looks;
while the one with whom the office-keeper had
been conversing perhaps to while away the
time, wreathed her face in her finest smile, to
attract Edward's regard, as if she meant to
get a place through the recommendation of
her good looks. Edward, however, paid no
attention to her; but slightly glancing round
the office, and not seeing her whom he sought,
turned and asked the gentleman at the desk,
if she had been there.
`No, there has been no such person here,
sir,' said Mr. Scudderford, politely, and with
a look as if trying to recollect.
`I would thank you, if such a young woman
should come, you would instantly send
me word,' he said, giving his address to him.
`I will certainly do so,' said the obliging
proprietor, and Edward left the office.
After visiting three other intelligence offices
with equal success, he believed he should
have to give up the present pursuit of her,
and go in pursuit, with Dick Sherwood's assistance
to recognize him, of the negro, Jim
Johnson. While deliberating whether to take
this step or not, he looked at his list, and
found that there were but two more offices
to be visited. One of these was in so obscure
and disreputable a street, that although it was
not far from where he then was, he thought
impossible, and shuddered at the idea that she
could have gone there; the other was in a
more respecatble portion of the city. `It is
possible,' he thought to himself, `that a negro
who frequents the Five Points, would,
from congenial taste, guide a person to this
low place, rather than to the more respectable
one. I will try there! Am I indeed in my
senses? Am I Edward Morris in person—to
be seeking through the purlieus of infamy
for a girl, whom I have seen but twice, with
the intention, if I find her, of making her my
wife! I will suppress thought and act, and
leave the issue to time, and the result of my
research.'
He now entered this street, disgusted with
the filth and the squalid poverty and unkennelled
vice of the occupants of its hundred
cellars and miserable chambers. At length
he saw, before him the flashy tenement of
Beal Tucker, with the sign of Intelligence
office, swinging above the door, the
first sight of which, two hours before, had
filled Biddy's thoughts with instant hopes of
`places' So long had Morris been engaged
in his indefatigable search, that it was already
nearly two o'clock, when he finally came to
this office. Beal Tucker had, but ten minutes
before despatched Biddy from his room, up
stairs, to Chamber Street, with her ragged,
freckled, saucy little rascal of a guide. He
had eaten his dinner, and already re-opening
his shop, where, however, but two or three
girls had appeared, who had not been there in
the morning, and so did not hear him say
he should not be open 'till two. But Beal
had succeeded in his little business affair with
Mr. Fitz Henry Barton, sooner, and more
successfully than he had anticipated he should
do before he left his office to call on that interesting
young gentleman. He was now shut
up in his latticed desk or `counting room,' as
he dignified it, engaged, alternately, in thinking
on his fifty dollars in esse, and anticipating
his fifty, perhaps hundred and fifty, in
posse.
`Good day's job!' he said rubbing his hands
together. `Ah, here's a customer. Not a
family man, I see, by his looks. He don't
want any women folks. Don't look as if he
wanted a mistress, neither, he, he, he. Perhaps
he wants a man servant! Sir, your most
obedient! Fine day, sir!' he said as Morris
entered the low room.
`Yes,' said Morris, coldly and haughtily, at
once taking a decided dislike to him.
Beal wasn't much gratified by his manner,
and his heart recipocated Morris' antipathy.
The causes of impulsive dislike between strangers,
a first sight, is a theme that deserves to
enlist the ablest writer on metaphysicial philosophy.
Swedenbourg, we believe, has accounted
for every emotion and impulse of the
human mind but this. Is it connected, remotely,
with animal magnetism. Will Mr
Dawes or Doctor Collier answer? There
might have been some secret spring upon
which the sympathies of their knowledge of
Biddy—the one for evil, the other for good,
met on common ground. But we stop, for
we feel we are encroaching upon the mystic
regions of transcendentalism obscurity.
`Can you tell me?' asked Edward, with
as much grace of speech as his dislike for Mr.
Tucker would let him use, `if a young woman,
calling herself Bridget Woodhull, has
been here to-day, seeking a place!'
Instantly Beal Tucker's keener faculties
were set, for he felt he had a part to
Edward's appearance, and the gravity pw
which he made the inquiry, showed him that
if he was not already, her honorable protector.
Perhaps a cousin, or some poor distant
relation, thought he. Perhaps a real young
lady disguised! A hundred surmises ran
through his active mind in the interval between
Morris' question, and his reply; but
his determination to conceal his knowledge
of Biddy, remained firm as it had been instant
in its formation.
