University of Virginia Library

11. XI.
THE PROGRESS OF MARTIN.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 124. In-line Illustration. Image of a man holding a door open while he talks to two women standing on the street below him.]

THE popular notion is that there
exists a natural affinity between
authorship and debt. Hence writers
are supposed to be generally familiar
with duns. They are also supposed
not only to be serenely indifferent
to all pecuniary embarrassments
whatever, but to feel a sort of reckless
exultation in the thought of
owing a great many people, whom
it is utterly impossible that they can ever
pay, in the course of human events.

The popular notion may do a “large and
respectable class of persons,” as the phrase is, great injustice.
This is not a place, however, for the discussion of the point. Our
business is not with authors in general, but with the author of
“The Beggar of Bagdad” in especial; and of him it may be
affirmed that, if the popular notion be correct, he was an exception
to the rule. It may be that he was more sensitive to those
wasps of suspicion which sting the honor of a man than authors
commonly are; perhaps he possessed that rare article, a susceptible
conscience; or, it is possible, simply, that his freshness and

inexperience favored the play of those fine feelings which every
person may indeed possess, even authors, until contact with the
world renders them callous and blunt.

However this may be, he suffered keenly from the indignity of
being dunned by Mr. Wormlett. His pride had received a sharp
wound. He, a man of genius, an idealist of rare powers, author
of “The Beggar of Bagdad,” and several poems which had been
popular in local newspapers, — a prose-poet, who aimed to be
nothing less than a Shelley and a Scott combined, — to be dunned
for a week's board! It was a maddening thought. Yet he
derived some consolation from the reflection that many of the
most exalted geniuses, celebrated in literature, had been oppressed
by circumstances before him, and driven to meaner extremes than
anything he had yet experienced. It was also a satisfaction to
feel that in a little while that grateful individual, “The Beggar
of Bagdad,” whom he had borne so faithfully upon his back,
would in turn take him up and elevate him gloriously to fame
and fortune.

Martin walked the streets in a hot and nervous state for some
two hours, revolving in his mind what was to be done. How bitterly
he regretted not having suggested to his publisher in the
morning that fifty or a hundred dollars advanced on the Romance
would be acceptable! But he was too proud to return to him
now, and money — the paltry sum of four dollars and a half —
was to be raised in some other way. He had a watch, — a valuable
silver timepiece, presented to him two years before by his
uncle, with whom he had since quarrelled. Much as he thought
that that cold man had wronged him, he did not like to part with
his gift, even for a day. But there was no alternative; and,
guided by that instinct which is so often the companion of want,

he might have been seen, about the middle of the afternoon, entering
a shop, above the door of which hung the pawnbroker's symbol
of three golden balls.

Martin produced his watch, and handed it over the counter,
with a gesture of indifference. The proprietor of the establishment
— the same who had dealt with Caleb Thorne in the morning
— received it with the same cool business air with which
he had examined the poor articles of apparel belonging to blind
Alice and her father.

“What do you expect to raise on this?” he asked, shutting up
the watch, after criticizing its works, and holding it to his ear.

“Anything you please,” replied Martin, feeling independent in
the thought that in a few days the Beggar of Bagdad would
come to his relief.

“I can let you have seven dollars on it, if that is any satisfaction,”
returned the pawnbroker.

“Seven dollars!” echoed Martin, with an incredulous laugh.
“I 've been offered twenty-five and thirty dollars for it, a dozen
times.”

“You should know better than to bring it here, if that 's the
case. We often get these kind of watches for five dollars, when
a man 's hard up, and must raise money.”

“I take it, then, if I had had the appearance of being `hard
up,'” laughed Martin, sarcastically, “you would have offered me
only five dollars, instead of seven. Well, I like that. That 's
business, I suppose.”

“That 's a fact,” answered the pawnbroker, evidently flattered,
holding the watch to his ear once more. “You appear to know
a thing or two; all the better for you. I don't know but I 'll
say eight dollars.”

“Very well; I should have been just as well satisfied with
seven; but eight won't come amiss.”

Martin whistled a pleasant air while the proprietor of the place
was numbering the article and making out a check for its owner;
then left the shop in quite lively spirits, with a happy consciousness
of eight dollars in his pocket, — not as Caleb Thorne had
left it, after pawning his child's clothes with his own, a few hours
before.

The first thing Martin did was to find Mr. Wormlett in his
store, and put into his hands the sum of four dollars and a half.

“That 's what I call a demonstration of principle,” observed
that profound intellect, with an approving nod and a complacent
smile. “I thought all along you 'd turn out right, and I 'm glad,
— I 'm delighted,” he added, jerking his head back with an air
of importance, and laying his hand on Martin's shoulder, — “I
may say I 'm gratified to see you toe the mark in this here handsome
way. You 're a little flighty yet; you han't settled down
on fixed and solid principles, I don't think. You han't seen quite
enough of the world for that; but you 're doing very well, very
well indeed. You did n't feel hurt, neither, at what I said to you
at noon, did ye?”

“Hurt? O, no!” said Martin, with a peculiar smile. “I
think I was rather pleased by the highly practical suggestions you
threw out for my benefit.”

“That 's the sperrit! — that 's manly and upright, that 's the
way I like to be understood,” exclaimed Mr. Wormlett. “Simeon,
my son, did you hear that?”

Simeon, who was learning to count money at the change-drawer,
wriggled, grinned, and said yes, with his tongue out, and his chin
making the acquaintance of his shoulder.

“Then remember it, Simeon,” resumed his father, jerking himself
into his favorite attitude for delivering those beautiful moral
precepts for which he was famous. “Never let such examples
fall to the ground, my son; treasure 'em up, and improve by 'em
in after years. Fools take offence at the words of experience,
but the wise profit thereby. Remember that, my son, the longest
day of your life.”

