 | Biddy Woodhull, or, The pretty haymaker |  |
4. PART IV.
THE EXQUISITE.
About half an hour before Beal Tucker
dismissed his flock, and left his office, a young
gentleman opened his eye-lids, and looked
gapingly round a luxurious chamber, but half
lighted by the ray of noonday that streamed
in penciled lines of silver through the closed
shutters. After yawning thrice very loud, and
very long, like one who feels that he is master
of the premises, he turned himself slowly
over in his bed; he then, with an effort, raised
himself on his elbow, and showed a handsome
yet very pale and haggard face, as if he
had been at some late carousal the night previous.
He remained in this position, immoveable,
full five minutes, the while contorting
his flexible features into hideous and loathing
grimaces, and, at intervals, smacking his
parched palate as if he had a bad taste in his
mouth. At length he raised himself from his
elbow, and sat up in bed, letting his head fall
upon his breast, and his whole person droop
into a trist and depressed attitude. It was
Fitz Henry Barton, the morning after a `dem
fine spree.'
He sat for some time in this very penitent-looking
position, and at length made an exertion
to reach his watch from beneath his
pillow. He looked at the time by the faint
light admitted through the shutters, and said
in a weak tone, `Half past eleven—dem this
wine, I feel sick! Half past eleven! Frid!
Frid, I say!'
There was no answer, for his black servant,
Frederick, was holding a tete-a-tete out of the
library window, with the yellow chambermaid
in the chamber window of the next house.
`Frid! you dem Frid!' replied Mr. Fitz
Henry Barton in a louder key; but his voice
door.
After listening awhile, and finding he was
not heard, he slid down from the side of the
bed, crossed to the fire place, and gave the
bell a very fierce pull for such a quiet person
as he was. The jingling started the chambermaid
from the window, to put the forgotten
coverlid on her bed, and the valet from his, to
hasten to wait on his master.
`Wat in the devil deu you mean, Frid, by
not being in the way when I awake?' remonstrated
Mr. Fitz Henry Barton, in a nervous
tone of petulent anger. `Don't you know I
always want you by me when I wake?'
`Beg pardon, massa,' said the genteel valet,
opening one of the upper shutters, and hastening
to put his master's dressing gown upon
him; `I vas jis comin' vhen I hears massa
ring.'
`I tell you, Frid, you must always be at the
door; what can I do alone by myself, when
I wake up? It's dem unhandsome, in you,
Frid!' he said, in a complaining voice.
`I know it, massa.' said Frederick, with a
downcast look; `an' I promises neber gib offence
ebber no more.'
`Now see you don't, Frid, an' I'll maybe
forgive you this time! Where's my gin-cocktail?
Don't you know I am good for nothing
—just like a dem rag in the mornin', 'till I
get my gin-cock-tail? Don't you know that,
Frid!
`Yes, massa,' said Frederick, placing Mr.
Fitz Henry Barton's Indian moccasin's on his
feet, and then going towards a marble slab in
one corner of the room, on which stood empty
champaign bottles, glasses, decanters, etc.
There was also upon it a ready made gin-cock-tail,
which he placed on a silver salver
and brought it to his master. The sick and
miserable Barton seized hold of it with a nervous
hand, and putting it to his lips as a thirsty
man would a draught of fresh spring water,
drank off the strong and bitter tonic concocted
of gin, sugar, and `Sloughton,'
Those who have never dissipated at night,
and, in consequence, awakened late after it
the next morning, can know nothing of the
misery, bodily and mental, the victims of wine
parties suffer! Horror in mind, and depression
of body—fever of the brain, sickness at
heart, with the mind tortured by imaginary
fears of evil, that no mental effort can shake
off, make the situation of the walking debauchee
a foretaste of infernal torture! To drown
this horrid night-mare of the waking inebriate,
recourse is had to artificial stimulants to
create opposite sensations: and as, also, the
body is relaxed by its previous idulgence, its
tone and nerve must be restored by the same
means? It is this which makes intemperance
so difficult to care; for the debility and horrors
consequent on to-day's inebriation, must be
drowned by astrong potation the first moment
of waking on the morrow. So the drunkard
goes on. Till even stimulus ceases to act
upon the nervous and depressed system, and
he sinks into an early grave.