`Biddy Woodhull,' he repeated in a doubtful
tone, looking round his office, and seeing
that those present had not seen her when she
was there, `let me see, I think there was
some such person here yesterday.'
`No, to-day. sir.'
`Oh, to-day. Well, perhaps it was to-day!
I'll look at my books and see:' And the cool
and studied hypocrite turned over the leaves
of his books of entries, and seemed to be
thoughtfully humming down the list of names,
at intervals repeating, `Biddy—Biddy!—
Woodhull—Woodhull!' At length he stopped,
making a place with his finger. `The
name is Woodhull, you said, I believe?'
Edward's heart was in his mouth! he believed
he had now found her! Beal Tucker
meant he should believe so! his looks, manners,
and tone, as he put the question, were
intended for deception! `Yes,' gasped Edward
`Ah, then this can't be it! this is Woodford—Betty
Woodford,' said Beal, with a quiet,
malicious smile, as he shut the book which
contained no such name as he had represented.
He saw from Edward's change of countenance,
how deep had been the disappointment
to the hopes he had raised, and he felt
very happy—for another's misery always was
gratifying to Beal, especialy if he himself was
in any way instrumental in producing it. His
sagacious penetration gave him also a pretty
correct clue to Morris' anxiety to find her!
but his own impure nature led him to do
injustice in his suspicions to the purity of
Morris' intentions! Yet if Morris had offered
him down two hundred dollars, to find
Biddy, he would have betrayed Barton, and
produced her, if he could have done so without
implicating himself in the previous villanous
transaction in which the two had been
mutually engaged.
Morris was turning to leave the office,
when his eye glanced through the lattice upon
a card carelessly laving upon the desk.
On it he saw written, `Bridget Woodhull.'
There were other words beneath, which he
could not read at a glance.
`By heaven, sir, there is the very name!'
he cried, fixing upon Beal a look of angry
suspicion.
Beal Tucker had seen his eye fall on the
name he had taken down, and instantly,
though quietly took up the card, lest he should
also read read the minutes below: viz. `West
Chester County—aged about sixteen—very
beautiful—with black eyes and hair—never
in the city before, and never lived out!
`Biddy Woodhull, I think it was. you asked
me for, sir?' said Beal, coolly, tearing in
pieces the card which he had forgotten to
take with him to Barton.
`Biddy and Bridget both are one and the
same name,' answered Morris, warmly.
`If you wish, then, for a Bridget Woodhull,
why that is a different matter aliogether,
sir! Gentlemen should be accurate when
they inquire for dames!'
Morris felt like knocking him down, but he
restrained the impulse, knowing that he had
to do with a elever villain, and that he could
only effect his ultimate object by being calm.
`Can you then tell me any thing about
Bridget Woodhull, whose name you had taken
down on that card?' he demanded.
`Why there was a young woman who gave
me the name you mention, to get her a place,
some time this forenoon, but as she had no
money, I did not enter her name in my books
'till she could bring money to pay me. My
price, sir, is half a dollar in advance. So after
sitting here awhile, she got up and went
away.'
Morris looked at Beal Tucker earnestly
while he spoke, and his voice was even, and
his face without any particularly marked expression
of deceit, and as the story he told was
plausible, he could not but give credit to it.
He now became distressed at her probable fate.
He then prepared to quit the office, but turned
back to say he would give him ten dollars,
if he could obtain any intelligence of her
Beal smiled, for ten dollars was not one hundred.
Morris then bade him good-day, and
was going out, when a ragged little imp, who
had been waiting on the doorstep for some
time for Beal to get through with Morris, now
came in impatient of his delay, and said in his
coarse sancy manner—
`I say, Beal Tucker, I have seen your young
miss to Chamber street. I know'd the figurs
soon as I seed 'em! Numb—'
`Hu-s-s-sh!' said Beal, menacingly, and
glancing at Morris, who was in the act of
going out.
`Sh! I'm hanged if I'll Sh!' said the boy
impatiently. `I axed the girl to fork over a
shillin' and the critter said she hadn't a red
cent. Now fork over old 'un!' and the boy
thrust his dirty paw through the slats of the
desk.
`If you don't hold your tongue, I'll give
you nothing,' alarmed lest in some way Morris
should discover the identity of the person
the boy had guided, with Biddy Woodhull.
