University of Virginia Library

7. VII.
MR. WORMLETT'S NEW BOARDERS.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 073. In-line Illustration. Image of a man and young girl walking and holding hands.]

FULL of hope, the young romancer
arose on the following morning, to
commence the struggle for life in
the great city. Boldly and resolutely
he faced the obstacles which
crowded his path. But courage
brought not good fortune. Of
Cheesy he could still learn nothing,
and all his efforts to recover
the lost Caleb proved fruitless.
A stranger amid strange scenes, he seemed only to wander about
in a maze of difficulties.

In all the busy city, so populous and wide, there dwelt not one
upon whom Martin had any claim for counsel or assistance. But
there, where he himself stood so much in need of friendly guidance
and friendly cheer, he was left alone, with a poor, distressed, blind
orphan girl, who, in her desolation, had only him to look to for
protection.

Mr. Wormlett sagely counselled him to rid himself of the
incumbrance of the child, without delay.

“I 've had experience you han't,” observed that gentleman,

jerking his head to one side, folding his arms, and looking down
on Martin from his grocery door with an expression of profound
wisdom. “If a young man like you means to be anything in the
world, he must look out for himself, and let alone folks that can't
never be of no use to him. S'posing I 'd gone out of my way,
from time to time, to pick up this one and that, — worthy people
enough, perhaps, — that wanted help; d' ye think I 'd be where
I am now?”

Martin, shaping his reply with reference to Mr. Wormlett's
moral progress, said, with a bitter smile, “No! he thought not;
he might have become a very different sort of a man.”

“Very true,” resumed Mr. Wormlett, with grim self-complacency.
“That 's sound philosophy; that 's what I tell my son
Simeon here.” Simeon writhed and twisted, and looked over his
shoulder at his father, with his old and cunning leer. — “That's
the true principle to live by, an't it, my son? To be sure 't is,
Simeon. You 'll find that out, sooner or later, Mr. Merrivale.
If you know better, and choose to support the girl till her father
turns up, you can try it; it 'll be a lesson; I 've no objection;
it 's your affair, not mine. You can pay her board, if that 's
going to be such a great satisfaction to you, certainly.”

Mr. Wormlett appeared to consider the last remark a good
joke. He chuckled over it, and curbed his chin, stiffening up his
hair with his fingers, and leering knowingly at Martin. Young
Simeon, who stood torturing his wiry body into odd shapes against
the wall, chuckled, curbed himself, and brushed up his fore-top in
precisely the same way.

“I make it a p'int never to interfere in what don't concern
me,” pursued the father, putting on his hat, and jerking his head
to one side. “It don't pay, I find. I only give you my advice,

jest as I 'd advise a boy of my own, — jest as I advise Simeon
here, every day of his life. I lay down principles to him. I says,
Simeon, my son, I says, the great law of natur' is, every living
creatur' must look out for themselves. You must learn to look
out for yourself, now you 're young. I says, If you don't, I says,
nobody 'll look out for ye, and it an't right they should. Every
one has enough to do to look out for themselves; that 's accordin'
to the universal law of natur'. An't that what I tell ye,
Simeon?”

The boy said yes, grinning, with his chin down and his tongue
out, and twisting his neck as if he meant to unscrew it from his
shoulders.

“Them 's principles,” continued Mr. Wormlett, dogmatically.
“When a child once gits 'em grafted into his natur', he 'll know
the valley on 'em, for they come into practice every day of your
life. I says, Simeon, my son, I says, honesty is the best policy,
— a man don't make nothing by being dishonest; he 's always sure
to be found out, some day or 'nother. Be honest, I says, look
out for yourself, keep a clear conscience and save up your coppers,
and you 're in the right way to become a respectable and
useful member of society.”

“Yes, yes,” squeaked the shaking grandfather, tottering to the
door with a handful of rags he had just fished out of the gutter.
“That 's true, Simeon; that 's the way to do; that 's the way I
brought up my children. I believe in that; train up a child in
the way he should go, that 's my motto. Now, run and pick up
that bit of shingle on the crossing, 'fore somebody else gits it.
It 's a pity to have such things wasted; they 're good as charcoal
to kindle with, and charcoal 's dre'ful high; high 's I ever
knowed it to be; cruelly high, this season.”

“Pick it up yourself,” said the boy, shuffling round his father.
“I got to go to school, han't I, pa?”

“Yes, my son; go, and be a good boy, and learn your 'rithm'tic,”
replied Mr. Wormlett, patting his head. “Remember
what I told you about the great law of natur'; be honest, take
care of yourself, and don't play marbles, nor pitch cents, nor anything
that leads to gambling; mind that, my son.”

