University of Virginia Library

5. V.
HOW ALICE WAS ENTERTAINED.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 050. In-line Illustration. Image of four women in a close group; two are sitting and two are standing.]

AFTER what he had seen of the family,
Martin was agreeably surprised on entering
Mrs. Wormlett's parlor. A small wood-fire
in the grate, and a common oil-lamp on
the side-table, shed a faint, yellow light
upon the scene. A sofa and a number of
cane-bottom chairs made up the furniture of
the room. The walls, covered with a coarse
kind of paper, were otherwise quite naked
and unadorned, except that over the mantelpiece hung a painting,
evidently designed as a family-portrait. The likeness was of a
man who, if the artist did him anything like justice, must have
had an exceedingly florid countenance, wild eyes, a pleasantly
savage grin, a rigid neck, and hair that stood up like bristles all
over his head.

In one end of the parlor were half-closed folding-doors,
through which could be seen a number of persons of both sexes
eating dipped-toast and swallowing steaming cups of tea. To these
the old man advanced, and, beckoning to a pale woman by the
table, called to her in a sharp whisper to come out. Thereupon
the pale woman gave something into the hands of a short, stout

girl, whose business seemed to be a perpetual trotting to and fro
with cups and saucers, glided through the folding-doors, closing
them after her, and stood before Martin and his companion.

“Here 's a man ma to see pa from An't Lyddy,” chattered
Sim. “Gi' me fo'pence for showing him where we live,” — shuffling
around against his mother, jerking his head, and rubbing his
jacket with the backs of his hands. — “I 'm going to keep
store when I 'm ten years old,” he added, immediately, “and sell
things for money, pa says I may.”

“You 're going to board with us a spell, hey?” chimed in the
old man, warming his lean calves by the fire. “Lyddy recommended
him, Dolly. He 'll be a good boarder, I know, if Lyddy
sent him. Lyddy had a good bringing-up, she had; she knows
who to recommend, Lyddy does; I took pains with Lyddy when
she was a gal. Train up a child in the way he should go, —
that 's my doctrine; I 've proved it with Lyddy.”

Tittering childishly, and crouching down before the grate, the old
man drew a chair under him, and rubbed his stiff and blackened
hands over the meagre blaze. Martin then hastened to give a
partial statement of the circumstances under which he had come
to the house, for Mrs. Wormlett's satisfaction.

“I don't know but we could take you, if you an't partic'lar
about your room,” that lady began, in a cold, disagreeable tone.

“I can put up with anything,” interrupted Martin. “For the
present I only wish to know if you can keep us to-night, and
also find some place for this girl's father to sleep. Fix your own
terms; I 'll be responsible for everything.”

“I don't see what I can do with the girl, any way in the
world,” replied Mrs. Wormlett, with a forbidding glance at the
child's poor apparel. “And, as for her father, I could n't think

of giving any encouragement for him, without consulting Mr.
Wormlett. Will you sit down and wait till he comes in?”

Martin answered impetuously that it was no time to wait for
anybody. Something must be done at once; and, if Mrs. Wormlett
would promise so much as supper and shelter for the child, he
would be satisfied. Alice stood by, with her little hands clasped,
and tears running down her face. Mrs. Wormlett's features gradually
softened as she looked at her, and when she spoke again her
voice was somewhat changed from the harsh tones in which she
had first addressed the strangers.

“Well, I will try to find a place for the little girl; she shall
have some supper, at any rate. I don't know what Mr. Wormlett
will say —”

“Yes, you do, too!” squeaked the old man, turning half round
and showing his weazen face. “You know, as well as I do; this
young chap 'll pay; Lyddy recommended him, and Simeon knows
Lyddy, his own sister, as well as I do; and what would he
object, if he 's sure of his money, — hey?”

Mrs. Wormlett gave the old man a threatening look, which
made young Simeon curb his chin, and writhe, and utter a low,
mocking whinney, for his grandfather's gratification.

“Come to the fire, child, and warm you,” said Mrs. Wormlett,
leading Alice forward. “Bring the stool, Simeon. Come, old
man, how long are you going to cover up the grate in this way?
You 'd better go; the boarders will be in soon.”