Morris, however, saw in the boy's entrance
and language, nothing that could lead him to
suspect him in any way linked in the puzzling
chain that intervened between him and
her, and only glancing at the boy, he passed
out, with a heart shrinking with disappointment,
and without possessing any further
probable clue to her discovery. He slowly
took his way up the street, looking into every
face he met, with faint and dreary hope of
possibly seeing that he so ardently and passionately
sought.
`I won't take less than a shillin' ' said the
boy, as Beal handed him a five cent piece'
`Come, old Tucker, out with your dust!'
`I'll kick you into the street if you ask me
for more,' said Beal, between anger and avarice.
`I guess you won't,' said the boy, decidedly.
`Come pony up.'
`Get out o' my office,' roared Beal, taking
a rattan, and shaking it at the boy.
`I say, Beal Tucker,' said the boy, not at
all intimidated, `I know a thing or two,' and
he put his thumb to his nose, and made a rapid
and significant movement with the fingers of
his open hand.
`Know, what do you know, you young rascal?'
asked Beal, his voice falling.
`That gemman wan't in here for nothing, I
guess,' answered the boy, mysteriously.
`Here, my lad, here's a sixpense for you,'
said Beal, coaxingly.
`I doesn't take less than a quarter,' said the
boy. `I axes the extra shillin' for being called
a rascal. I always axes a shillin' for that.'
`A quarter! you young scoundrel, I'll flog
you.'
`Well, if you won't pay me for the gal, I
know who will; if he'd give you ten dollars
to know where she is, he'd give it to me, I
reckon. I heard all your talk afore I come
in.'
`Hush, boy!' said Beal becoming pale.
`Look here! there's a quarter now—and two
cents more to it. Take it and go. You don't
think the young woman he was asking for,
that one you showed into Chamber street, do
you?' said Beal, trying to laugh.
`I doesn't think it, but I knows it,' said the
boy, stoutly. `I read her name on her pocket
handkercher what her bundle I carried was
tied up in.'
`The devil you did. Well, well, I didn't
want him to think it was the person, because
I know'd he was mighty anxious to see her,
and I knew he'd offer something. It was the
ten dollars I was waiting for, Bob. I'll get it,
you see, for I mean to send him word by and
by, and I'll give you half.'
`Oh, cricky!' said Bob, affecting to be
highly pleased, `I take!' But he saw with
the acute penetration characteristic of New
York boys of his class, at the bottom of Beal's
subterfuge at once. But wishing not to betray
to Beal that he was too deep for him, he
pretended that he was blinded, and pocketing
the money he went out of the office whistling
Jim-a-long-Josey.
`The infernal rascal!' said Beal, as Bob
went out of sight, `He like to have suspected
and he then would have made a pretty mess
of it! But I have galled him this time; lost
a twenty-two cents by it, for I didn't mean to
give the scamp more than five pence. I wonder
what the devil this young man wanted
with her? Not for the same purpose Barton
does, I am sure, for he looks like a different
sort of person. I should like his ten dollars;
but never mind; Barton has feathered my nest
soft enough for one day! Hush that jabber-jabber
there, girl! don't you see I'm thinking?'
And Beal Tucker resumed his thoughtful,
scheming attitude, with his hand on his forehead
and his elbow on his desk.
Edward Morris took his way at a slow, uncertain
pace along the street in which Beal
Tucker's Intelligence office stood, towards
Broadway. The more he reflected on the
conduct of Beal, the more convinced he became
that he knew more about Biddy than
he revealed. But the plausibility of the story
he told him, that she was without money,
and he wouldn't get a place for her 'till she
paid, recurred to his mind, and he became
undecided and perplexed. He was just
entering Broadway, his thoughts dwelling on
the sad and hopeless subject, when he felt his
sleeve pulled; looking round he saw and recognized
the same little freckled face urchin
that had entered the office and demanded a
sixpence of Beal as he was coming out of it.
`I say, mister, wan't you axing after a
young 'ooman down to Beal Tucker's 'telligence
office?'
`Yes, my man,' replied Morris, with a kindling
of hope. `Do you know anything about
her?'
`Don't be too quick, mister! What I knows
I knows, and knows how to keep, too!' answered
the boy with shrewd caution.
Edward placed in his hand half a dollar,
and at the same time asked eagerly, `Now
tell me what you know about her?'
`Wan't her name Biddy Woodhull?' asked
or rather asserted the lad.