As none who have not experienced it, can
appreciate the misery of the first waking moments
of a man after a night's intemperance,
neither can any such form an idea of the magic
effect of a gin-cock-tail or a glass of bitters
in dissipating it. No sooner had Fitz Henry
Barton drank off, with many a wry mouth,
the restoring morning draught `Frid' had
mixed for him, than a change came over him
as instant as it was striking. His eyes, before
heavy and laden, lighted up, his white
lips became red, his pale check ruddy with
the hitherto stagnant blood, and his whole
person seemed to become animate and elastic
with new life and vigor. He looked no longer
the wretched and pitiable object he had
been a few minutes before; but his face wore
a buoyant air, and his voice, as he spoke, was
natural and firm, though something elated.
Such was the magic effect of a strong draught
on the debauchee! But the victim of it, in
quaffing it, had made compact for the through
out, with the demon of the intemperate: for
having given his spirits the pitch to which
health and sobriety keep those of temperate
men, he was under the necessity of keeping
them up to that point by successive potations
through the day, or fall again into that hell
of depression from which it had lifted him!
If Fitz Henry Barton could have had resolution
enough to encounter, and bear for a day
or two, the horrors with which he waked each
morning, he would soon have found that temperance
would give him that elasticity and
happiness of spirits which he now foolishly
sought for in successive potations of intoxicating
poison! The first day in a drunkard's reform,
is the great day of his trial! Perhaps
when the hour approaches in which the reformed
inebriate is accustomed to take his
dram, which he has resolved no more to touch,
it is the most miserable of his life! The first
dram given up, is the most effective blow to
the chain of his slavery. A drunkard resolutely
withstanding the temptation to drink
while the hour he is accustomed to indulge in
passing away, presents a moral spectacle that
angels may gaze upon with admiration and
astonishment. Such denial is God-like. The
human mind singly itself, can accomplish
nothing morrally greater! But we are not
writing an essay on intemperance!
Fitz Henry Barton was a new man now
that he had taken his bitters. Let it not be
be supposed from the forgoing remarks, that
he was an habitual drunkard! He was no
more so than a great many young men of his
rank, who yet hold their position in society.
He never was seen staggering in the streets,
unless by watchmen—but then he didn't care
for `Charlies.' No one ever saw him drunk
in Broadway! He could `carry a good deal,'
as the phrase is, and his systematic drinking
through the day, began to show its effects
only towards evening. And all gentlemen,
it was expected, would be a little lively after
dinner; particularly fashionable young men!
Oh, no; Mr. Fitz Henry Barton was no common
drunkard! Besides his gin-cock-tail on
rising, and a glass of wine bitters just before
breakfast, to give him an appetite, he never
he would chance to drop into the Astor or
Globe, where he always found some friends.
With them, in the course of an hour, he
would take a brandy sling, after a while,
a rum julap, and then, perhaps a gin sling.
He would then walk Broadway, and, possibly
in his way, stop in at the City Hotel, or the
Washington, and take another gin sling. As
the dinner hour approaches, say an hour before
it, he would take a gin-cock-tail to correct
his stomach, and half an hour afterwards
a `wine bitters;' a quarter of an hour before
dinner, he would take another with a `little
more bitters,' and a few moments before dining,
take a gin-cock-tail, made stiff with
`Stoughtons.' Such was Mr. Fitz Henry's
usual daily routine of drinking, for each glass
he took, craved its successive one, and he
changed his drinks as the different degrees of
depression of his spirits and system, made it
necessary. There are a great many `moderate
drinkers' like Fitz Henry Barton! At
dinner he never had any appetite, and loathed
his food. He could eat nothing without
vinegar upon it; his whole taste was vitiated
and palled. He would drink but little wine
at the table, for its taste was insipid to him,
compared with spirits, and when he dined at
home, alone, he always substituted brandy.