She took a stick of wood from the corner of the hearth, and
laid it on the fire. But the old man snatched it off immediately,
and hid it behind his chair.

“It 's a sin, it 's a sin and a shame, it 's contrary to Scriptur',
to waste your substance in that way,” he muttered, in a voice of

harsh treble. “There 's fire enough; the room 's warm. 'Tan't
winter yet, is it, — hey?”

He crouched still closer, and held his fleshless fingers over the
flame, gibbering incoherently. But he had reason to regret his
interference in Mrs. Wormlett's affairs. She seized upon the
stick he had captured, returned it spitefully to the grate, and
forthwith drove him from the parlor. Having pushed him into
the hall and shut the door, she apologized to Martin for the
scene.

“He 's in his second childhood,” said she “and we never suffer
him to be around where the boarders are. He knows he han't
no business here at this time in the evening. Simeon, where 's
that stool?”

With innumerable odd jerks and twists of his head and shoulders,
the boy was kicking the article in question across the faded
carpet. His mother seized it impatiently, pushed him away, and
made Alice sit down by the fire.

“Are these your best clothes, child?” she asked, taking off her
hood and shawl.

“Not quite,” answered the blind girl, meekly, trying to repress
the tears which ran down her pale cheeks. “Father has my best
things in his pack. I thought these would do to travel in.”

“You have got beautiful hair,” observed Mrs. Wormlett, softening
more and more. “Are your feet warm?”

Alice put out her poor little shoes before the grate, and said
they would be soon. Martin's heart warmed and glowed within
him. He could have embraced the landlady for the good feeling
she had so unexpectedly shown. But he contented himself with
thanking her, and assuring her that anything she could do for the
comfort of the child he would remember with as much gratitude

as if it were done for himself. Had he said with more, he would
better have expressed the true feeling of his heart.

Mr. Wormlett had not yet arrived; but Martin could not wait
longer for anything, having seen Alice provided for so comfortably.
Hungry, fatigued and bewildered, as he was, he set out at
once to go for Caleb Thorne.

“I 'll be back soon, and bring your father, Alice,” he cried
cheerily, bending over the blind girl as she sat by the fire. “Be
patient, keep a good heart, and try to eat some supper.”

The next moment he was gone; and Alice, as was her wont
when deep feelings came over her, sat perfectly still and silent for
some minutes, moving only when she drew in a long breath.
Away down in the depths of her pure and gentle heart, she was
thanking God for her new friend, and praying for that friend in
the same prayer her soul breathed for her father.

She was aroused by voices in the parlor. The boarders had
come in from the dining-room, and quite a variety of tones fell
upon the blind girl's sensitive ear. She heard whispered remarks,
which were not intended to be overheard by her. One — a
female whisper — said it was a fine parlor-ornament Mrs. Wormlett
had set upon a stool in the corner; another — a man's low
growl — remarked that the house was getting rather too full for
him, and he was afraid he would be obliged to leave; a third
asked Miss Tomes, sarcastically, if her country cousin had not
come to town quite unexpectedly; and many similar observations
followed, of which the poor child felt that she was the subject.
There was a good deal of tittering, too, excited — she knew very
well — by her torn dress and worn-out little shoes. Her heart
was deeply grieved, but she tried not to think of herself, or care
for what she heard. She fixed her mind on her good, kind friend,

as she called him in her heart, and on her lost, unhappy father;
yet she wept bitterly, and tried in vain to press back her tears
with her hands.

At length the whisper, “She is blind,” ran round the room.
“Poor little girl!” said one, in a voice of such true pity
that Alice felt a warm ray of comfort fall upon her heart.
Another began to question her, not very delicately, yet with a
genuine interest, which even less sensitive ears than the child's
would have recognized in her tones. She answered simply and
truthfully; and soon she was conscious of a group gathered
around her, listening attentively to her replies. She discerned a
good deal of curiosity in the minds of those present, but she felt
much sympathetic feeling, too, flowing out to her from them. She
was also the object of many little acts of kindness, for which she
felt deeply grateful. One of the females brought a bowl of water
for her to wash in, another procured a towel, and a third combed
her hair. In the midst of these operations, Mrs. Wormlett
appeared.

“Hurry, girls,” said she; “for I expect the child is hungry.
Her supper is all ready. Are you warm, child?”