`Yes; you know where she is to be found,
by your looks and manners.'
`So does Beal Tucker,' said the boy with
a grin, `for all he nam'd you off with a cock
and bull story.'
`Did he lie to me, then,' asked Morris,
with angry surprise.
`Like an auctioneer! You don't know
Beal Tucker I guess, mister.'
`But the young woman?'
`He knew all about her when you was
there, pumpin' him! There's` something
green in your eye, I reckon.'
`There's nothing green in yours, or about
you,' said Morris, laughing at the forwardness
of a boy hardly eleven years of age. What
motive could Mr. Tucker have in deceiving
me?'
`That's his own look out, not mine; you're
too hard for me there. But vot'll you give
me if I'll tell you where she is this blessed
minute?'
`Five dollars, if you will show me the
house, so that I can see her.'
`I'll show you the house, but as for seeing
the young 'ooman, vy you'll have to use your
own eyes, and not look to me for a pair. I
just came from showing her where she is,
where Beal Tucker told me to.'
`Good heavens! and it was for this service
that you came in and demanded a shilling
as I was leaving?' exclaimed Edward
with astonishment.
`Yes, and I made him fork out a quarter
and two red cents, coz I told him I know'd
what you were a'ter and I'd call on you and
make you pay for showin' the young 'ooman
the way.'
`Infamous villain! Show me instantly,
you five dollars,' said Edward, wondering
why the Intelligence office keeper should so
deceive him without any apparent motive for
so doing. Edward, however, had got to come
to the knowledge of one avenue of iniquitous
guilt in New York, of the existence and practice
of which he had not the remotest conception.
His suspicions, therefore, in the present
instance, though active, were wholly at
fault.
`Five dollars ain't enough, mister; give
me what you promised Beal Tucker and it's
done.'
`Ten dollars; well, I will give it to you.—
Conduct me at once, and you shall receive the
money at the door.'
`Half down is fair play,' said the boy, extending
his hand.
Morris placed a five dollar note in his hand
and then impetiently motioned him to proceed.
The boy looked sharply at the bill, as if he
could decide by his instinctive sharpness whether
it were a genuine note, and then apparently
satisfied, he thrust it into some unknown
region of his tattered garments, and
darted up the street into Broadway.
Morris followed him at a rapid pace along
the iron fence of the Park until they came to
Chambers street, down which the boy turned
looking round to see if he was in the track.
The sight of the street reminded him of his
relative, Barton, and he hesitated lest he might
possibly fall in with him, and he did not feel
in any mood for being stopped by any of his
acquaintances. He, however, followed the
boy down the street twenty or thirty numbers,
and as he approached Barton's rooms he
drew his cap over his brows and walked at a
quick step, that he might not be recognized.
But judge of his surprise when the boy suddenly
stopped at Barton's very door, and
pointing, with a jerk of his chin, at the number,
said—
`Here's the place, mister. I'd know the
figurs if I seed 'em in Jerusalem.'
Morris was thunderstruck. He stood transfixed
with surprise and incredulity. He looked
steadily and inquiringly at the boy, in
whose face was a sort of dogged certainty and
assurance of there being no mistake, that
convinced him there was none.
`And did you leave that young woman
here?' he asked in a deep, earnest and a severe
tone that made the boy shrink from it
and the gaze of his eyes.
`Yes, I did, sir, and I seed her go in after
I'd got to the head o' the street. She cooldn't
find the bell knob, and a man going by ringed
it for her.'
`And she went in, you are sure?'
`I seed her with my own eyes, to make
sure she was going to live there, cos I meant
to get that sixpence for carryin' her bundle
out on her some day, when she got flush.
There's a manty-maker lives there, Tucker
said.'
Morris was not a fool, though ignorant of
the numerous ways and means of villany and
vice. A moment's reflection, with the knowledge
he possessed of Barton's character, gave
him a full explanation of Beal Tucker's motive
in deceiving him.
`Yes,' he said to himself, `Barton has
made her his victim. Boy, here is you pay,'
he said giving him another note for five dollars;
now go.
The lad did not require to be told twice, and
bounded off in the possession of greater riches
than he had ever before been the honest
possessor of. Morris looked again at the
number lest he might have been mistaken.
It was that of Barton's house. He knew it
well, for he had often visited him, especially
before Barton had become so dissipated. Indeed
he had been so intimate as to hold a pass
key, both to his outer door and to his library.