After dinner he always took a tumbler of stiff
brandy and water, and then drove out to
Burnham's, or on the avenue. Yet with all
this drinking, Fitz Henry Barton managed to
get along through each day, without exposing
himself in any marked way, but every night
he went to bed more or less drunk. He
could toe a line, so well he preserved his self-possession,
while walking home, but once in
his door and hid from the public eye, he would
stagger through the hall, and often have to be
carried to bed by his faithful `Frid.
`Well, Frid,' he said, in a cheerful tone,
as he now felt the bitters warming in his
veins, `what have you got for my breakfast,
hey, boy?'
`Omulet, nice ham, and coffee, Massa Barton,'
said Frid, placing his cravat and vest
beside him, and otherwise assisting him in his
toilet.
`I made him already,' said Frid, grinning.
`I know massa want him dis mornin'.'
`How did you know that, Frid?' asked his
master, arranging his chin, whiskers and mustache
before the mirror.
`I members well you always axes for black
tea de mornin's after you wommit in de hall.'
`Pah, beast! you make me sick! Yes, I
was ill last night, dem'd ill, Frid.'
`Any body'd know dat,' answered Frid.
`Did I totter—that is, did I stagger—from
weakness, I mean, Frid.'
`Yes, Massa Barton, e-yah, yah, yah! and
you took me for a watchman, and giv' me a
black eye.'
`Capital, ha, ha, hah; So I gave you a
black eye, Frid?' repeated Mr. Barton, laughing
immoderately, and evidently much gratified
at this feat. `Let me see, Frid!'
And the valet removed a handkerchief
which his master had not before noticed he
had tied over one eye, and displayed the swollen
member.
`Ha! excellent! Scientific! Neatly put.
Frid, eh? I have some science in my knuckels,
hey?'
`Werry scientifically done, Massa Barton,'
said the good natured Frid, covering his eye
again. `Now, massa, as you have made you
toilum, all but de boots and coat, please walk
into breakfast.'
With these words Frid opened a door, and
Mr. Fitz Henry Barton, wrapped in his Indian
dressing-gown, indolently rising from his velvet
arm-chair passed through, while he held
it open, into a small but elegant library. The
book-cases, and also one case of rare shells,
were of rose wood gilt; the books gorgeous
with gold and ornamental binding; the carpet
rich, and returning no sound to the footstep;
the ceiling beautifully painted in fresco,
by the inimitable pencil of a distinguished
fresco painter in New-York; and the sides
lined with crimson fantenils and low ottomans!
It was altogether a recherche apartment.
But Mr. Fitz Henry Barton was a
rich young man and loved such outward testimonials
of opulence. Near the centre of
the room, stood a small round breakfast table.
He threw himself into an arm chair beside it.
Frid handed him a paper, which he had opened
and dried for him, and then poured out his
black tea. Mr. Fitz Henry glanced with a
fashionable air over the columns of the paper,
and not seeing any thing that particularly
struck his fancy, threw it on the carpet with
a—
`Pshaw! the papers are losing all their wit:
Nobody used up this morning! no crimcons!
no interesting police reports! no pretty
gearls brought up! no run-a-way matches,
no seductions, no murder cases!'
Here Mr. Fitz Henry Barton took a slip
of black tea, and nibbled a bit of dry toast.
But he evidently ate because he felt nature
required it. He seemed to relish nothing.
Beside him stood his usual glass of wine-bitters
untouched. He looked at it two or three
times, as if he would stretch his hand for it,
but some association made his taste revolt,
and each time he turned from it with a loathing
`pah!'
`I don't know what's the matter with me.
Frid: I feel worse than usual;' and he placed
his delicate hand on his stomach. `Frid, I
think you may give me another cock-tail!'
`Yes, Massa, said Frid, hastening to obey.