“Where 'd he git them flowers?” asked Sim, pointing to a
small nosegay Martin was carrying to Alice.

“That an't your business, Simeon,” replied his father. “Let
the flowers be. What have you got to do with flowers, my son?
Leave all such things alone, that 's the best way; it don't pay to
have anything to do with 'em, that 's what I always tell ye, my
son. Now run to school, and fill your little head with useful
knowledge.”

The boy sidled out of the door, jerking and twisting as usual,
grinned over his shoulder at his father, and shuffled between Martin
and the old man, putting out his tongue, and uttering a mocking
whinney at the latter as he passed.

“None of that, my son,” said Mr. Wormlett, gravely. “Be
respectful to age. Come,” he added, impatiently, turning to the
old man, after the boy was gone, “this is no place for you. I
can't have you round here.”

“I 'm allers in the way,” complained the old man, in a shrill
voice, shaking frightfully, — “allers in the way. I 'm a burden
to my own children, 't I 've worked and slaved for all my days.
I 'm treated like a dog by 'em; that 's their gratitude, —
that 's what I git for all my toil and trouble; that 's the way
I 'm repaid for givin' 'em good instructions in their youth. But
I won't complain. I shan't be in anybody's way much longer;

they 'll have me in my grave soon enough; they 'll give me the
last push, and done with the poor old man.”

“That will do,” exclaimed Mr. Wormlett, harshly. “I won't
have that. 'T an't your place to be hanging around here, when
there 's customers to tend to, — I 've told you that before.”

“Yes, yes; I 'll go,” cried the old man; “grampa an't nothing
nor nobody; nothing but a slave; nothing but a drudge; he an't
worth minding; kick him out of the way, and good enough for
him. Children don't turn out as they used to, though. There 's
black ingratitude at work somewhere — I won't say where.
'T wan't so in my day; children was dutiful then, as I remember;
parents was cared for and respected; but times changes, and
sich things go out of fashion.”

So the old man tottered away, shaking and gibbering till he was
out of sight. Mr. Wormlett thereupon, resuming his oracular
manner, spoke again of blind Alice, uttering many profound
moral precepts in support of his previous decision; until Martin,
who, in his extremity, had come to him for counsel, felt sick at
heart, and despised himself for having listened to that gentleman's
practical advice for a moment.

Yet Mr. Wormlett's conversation proved beneficial to Martin.
It had a stimulating effect upon him. It gave him confidence in
his own impulses; it filled him with an ennobling sense of his
own manhood and strength. Until then it had seemed to him
that any one else would have done a great deal more for Alice
than he could do; but now, thrown entirely upon his own
resources, he resolved to follow faithfully the dictates of his own
heart, and do his best, leaving the rest to Providence.

He returned to the boarding-house, and went up into the little
attic room, where Alice lay upon her poor bed, waiting for him.

She knew his step, and her sorrowful face lighted up in an
instant.

“I have brought you a little present,” said he, laying the
nosegay on her pale cheek. “I remembered that you were fond
of flowers.”

He might have added that he had paid out the last of his little
stock of change to bring her those dainties, thinking only of the
pleasure they would afford her. But, had they cost him a hundred
times the amount they did, he would have been more than
rewarded in witnessing her gratification. She kissed them with
exquisite tenderness, breathed their fragrant breath, held them to
her bosom, and felt them fondly and lovingly with her sensitive
fingers.

“The dear, sweet creatures!” she murmured; “I am so glad
to have them! They will be company for me when you are
away.”

To her they seemed to possess life and love. They had souls;
she recognized in them a language and a sympathy; their odors
were sweet thoughts stealing into her heart from the great heart
of Nature.

Still she did not forget her father, nor cease to grieve for him.
But a voice within kept whispering, “Be calm, O child; fear not;
God will watch over the unfortunate one;” and she could not but
put faith in the assurance. So her deep night of trouble was not
without its stars, which drew the eyes of her soul up to heaven.
Martin was rejoiced to find that she listened with so much gentle
trust to the words of consolation with which he accompanied the
story of his fruitless search. He derived new strength and fresh
resolution from her, and went out hopefully again into the city,
leaving her with her little company of flowers.

That forenoon the Beggar of Bagdad was introduced to an
eminent publisher. With a palpitating heart, the ambitious
author opened his immortal manuscript on the desk of the mighty
man of books. He felt that it was the great moment of his
life; the ship of fame was launched upon the wide ocean of
his future, to invite its favoring gales, and to brave its storms;
and glowing, flushed, exalted with the inspiration of hope, he made
a rather incoherent address, in which the idea conveyed was,
that he had chosen the said bookseller, before all others, to honor
and enrich his house with the publication of the great Romance.