Neither of these he had now with him. Once
the idea struck him that possibly Barton had
moved, and that a mantua-maker lived there.
But a glance at the windows, showed him
that Battons curlains still remained there.
There was then, no error, Biddy was decoyed
under the libertines roof.
`Yes, I will rescne or avenge her!' he said,
with determined energy, `Barton is a sconndrel!
and he shall die by my hand if he has
injured her!'
His first thought was to ring the bell, but
this he saw at once would defeat his purpose
of surprise, even if it should be answered.
He therefore sprung over the iron railing into
the area, to force open the basement door. To
his delight and surprise it was on the latch.
Fred having been too anxious to avail himself
of his permission to be absent to stop and
secure it. Entering the lower passage he
lightly and rapidly ascended the stairs. All
was silent on the first floor, but he heard the
quick, rapid movement of feet above him.
He flew up the other stairs, and as he did so,
heard a shrick, a crash, and then a fall, accompanied
by a loud cry, in a man's voice, of
mingled terror and pain! He sprung to the
upper landing with fearful foreboding. The
door of the library stood open torn from its
lock. He bounded forward into the room
and beheld a scene that filled him with amazement
and terrific surprise. In the middle of
the floor lay Barton prostrate on his back with
a huge ban-dog holding him fiercely by the
throat. He was pale as death, and struck
with mortal fear. Near the bed-room door
stood Biddy Woodhull, her hair dishevelled
and her kerehief torn from her neck.
Her attitude was one of mingled terror and
gratitude. Her dark eyes were flashing with
fire which streaming tears could not quench.
Her virgin bosom heaved with quick and
strong feeling; her whole beautiful person
was eloquent and instinct with indignation
and womanly emotion. How beautiful, how
touchingly beautiful she looked at that moment.
She instantly recognized him and uttered
a cry of joy. He rushed forward and
caught her in his arms, and then pressed her
to his heart!'
`Thank God you're safe!' he cried with
mingled indignation and gratitute.
`Yes, sir, said Biddy, whose full heart was
gushing through her eyes, `I am safe. Bruin
is my preserver. Oh! sir, heaven hath
sent you here as I was wishing you?'
`Wishing for me?' repeated Morris, with
delight; then you have not forgotten me!'
`Forgotten you?' she repeated with warmth,
`Oh no, sir!' and her face was suffused with
lovely confusion.
Mr. Fitz Henry Barton, the while, lay on
the floor upon his back, with Bruin's teeth
fastened in the delicate bow of his neckcloth,
much to the derangement of that exquisite
part of his costume. When Biddy fled from
him and found herself in the bathing room instead
of in an avenue of escape, she turned
back and encountered him in the chamber.
He threw his arms around her. She struggled
in vain, and uttered shriek on shriek.
Appalled by her outcries, Barton released her,
when she flew back into the library. He waited
an instant to restore his courage and confirm
himself in his purpose by a tumbler of
brandy, and then seized her as she had raised
the window and was springing out. She uttered
a piercing cry of despair, when suddenly
she heard it answered by Bruin's loud bark
on the outside of the door.
`Bruin! Bruin! Oh, Bruin!' she shrieked,
with difficulty as he laid his hand firmly
upon her mouth. The dog heard and answered
by fierce whines, and at length dashed
himself against the door with such strength
that he forced it from its bolt and bounded at
a leap into the midst of the room. With a
furious bark he sprang at once at the astonished
and horrified Barton's throat, who had Biddy
in his arms bearing her from the library.
He released her with a cry of terrible fear,
and fell, dragged bodily to the floor by the
huge mastiff. It was at this crisis that Edward
Morris made his appearance. Biddy
related all this to Edward in a few eloquent
words.
So soon as the prostrate roue could articulate,
he cried in an imploring tone,
`Oh, Morris! dear Morris! for the love of
heaven take off the dog! He will suffocate
me! he will! Oh, he will! I shall die of
strangulation!'
`Infamous scounnrel,' muttered Morris,
looking down upon him with pity and contempt.
`But, oh! I shall certainly die here! Do
good Miss Biddy, call off the dog! Oh! oh!
God—oh!'
Morris, seeing that he was really in danger
of being strangled by the revengeful animal,
and that he could speak with great difficulty,
and was rapidly turning black in the face, he
asked Biddy to call him away from him. The
dog instantly obeyed, and releasing his hold
came and licked her hand with mute affection.