`No, no, these dem cock-tails don't agree
with me this morning! Give me a wine glass
of pure gin, with a dash of marischino on the
top! I think that will do—I feel so faint
about the stomach! You did'nt make the
cock-tail strong enough.'
The truth was, that Mr. Fitz Henry Barton's
stomach began to crave something
stronger each day; spirit weakened with
water, could no longer continue to act upon
it. He felt this to be the case, and for the first
time in his life, resorted to clear spirits. He
drank off the fiery liquid which Frid handed
palate had gone off, he confessed to Frid that
he felt much better. `Very much better.'
`Yes, Frid,' he said with earnestness, `gin
and marischino is the thing! Its a drink for
a gentleman. Dem gin-cock-tails! What do
you drink, yourself, Frid?'
`I never drinks,' answered Frid.
`True, that is proper. None but gentleman
should drink. Ambrosia is for gods, and
gin for gentlemen! understand that Frid. It's
dem Latin I took it from! Has Jack Rawdon
been here to call on me, Frid?'
`No, massa.'
`Jack's a fine feller, Frid—a dem fine fellar.
He has no money but then I lend him,
and so he's always flush! I like Jack—devil
of a fellow among the gearls! Frid, give me
a segar!' Frid obeyed. `Regalias! None but
a gentleman should smoke Regalias! Bought
them at Anderson's! Dem pretty gearl there.
Frid! Jack Rawdon and I bet which should
run-away with her. I bought these segars
just to ask her to meet me. She smiled, and
when a dem woman smiles, I alwass takes it
yes, Frid. I went to the place in the Park,
and met, instead, her dem brother, a stout
handsome dem sailor feller. He set upon me
and would have whipped me but for my science,
Frid. I have kept away from Anderson's
since. Jack and I have found out seven
pretty gearls we mean to try and seduce.
It's ripe fun for us young bloods! Two of
them are milliner's apprentices; one of 'em
keeps in a confectionary store, and one is a
widow's daughter; the others, I believe, are
snug little chamber maids. There is another
I have in my eye, Frid, down in the country,
and if Ned Morris stays in Charleston much
longer, I'll drive down there, and run off with
her. Ned, you must know, has taken a shine
to her, and he's so dem'd virtuous, it'll do him
no good to flirt with her! I'm half a dem'd
mind to drive down there to-day! There's
fine sport for a man of mettle in New-York,
Frid! Do you know I keep a man in pay, to
look out for pretty nice gearls from the country
for me? Well, I do! and he's driven more
than one pretty fish to my net. I pay well,
you know. I don't mind money.
Thus the fashionable Mr. Fitz Henry Barton
ran on from the effects of his last exhilarating
potation, and as he did not expect Frid
to reply at all, and as the prudent valet was
too well accustomed to his master's way to do
so, he might have continued talking 'till he
had revealed all his gallantries to his valet,
and the effervescence of his spirit had passed
off. But just at this instant his street door
bell rung with a sharp business-like pull.
`Eh, demme, Frid! Ther's the bell. If it's
Jack Rawdon, ask him to come up. Jack's a
dem good fellar!'
Frid left the room, and soon returning,
said that a man who refused to give his name,
wanted to see Mr. Barton privately.
`Privately!' repeated the exquisite, elevating
his eyebrows. `Oh, ah! But how does
he look, Frid?'
Sallow and thin, with black brows, and
black coat,' answered Frid, giving an accurate
description of Beal Tucker.
`Ah yes,' said Barton with a start of pleased
anticipation, `I think I know who he is!
Show him in, Frid.'
Beal Tucker, who had waited in the hall,
now entered the library and made a very low
and sycophantic how to the elegant occupant
—but Beal Tucker did reverence to the representative
of money, not to the abstract man,
for with all his low cunning and avarice he
had a true knowledge of men, and particularly
of the personage before him. Mr. Tucker
therefore, bowed very respectfully to Mr. Barton,
who gave him a sort of familiarly condescending
half nod, at the same time saying, in
the affected tone he assumed before all but his
man, Frid.