The bookseller was a strange man. Martin had expected to
see him manifest surprise, get up and shake his hand with hearty
congratulation. He did nothing of the kind. He looked up
pleasantly enough, and regarded his ambitious visitor with a
smile, but nothing more. He did not even invite him to sit down.
He waited for Martin to finish his address, then replied, politely,
very much as any other business man would have done to a gentleman
consulting him on an ordinary matter of business —

“If you will be so good, sir, as to leave the manuscript, it shall
be read without delay.”

“When can I know your decision?” Martin asked, in a voice
slightly tremulous with excitement.

“Not before the middle of next week, — perhaps on Wednesday,”
coolly answered the bookseller.

He bowed, and resumed his writing. A minute later, Martin
found himself in the street. His face was flushed, a nervous
tremor was in his hands, and he was walking very fast. He could
scarcely realize what he had done, but he seemed to have stood,
that morning, face to face with Destiny.

The town was full of interest to Martin. There were many

places he had long desired to visit; but he went not near them
then. And, although novel scenes on every side attracted his eye,
he did not linger in the noisy streets.

He returned to Alice; and, not long after, the two might have
been seen walking slowly, hand in hand, up towards the Common.
It was a warm October day, and the west wind swept gently
along the broad and shaded paths, rustling the fallen leaves, and
blowing in the curls of Alice.

“Is not the day very beautiful?” asked the child.

“It is very beautiful and sweet,” replied Martin. “Do you
enjoy the walk?”

“O, so much! How good it was in you to bring me here!
Does the sun shine very bright to-day?”

“Very bright, dear child. But its splendor is softened by a
warm haze. The bars of sunlight which slope down through the
arched boughs above us are golden-blue.”

“But the leaves, they are falling, are n't they? I hear a fluttering
on the ground,” said Alice, in a plaintive tone. “I am
always sad when the leaves come raining down in the autumn-time,
for it was in the autumn that my mother died.”

“The leaves are falling, Alice, but there are many still upon
the trees,” replied her companion. “They flash and flare on every
bough, as the sun shines upon them, and quiver as if with pleasure,
as the wind kisses them. They are of beautiful tints and
hues — russet, orange, bright gold and flaming scarlet. They sift
the rays which rest with such beauty upon your brow and hair.”

“Are we out of the city? Can you see where the blue sky
shuts down?”

“We are in a magnificent rolling park, laid out in avenues and
paths, with long, double rows of such trees as I have described,

running in almost every direction. The city is on three sides;
but on the west there is a river that gleams like silver. Beyond
that are blue hills, all asleep under the hazy sky. On the hills
there are woods and houses, and on the river a slow-moving sail.
I wish you could see all this, my dear child.”

“O, but I see!” exclaimed Alice. “I see it all as you describe
it. I never saw more plainly with my eyes. I see, as I
saw you in my dream last night, going up the mountain with a
cross, — only that scene was more beautiful than this.”

“You saw me with a cross?” cried Martin, quickly, while a
shadow of thought swept out the cheerful sunshine of his face.

Alice related the vision she had seen; and the young man listened,
all absorbed, gazing upon her sad, sweet face as she spoke.
And when she had ceased, he gazed upon her still, walking on in
silence, impressed with such subdued and pensive awe as we sometimes
feel in dreams, when the loved one at our side appears
radiant with celestial light, and entertains us with angelic speech.

And so, with his intent eyes upon the child, he passed with her
so near the form of a man outstretched in sleep upon the grass,—
so near, yet saw him not, — that she, a little while thereafter, said,
with thoughtful sadness —

“I feel as if I had been walking by the bed of my father.”

After resting some time upon a bench in a shaded spot, they
returned to the boarding-house. The one-o'clock bells were ringing
as they entered the door, and the boarders were coming in
to dinner. The scene possessed so many disagreeable features to
the fastidious Martin, that he would have turned away, and
wandered about the city until night, had it not been for Alice.
The Common, with its fine slopes, its regal trees, and soft winds
blowing over all, had not prepared him to appreciate the practical

comforts of Mr. Wormlett's house. The hall was gloomy, and
full of the rank odors of an impure and ill-ventilated kitchen.
The walls were dingy, the oil-cloth carpet had long since been
bereft of all its original colors, and the worn-out door-mat
appeared to be nothing more than a thin and slightly concave clod
of stiff mud. Moreover, democratic as he was in his feelings,
Martin felt a repugnance to sitting down at the dinner-table
with the persons who composed Mr. Wormlett's family.