Alice said yes, she thanked her; but, she added with feeling,
she would rather not eat anything until her father came.

“Nonsense!” cried Mrs. Wormlett, in her habitually harsh
voice, but not unkindly. “You must n't be notional. Come,
your supper is ready, and you 'd better eat it. Fix her up, girls,
and let her come along.”

Alice would have made almost any sacrifice rather than displease
those who were so kind to her. She therefore abandoned the
dear thought of waiting for Martin and her father, and went as
cheerfully as she could to eat her supper. Two or three of the

girls waited on her; they seemed to take pains to place before
her such little morsels as would tempt her appetite; and she certainly
enjoyed their attentions, if not the supper. She was a
good deal worried, however, by young Simeon, who sat opposite.
He drummed with his knife-handle, kicked the table-leg, and
asked her, every now and then, “Where did she come from,
knock a nigger down,” in a mumbling voice, which struggled with
mouthfuls of bread and butter.

The supper was finished; still Martin was absent; and Alice
became more and more anxious about her father. To add to her
distress, Mrs. Wormlett, who never indulged people in being
notional, thought she ought to be put to bed. The child burst
into tears, and pleaded for the privilege of waiting a little longer,
that she might see her father.

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Wormlett. “It 'll do you a good deal
more good to go to bed and go to sleep. Besides, you 'll be a
little in the way here, I 'm afraid.”

“Then I will go,” replied Alice, quickly. “But, if I am
awake when they come, will you tell them to go in and say good-night
to me?”

“La, yes, if you want 'em to,” said Mrs. Wormlett, softening
again in a very slight degree.

Miss Tomes, and a girl they called Lize, volunteered to put Alice
to bed, and led her off up several flights of stairs. She never
knew how tired she was until she came to make that tedious
ascent. She could scarcely lift one foot above the other, after the
first flight was passed; but she did not murmur, and, without
uttering a complaint, she must have sunk heavily upon the hands
that guided her on either side, and slid down fainting on the floor,
had not the kind Miss Tomes perceived how weary she was, and

lifted her in her arms. So Alice was carried to the attic, and put
to bed.

“You will be sure,” she said, with trembling earnestness, as her
two friends were taking leave of her, with many good wishes for
her night's rest — “you will be sure and tell them to come in, for
I shall not be asleep. I shall not sleep until they come. You
will have them come in and see me, won't you?”

“Yes, dear,” replied Miss Tomes. “I 'll look out for that; but
you 'd better go to sleep first, if you can. I 'll wake you up, so
that you can see them.”

Alice must have looked very sweet, as with a grateful smile
she thanked Miss Tomes again, and, pressing the pillow with her
sad, pale cheek, crossed her little hands upon her breast; for
Miss Tomes bent over and kissed her, and whispered, “What a
darling she is!” to her companion, who also embraced her with a
kind good-night.

“Let me know as soon as they come, if you please,” cried the
gentle voice of Alice, as the girls were going away.

“Yes, dear,” said Miss Tomes. “Now lie still and go to
sleep.”

Alice lay still indeed, almost breathlessly still; but sleep was
wide from her pillow. In the silence of the attic her soul wept for
her unhappy father, whom she loved so tenderly and truly, and
never thought to blame. Thinking of his fatal passion as a misfortune,
and never as a crime, she prayed again, as she had so often
prayed before, that God would give him strength to triumph over
that one fiend of appetite, which had laid its finger on him in his
cradle, clasped his hand with a Judas kiss in his youth, and grappled
him fiercely in its embrace in after years. “O, Father in
heaven!” prayed her lonely, earnest, bleeding heart; “save him

from this pit. Let your holy angels be around him, and
guard him, and guide his feet, as he has guided mine; for he cannot
help himself sometimes; he is blind too. O, dear Father, let
me die some night, and be put away in the ground, if I am in the
way of any good which can be done to him; or make me somehow
useful to him, if I stay here on earth!” Then she prayed
for Martin again; for it made her very happy to pray for him in
the prayer she offered up for her parent. But not for any
selfish blessing did she ask. All she wanted for herself was the
power of doing good, of doing some little good; blind, helpless
child of sorrow, as she was.