`How ar' ye, Tucker? I'm just at my
breakfast, you parceive! Fashionable to breakfast
at noon! Nobility in England all do it,
my boy!'
`Yes, sir,' said Beal; `and I don't see when
a 'Merican gentleman is rich, why he shouldn't
do and act like any noble of 'em all. Its
money makes the man, in my 'pinoin, Mr.
Barton.'
As this was rather equivocal flattery, Mr.
Fitz Henry Barton choose to notice it only by
a doubtful stare; and then waving his right
hand for Mr. Beal to take a seat, he waved
his left for Fred to quit the room. There was
a moment's silence on the part of the par nobile
fratrum after the valet left the library,
which was occupied by Mr. Barton in smoothing
the coat of his segar by rolling it between
his thumb and fore-finger, and by Mr. Beal in
twisting his old black hat round between his
knees by the string of the inside leather. At
length he looked up beneath his beetle brows,
and, to do him justice, looking very mean and
guilty, and said, hesitatingly—
`Wall, Mister Barton, I've called to see
you on that little matter of business we had a
talk about onct. I hope we are alone!'
`Yes, Tucker, quite alone. So you have
come to tell me you have some dem pretty
rural!'
`Why not exactly so, Mister Barton, at
least just yet—but—'
`But what—dem it, Tucker, you have lost
your speech!'
`I only wanted to know if you are willing
to give me what you promised me if I send
you a nice young girl from the country?'
`Yes—from the country! I would'nt give
twenty dem dollars for one of these pert, hackneyed
city girls that, if they continue virtuous,
loose all that pretty bashful modesty
that's so dem delightful, you know, Tucker!
I'm tired of the city dem beauties, and want
to have something unsophisticated!'
`And you will give me one hundred dollars
if I will send you such a one?' asked Beal
Tucker, his eyes lighting up in anticipation
of soon possessing this sum.
`Pon honor!—that is, if she is pretty and
young, and rural!' said Mr. Fitz Henry Barton,
throwing his head back in his chair, and
exhaling the tobacco smoke from his pipe in a
`Will you give me that in writing. Mr.
Barton? asked the cautious Beal.
`Why, Tucker,' said Barton, carelessly,
`it would be dem'd awkward, you know, for
both of us if such a writing should, by accident,
be seen by any body else. I cannot put
anything on paper.'
`She is a very beautiful, and not a day over
sixteen,' said Tucker, artfully. `If you should
see her you'd double the money.'
`Demnition, Tucker,' cried Barton, starting
with pleased surprise, `then you have one at
your office!'
`Not in my office exactly,' said he, evasively,
`but in the city.'
`Young?'
`Sixteen, not a month over.'
`Beautiful?'
`She will astonish you when you see her
as much as she did me. I never beheld a
prettier countenace!'
`Fine figure?'
`Perfect, from head to feet
`Tall or short?'
`Middling height.'
`Dark or fair?'
`A clear brunette.'
`When did she come to the city?'
`This morning.'
`And is now?—
`At my house.'
`Done. Send her here and the money is
yours!'
`Give me your hand on it, Mr. Barton,'
said the wary villian; and he extended his
dark thin hand towards the exquisite.
`Dem and demnition, Tucker!' cried Mr.
Fitz Henry Barton shrinking back from the
contact; `do you think I am going to shake
hands with you like two boxers before a set-to?'
`I can easily keep the girl from you,' said
Tucker, moodily, and advancing towards the
door. `I don't force her upon you. Pay me
fifty dollars down on the nail, and fifty tomorrow,
come!'
`Well, Beal, have it as you will. Recollect
I trust you altogether here! You know
my taste.'
`She will suit you, or I will give back the
money.'
`Dem the money, Tucker; I want a pretty
girl. There's a fifty,' he added, drawing it
from his pocket-book and twisting it across
the table to him, `Now go and send her here
directly. Mind, you let her make no dem
blunder, now.'