Mr. Fitz Henry Barton got to his feet with
difficulty and staggered to an ottoman. Morris
looked at him a long time in stern silence.
At length he turned to Biddy, in whose little
heart indignation and terror had been displaced
by gratitude and love. Was it indeed the
noble young man whose image she had so
long cherished in her heart in whose presence
she now was. And did he really regard her
with tenderness. His looks, ay, and manners,
all told her the deep and tender interest
he took in her. He looked at with the deep
gaze of impassioned devotion into her dark
eyes, and said, while he pressed her hand,
`Sweet girl! this is a happy hour to me. I
heard of your flight from home, and have
been secking you all through the city. Heaven
has directed me hither to protect you and
to offer you my heart and fortnne. Say I am
not indifferent to you!'
`Oh, no, no! Indeed, sir, I have thought of
you every day since I saw you,' said she, artlessly.
`I think I care for nobody else in the
world but you. Indeed, sir, I never was so
happy in my life as I am now. I have wondered
very much where you were, that you
did not come to see me after that pleasrnt
hour beneath the apple tree.'
Edward's soul drank the words of her frank
and ingenuous confession, and he felt that he
was indeed loved.
A few words, by way of summary, will
close this tale. Morris took Biddy home to
his father's that day, and told the old gentleman
her history. He was deeply interested
in it, and took a decided fancy to her. She
remained there three days unknown to her
family, and then Morris, after being satisfied
of her pure attachment to him, sent her to
Madam Canda's fashionable boarding school,
under an assumed name, as he wished to keep
all knowledge of her from her mother and
sisters. At the end of two years, he took her
to his father's house and made her his wife.
Never lovelier bride stood beside an alter to
pledge her troth to him of her virgin hearts's
choice. This summer they have been to Saratoga
and the Falls; and every where the
lovely Mrs. Edward Morris has been the cynosure
of all eyes. The cross mother and
envious sisters heard that the beautiful young
lady at Woodburn about to be married to its
heir was Biddy. But they were not invited
to the wedding, nor would Edward allow his
wife to recognise any of the family except
honest old David Woodhull, her father, who
was at the wedding, in a new blue snit, presented
by Morris as a bridal gift. A chapter
might be written on the envy and mortification
of Biddy's mother and Miss Euphrosia.
Mr. Fitz Henry Barton left town the next day
after his disgrace for the White Sulpher, and
thence he went to Europe, from whence he
has recently returned with his hair growing
all over his face, after the Parisian fashion,
and with a great antipathy to dogs, which he
disrespectfully anathemizes as `demnition
brutes.' Beal Tucker fled to Texas to avoid
a prosecution with which Morris threatened
him.
Bruin, the faithful old ban-dog may be seen
any day in summer lounging at gentlemanly
leisure about the lawn and portico of Woodburn,
or in winter taking his comfort on the
hearth rug beside old Mr. Morris' foot-stool.
One of Morris' first acts, after sending Biddy
to Madame Canda's, was to call on honest
one of his farms near Fordham, rent free for
five years. Dick, has therefore, left the road
and taken to agriculture. He says he never
knew `four short bits' turn out so well in the
long run, and it is his favorite maxim, that a
man never loses any thing by being generous.
Tom Conklin was, until last week, still patronizing
No. 21, Bowery, with his presence, and
managing to keep just half and half through
the day. But last week one of the committee
of the Washington Temperance Union
got wind of Tom, and took him up to the
Temperance Hall. Tom was, therefore, suddenly
seized with a love of temperance and
signed his fist to the pledge. He has not
drank a drop since, and after his month's probation
is up he has the promise of being pro
moted to drive a cab—he has fixed on No. 179
as it has four wheels, and he thinks looks
more respectable. Jim Johnson is become
second boot-black to Peter Kobash, boot black.
No. Elebenteen, Jim Crow Alley. Freckled
Bob made his ten dollars, the capital for a
`root beer' speculation, and has made it so
profitable that he intends removing from his
present stand at the lamp-post opposite the
Astor, into a snug shop corner of Centre and
Duane, and increase his stock by confectionary,
pies, and apple tarts. Thus having disposed
of the several characters in our tale, after
the approved method recommeneed by
Mrs. Radcliffe, and adopted by the novelists,
we beg leave to subscribe ourselves, the reader's
very humble servant.
| Biddy Woodhull, or, The pretty haymaker | |