He went up into his room with Alice, and kept her company
until the rush for dinner was over, and young Sim appeared to
call them for the second table.

“It 's Saturday afternoon, school don't keep, and I 'm going
to be in the grocery, pa says I may,” rattled forth that young
gentleman, with his cunning old grin, as he hobbled down the
stairs. “The boys wanted me to go and play ball, but pa said
he 'd gi' me a cent not to, — he wants me to learn business.”

“There 's wisdom for ye, Mr. Merrivale,” observed Mr. Wormlett,
pausing in the hall, as he was on his way to the dining-room.
“Keep on this way, my son, and there 's no knowing what you 'll
come to, one of these days. Hey, Mr. Merrivale?”

Holding his head stiffly on one side, he regarded Martin with a
self-complacent smirk. Thus appealed to, the young man dryly
observed that, if young Simeon diligently pursued the course he
had begun, there was every reason to believe he would make a
man very much like his father.

“There 's encouragement for you, my son!” exclaimed Mr.
Wormlett, patting the boy's head. “What would you give to be
a man like your father?” Simeon grinned, and twisted, and rubbed
his jacket with the backs of his hands, by way of reply. “Well,
keep on, as Mr. Merrivale says; save up your coppers, cram that

little head o' your'n with useful knowledge, be honest, and act
from principle at all times, and there is no knowing but you
may make a wiser man even than your father. Think of that,
Simeon, my son, — only think of that.”

Martin had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Wormlett. That
gentleman was in his best humor. He seemed determined to impress
the new boarder with the immense power of mind which he
could bring to bear upon all subjects of practical importance. He
dealt largely in principles, appealing now and then to Simeon
his son, to remember the sentiments he laid down, as he would
treasure up so much gold. In short, Mr. Wormlett was inclined
to be exceedingly condescending and companionable with his
guest, until he made a discovery which quite altered his opinion
of his claims to respectability.

When the good Miss Tomes, perceiving that Alice could eat
nothing, had taken her into the parlor, and Martin was left alone
with the Wormletts, the head of that thriving family, coming down
from the sphere of abstract principles to the plane of business, observed
that the first rule of his boarding-house was that every new
boarder should be required to pay one week's board in advance.

“Not that I 've any doubts of you,” he added, as Martin
changed color. “If Lyddy sent ye here, of course you 're good.
I don't doubt that. But there 's so many people comes here and
tries to impose upon us, that we must have some rule to go
by. Always go by rule; that 's my doctrine. An't that what I
learn you, Simeon? Always have a rule, and go by it. Your
board, Mr. Merrivale, will be three dollars a week, and the girl's
will be a dollar and a half.”

How it was done, Martin never knew; but he had stammered
forth a confession of his poverty, requesting to be waited upon

until he could get returns from his Romance; and Mr. Wormlett,
having arisen from his seat, stood before him, grim and solemn,
with a withering expression of suspicion and severity on his face.

“Do you say Lyddy sent you here?” he asked, sternly, with a
sudden jerk of his head.

Martin reäffirmed the fact, and alluded to the lost letter.

“I 'd like to see that letter. If Lyddy give you a letter for
me, I 'd like to see it. I won't call you an impostor; but I must
say I did n't think you 'd attempt to shirk your board in this way;
and, as for the story of the letter, I can't understand it, that 's
all. You 're in a brave condition, it seems, to take the responsibility
of supporting a child you don't know nothing about, — buying
paltry flowers for her, too! I don't mean to hurt nobody's
feelings,” continued Mr. Wormlett, grimly; “but I 'm a practical
man myself, a man of principle, and I 'm in the habit of
judging the world by a high standard of moral integrity.”

“You are perfectly right,” replied Martin, in a low tone, and
with compressed lips. His face flushed crimson, then turned to
an almost deadly whiteness, as he got up from the table. “Excuse
me until evening, and I will endeavor to satisfy you.”

Mr. Wormlett repeated what he had said about being a man
of principle, in a manner which indicated the highest satisfaction
with himself, and, adding that he trusted Mr. Merrivale would
prove entirely worthy of his confidence, proceeded to his place
of business, leading his son Simeon by the hand, and laying down
“principles” to him by the way.

Burning with mortification and shame, Martin went out,
resolved to perform almost any desperate act, rather than meet
his landlord in the evening without being able to place in his
hand every penny he demanded as his due.