`I'll take care for that, Mr. Barton,' said
Beal, placing the note carefully in an old leather
wallet crammed with advertisements for
servants; `she'll be here before two o'clock!'
`You're a good fellow, Tucker, dem good
fellow. Will you take coffee?'
`Thank you—I'm just going home to my
dinner?'
Dinner? My soul, Beal, how can you eat
your dem dinner at one o'clock?'
`By thinking its my breakfast,' said
Tucker, with a sneer, as he was leaving the
room. `Good afternoon, Mr. Barton.'
`Good morning to you, Mr, Tucker! Now,
there goes a fellar that dines at one o'clock
and says `Good afternoon' before dinner
at that. In my opinion its demnition
vulgar to say `good morning' before
one has dined if it be not till eight o'clock.
But what more can be expected of an Intelligence
office man? So, I am to have a dem'd
adventure! I must prepare my toilet! Frid,
where are you, Frid?'
`Yes, massa,' said the valet.
`Have you shown the fellar out Frid?'
`Yes, massa.'
`Well, Frid, I'm going to dress now! Remove
the brikfast—assist me at my toilet. I
expect a female visitor on private business.'
`Yes, massa,' said the initiated valet.
`After you show her up, you can lock the
front door, you know, and have the afternoon
to yourself if you want to walk out.'
`Yes, massa,' said Fred, with a pleased
look; and he began very assiduously to aid
his master in his toilet. First Mr. Fitz Henry
Barton took a bath in a handsome and convenient
bathing-room opening from his bed
chamber. After the bath he threw on his
wrapper and Fred gave him a stiff brandy and
water. He then prepared to dress himself.
Without descending to such particulars as
his silk shirt, his silk drawers and his silk
hose, his stays, and his very fine white linen
with ruffles half an inch wide on the bosoms,
and laced wristbands, we will mention that
he put on a very handsome pair of fawn colored
pantaloons, made by C. & K., the straps
of which Fred buttoned over morocco pumps.
His braces were elegantly worked with the
needle and the buckles to them were gold.
He then put on a white satin vest and a white
silk cravat, which he, after fifteen minutes
practice, tied with exquisite taste in a square
bow. Fred then dressed and perfumed his
long hair, parting it with the nicest precision
on the left temple; perfumed his mustaches
and whiskers with odoriferous oil of Persia,
delicately sponged his face over with water
and then powdered it with perfumed powder
of pearls. Mr. Fitz Henry Barton then washed
his hands in sweet scented water, touched
his lips with strong cologne to give them color,
picked out a hair from his nose-tip with
tweezers, took a general and then minute survey
of himself in a full-length mirror, when
his vanity, to which Fred bore his testimony,
pronounced that he was `dressed.'
`I think I'll do, Frid, eh?' he said approvingly,
as he surveyed his handsome person,
while it must be acknowledged, he had dressed
very elegantly. `Now shall I put on a
coat or my Chinese dressing gown sent me by
my friend Kellog from Canton?'
`If massa Barton 'spect to see lady, him
handsome Chinum dressing gown jist de ting
to take 'em eye,' said Frid, whose own eye
had been taken by the rich and brilliant dies
of this elegant garment.
`Well, Frid, I believe I will wear that.'
Fred assisted his master in putting it on,
when Mr. Fitz Henry Barton looked in the
`I'm quite a handsome fellar, Frid.'
`Yes, you car' all afore you in York for dat
much, Massa Barton,' said the flattering servant.
`A country girl, if she was as dem pretty as
Queen Mary, should feel herself demnation
honored, I think, by my notice, eh, Frid?'
`If Mass' Barton go to England Queen Victory
would fall chock dead in love with him,
sure'
`Think so, Frid?' asked the exquisite Mr.
Barton, in whose mind the idea seemed to
have taken a hold.
`For sartin, Mass' Barton,' said Fred, decidedly.