While she prayed, a picture was presented to her mind, blending
so perfectly and purely with the prayer, that it seemed a part
of it. She saw a mountain stretching far up and away in dreamy
distance, its soft blue summit buried in snowy clouds. On its
side fell floods of morning sunshine, but a swamp in the vale
below cast a deep shadow on the foot of the slope. Curling mists
crept up out of the darkness, blushed and brightened, then faded
in the sun. Upward too, in the shadow, with slow and painful
steps, but with hopeful eyes, fixed ever on the sunrise glory
above, toiled the figure of a youth. The sharp rocks cut his feet
and tore his hands; thorns pierced his flesh, and often, as he
reached up for support, large stones came tumbling down, bruising
him as they fell. Yet he generously took by the hand other
pilgrims, who had abandoned the ascent in despair, to aid and
cheer them on. At one time he seemed to be leading a child;
but a brighter hand than his reached down from behind a silvery
veil, and taking hers, with a cheering, heavenly touch, drew
her gently upward. Assisted thus, her light feet overstepped

the rugged spots, and guided the youth by the best and shortest
paths.

As the mind of Alice followed the picture, she perceived that
a crucifix, which she had scarce observed at first, it was so dim
and small, increased in size and distinctness as it rested on the
shoulder of the youth; and at length she saw him climbing under
the burden of a heavy cross, which bore him down, extorting
groans of anguish from his soul, until he sank powerless, with his
despairing face pressed hard upon the rock. He had almost
reached the sunshine; bright rays, indeed, fell golden on the cross,
and formed a halo just above his head; but his form was still in
the shadow and the mist. The child, who now stood before him
in the full glory of the sun, strove in vain to help him; but the
prayer she uttered was heard as a cry for help; and a bright
creature, with whom the youth had exchanged some cheering words
upon the way, flew to his side, and raised his head, and lifted up
the cross. Then, in his glorified face, Alice recognized the features
she had imagined as those of her new friend, and, with a
start, she saw that the child who had attended him was blind.
After that the scene changed suddenly. Again she saw the shadow
and the mist. On a black and jagged ledge knelt the figure of a
man, beating his breast and gnashing his teeth in despair. She
beheld in him a pilgrim, whom the youth had made a vain
effort to save, as he was on the point of falling from a cliff. Alice
suppressed a cry. The pilgrim was her father. But an angel,
stooping in the air above him, smiled serenely, and said,
“Fear not!” pointing upward with her radiant hand. The
child began to weep quietly and softly, for the angel was her
mother.

What the picture meant — if there was any meaning in it —

she did not know, she tried in vain to guess. She lay thinking
about it, when she heard footsteps on the stairs. Immediately the
dream was forgotten, and her heart commenced beating with
anxious throbs.

“Are you awake, dear?” whispered Miss Tomes.

“Have they come?” asked Alice, starting up in bed.

“There, there! lie down; don't be frightened,” replied Miss
Tomes. “The young man has come back —”

“Alone!” said Alice, sinking upon her pillow, with a plaintive
moan. “My father! — my poor father! I knew how it
would be!”

A vivid remembrance of her angel mother, her heavenly smile,
her words of cheer, and the radiant hand pointing upward, passed
through her mind, like a sudden flash of light, and filled her with
peace and trust.

“Alice,” murmured a softened, manly voice. She knew it, for
it was a voice she had learned to love, as flowers love sunshine
and dew. At the same time a gentle hand pressed together her
two hands as they lay folded on her bosom, and she felt a warm
breath on her cheek.

“Where is he, — my father? Where is he?” came faintly
from her lips.

Martin made an effort to answer cheerfully, but his voice failed
him, and Alice felt tears upon her face that were not her own.
Another face bowed upon her pillow; a cheek touched hers with
a pressure that had sympathy and loving kindness in it; and there
was a sound of smothered sobs close beside her ear.

“Don't cry! O, don't cry!” exclaimed the child, throwing her
arm impulsively around the young man's neck. “I can't bear to
have you. O dear, don't, if you please!”

He folded her in his arms, and held her to his heart; and for
some minutes they wept together, — the strong, hopeful youth
and the poor, blind orphan girl, — clasped in an embrace as pure
as the breath of violets.