`Well, I dare say I am as good looking as
Prince Albert! I mean to go to England one
of these days, Frid. New York is too parvenu.
What's the clock, Frid?' he added yawning.
`It must be two.'
`Jiss two to a—. There is the door
bell.'
`Run and show her up, Frid. Don't let
her suspect but what she is to see a lady up
stairs. `What a dem loud ring she gives'
`Mass' Barton tink Fred fool,' said the
valet, as he hastened to obey
`Now for the charming rustic,' said Mr.
Fitz Henry Barton, walking the room with an
expectant look of villainous joy; `Tucker is
prompt, dem prompt. Charming adventure
this. Oh, the exquisite dem little rural. Frid
has opened the street door.'
When Beal Tucker returned to his dwelling
he found Biddy Woodhull had made a very
comfortable dinner and was full of expressions
of gratitude both to him and his wife, for
their kindness.
`Poh, poh! I do it every day—what's the
cost of one dinner—not five pence, certainly
not six and a quarter. I have been to see the
dress-maker and she says she should be glad
to engage you, especially when I told him, I
mean told her, what a pretty, that is, what a
nice industrious young woman you was.'
`Oh, thank you, sir,' said Biddy, thinking
she had judged Mr. Tucker uncharitably, in
suspecting him of designing any improper
liberties with her.
`Not a word. Here's your ticket—but uo
matter about it. Ask for Mrs. Fitz Henry.
She may be out when you are shown up, but
her son will be in, and you can wait for her.'
`Yes, sir.'
`Have you any handsomer dress than that
you have on?'
`Yes, sir, in my bundle.'
`Very good. Go in the next room with
Mrs. Tucker, and she'll assist you in changing
your dress. Mr.—I would say, Mrs. Fitz
Henry always likes to see persons dressed and
looking as neat as possible.'
`Yes, sir,' said Biddy, and retiring with
Beal's wife, soon re-appeared, looking remarkably
neat, and, if possible more interesting.
Her appearance with her pretty hat, was tasteful
and genteel.
`Yes, yes; two hundred dollars, full!' said
Beal to himself, as he looked at her, `and he
will pay it willingly. Two hundred dollars!
a good round sum to earn for one day's job!
I find the `perquisites,' he added, facetiously,
`bring me more than my regular profits. Well,
Miss Bridget, you look quite charming, now!
Don't she, Mrs. Tucker?'
You mind your own business, Beal. You
have no more to say, or do, or look, in this
matter, than just to get your money, and no
more.'
Beal looked abashed, and then from the
window called to him a little boy who sometimes
went on errands for him. `Here, you
Jim,' he said, as the boy came up stairs, and
stood playing with his bare toes, `show this
young woman to No. — Chambers street!
Don't mistake! the number's right on the
door.'
`I can read figure's, I guess,' answered
Jim, pulling up his ragged trowsers for want
of a pin to fasten them to his dirty-colored
shirt.
`Well, see you do. Here, Miss, you can
follow that boy; he'll show you right.'
`I haven't my ticket, sir.'
`Oh, never mind the ticket. It was only
so you shouldn't forget the number of the
house. The boy'll show you that,' answered
Beal, who was too cautious to entrust her
with a paper that, very possibly, might be
produced in evidence against him. As it was,
he knew that no one could prove he had sent
her to Chambers street, or, at least, to Mr.
Fitz Henry Barton. Villany is always sagacious!
`Good afternoon,' said Biddy, taking up
her bundle. `I shall remember your kindness.'
`Good bye,' said Mrs Tucker dryly.
Beal was about to hand her down stairs,
when Bruin who had lain under a bed in the
room, suddenly bounced out in his eagerness
to follow his mistress, and running against
him nearly overthrew him.
`What in all creation is that?' screamed
Beal, catching a glimpse of the dog's tail, as
he dartcd through the door at the bottom of
the stairs, into the street.
`It's Bruin, sir,' said Biddy, laughing.
`Who's Bruin?'
`My dog, that followed me from home.
He won't leave me.'
`He must not go with you there! He
don't want a place!' said Beal, who feared
the dog might, in some way, be the means of
bringing his employer into mischief—possibly
be the means of betraying her presence
there. `Call him back!' and Beal ran to the
door and called angrily, `Dog, dog, dog!'
`His name is Bruin, sir,' said Biddy, following
him.
`Bruin, Bruin! Here, Bruin!' repeated
Mr Tucker, soothingly; `come here, Bruin!
Poor fellar, Bruin!'
But Bruin wasn't to be coaxed, but stood in
the middle of the street, eyeing Beal with a
side-long, suspicious look, with his tail between
his legs.
`Call him, miss. He will be killed without
a muzzle.'
`Here, good Bruin, come to me,' said Biddy,
kindly.
But the dog knew better than to obey her,
well knowing there was a conspiracy against
him. Biddy advanced towards him, when
he started off on a run, and disappeared round
the first corner. She lingered, afraid he
would get lost; but Beal promising to look
after him, persuaded her to go without him.
Following the freckled-faced urchin he
had given her for a guide, Biddy soon found
herself in Broadway. What with being bewildered
by the noise and crowd, dazzled by
the gorgeous display in the windows, stopping
to look after brilliant ladies and dandies,
and gazing at all the odd sorts of persons she
at length arrived at Barton's door, hardly
knowing whether she had her right and proper
senses or not.
`That's the number, young miss,' said the
boy, in a voice as hoarse as a penny-paper
crier; `I know'd the figur's soon as I seed
'm! You got a shillin', miss?'
`No, good boy,' said Biddy, embarrassed
by his abrupt demand. `But Mr Tucker
will pay you.'
`Tucker's a flummucks! Tip us a sixpenny
then, Miss, and no blarney.'
`I haven't any money, my good boy, I'm
very sorry.'
`Sorry killed a sorrel cow! If I'd a
know'd you hadn't any shiners, I'm blow'd if
old Jew Tucker'd got me to come way here.
If you're goin' to live here, I'll keep my eye
on you, and when you get flush, I'll make
you pony up.'
With this the boy went to see what he
could get out of Beal. This little incident
added to her confusion, and she stood some
time to recover her self-possession. Besides,
it was a great event for her to `go to a situation,'
and she wished to appear before the
lady with composure. At length she knocked
on the door with her knuckles. After
waiting, and hearing no one, she repeated
the knock still louder. She waited again in
vain, and began to think the people were all
away from home, when a brisk little dentist
passing on the other side of the street, seeing
her stand knocking, crossed over, and said
with a bow—
`If Miss will pull the bell, she will probably
get in,' and suiting the action to the
word, he gave the bell-knob the sharp pull
that had made Mr Fitz Henry Barton exclaim
in surprise, `What a dem loud ring!'
`Is Mrs Fitz Henry at home, sir?' asked
Biddy, respectfully, of the smart liveried
Fred.
`Mrs Fitz Henry Barton? oh, yes, quite
at home, missus! Walk in! I'll show you
up stairs!
Biddy entered, and Fred was closing the
door, when Bruin bolted through, and upset
him on the broad of his back.
`Gor A'mighty, what debble animal dat?'
he cried, getting to his feet; `better kill de
nigger an' done wid it! Dis your big dog,
missus?'
`Yes,' said Biddy, laughing merrily; `I
can't keep him out. He's gone under the
stairs; will you let him stay, good man, and
I will send him off as soon as I can?'
`He stay for me; I no touch de big dog—
I fear de hydifroby. Come up stairs, if missus
please!'
Biddy suppressing the traces of laughter
from her face, followed the valet up toward
the library, from which, Mr Fitz Henry Barton,
wondering at the musical laugh that he
had heard, was about to come forth to ascertain
the cause of it. On hearing them approach,
he retreated from the door, and seated
himself with a book in his arm-chair.
| Biddy Woodhull, or, The pretty haymaker | |