Martin bought some oranges for Alice, and returned with them
to the boarding-house, leaving Mr. Wormlett still preaching to
his hopeful son, while the latter writhed and twisted, as if so
much moral food distressed him, and he could think of no relief
short of unscrewing his neck and taking it off his shoulders.

“Is that Mr. Merrivale?” asked a voice from the kitchen, as
Martin was running up stairs.

He acknowledged his identity, and, looking over the banisters,
saw Mrs. Wormlett coming after him, with hands thick-covered
with dough.

“There 's been some persons here to see you, Mr. Merrivale.”

“To see me!”

“A couple of ladies, about ten minutes ago,” said Mrs. Wormlett.
“They wanted to know when you would be in, and said
they would call again in an hour.”

“A couple of ladies!” queried the young romancer. “I think
there must be some mistake. They could not have meant to ask
for me.”

“Yes, they did. They inquired for Mr. Merrivale, a young
author, who arrived in town last night.”

“That is strange!” murmured Martin. “Did they leave their
names?”

“No; I did n't think to ask them,” replied Mrs. Wormlett.

“The one that did the talking was fashionably dressed, wore curls,
and was really quite handsome.”

“How old?” Martin desired to know. Mrs. Wormlett could
not tell, but she considered her a young lady, decidedly; perhaps
not over twenty. Of her companion she could give no description,
from the mere glimpse she had had of her at the door. Having
imparted this agreeable information, Mrs. Wormlett retired to the
kitchen, while Martin went up stairs, perplexing his brain with
the problem of the mysterious ladies. He formed a number of
conjectures concerning them, but only one seemed at all probable.
They were noble-souled women, whose admiration for genius was
a river that swept away all artificial embankments of etiquette
and form. They had called to welcome him to Boston. A trifling
objection to this theory, however, arose in Martin's mind.
How had his fame reached them? How did they know that his
name was Merrivale, and that he had written The Beggar of
Bagdad? It was quite possible that the publisher to whom
the manuscript had been submitted had discovered its merits, and
noised the fame thereof abroad in literary circles. But Martin
had neglected to give the publisher his address. And so the visit
of the unknown ladies remained as profound a mystery as before.

Martin found Alice sitting by the window of his room. Tears
were in her eyes, but her face brightened when she heard his
steps, and, as he stooped to kiss her, she placed her arms about his
neck.

“What have you been thinking of, Alice?” he asked, in kindly
tones.

“I have been thinking of so many things!” she exclaimed,
in a subdued voice. “I have been thinking of you, and of my
poor father,” she added, weeping, “and of my mother who went

away from us at this time of year, when the leaves were falling.
I can't help crying — I wish I could; but it is all so sad, so
sad!”

Martin called her his poor child, and took her head upon his
bosom, letting her weep there until the flow of sorrow was spent.

“Did you ever have a mother?” she inquired, after a long
silence.

“That is a strange question,” replied Martin, with a darkening
of the brow the blind girl could not see.

“Of course you had a mother,” she added, with a gentle smile.
“But do you remember her?”

“No, I do not. I never knew a mother's love, I never felt a
mother's tender care. Dear Alice,” — Martin's voice trembled
with emotion, — “I have been an orphan, — a neglected, scorned,
unloved, unguided orphan, all my days.”

“Not unloved, — not unloved!” said Alice, embracing him
with eager affection. “Everybody loves you — everybody feels
drawn to you by the tones of your voice; is it not so?”

“You judge others by your own pure and affectionate little
heart, my child. Yet,” said the young man, his features lighting
up with a smile not altogether free from bitterness, “there are
those who have felt an interest in me; who have loved me as the
world loves, — not as mothers love their children, not as my soul
demands to be loved. The cross you saw me carry in your dream
has its meaning, Alice.”

“I felt it!” murmured the child. “And do you know I
saw it again this afternoon? That is why I asked if you remembered
your mother.”

“What had she to do with the cross?” asked Martin, breathlessly.

“You seemed to be a little baby, playing upon a carpet,” said
Alice. “You were such a pretty child! And your mother —
she was — O, so beautiful! But she was very sad. She was
placing a crucifix, tied by a ribbon, on your neck; and, as she
bent over you, she turned away her face, as if it almost broke her
heart to do what she was doing, and her hand covered her eyes,
so that she might not see. When she took away her hand, I saw
that her face was all wet with tears; but the child pulled the
ribbon, and shook the crucifix, and looked up in her face with a
joyous laugh, which only made her cry the more. Then a tall,
dark man came and took the baby from her. It seemed so cruel!
for, when he went away, she fell down and lay with her face
upon the floor, as if she was dead, until another man came and
knelt by her side, and lifted her up and kissed her.”

“What more did you see?” asked Martin, with eager interest,
as Alice paused.

“The woman and her friend prayed together; and, as they
prayed, some angels came down to them, — the brightest angels I
ever saw. They wore bands of gold around their foreheads, and
in the bands there were diamonds sparkling and burning. The
diamonds were arranged to form letters, which made a word on
each of the bands of gold. One was Love, another Hope,
another Faith, and another Truth; and these seemed to be the
names of the angels. They put a crown on the poor mother's
head, and another on the head of her friend; and these two —
although they could not see what was done to them — arose from
their knees, and began to sing sweetly, while the angels above
them sang too. The last I saw of them, they were walking
together along a path all covered with briers, while a gay little

company of cherubs danced before them, breaking off all the thorns,
and leaving only roses and green leaves for them to tread upon.”

When Alice finished, Martin was shivering from head to foot,
with a thrilling sense of beauty, and wonder, and awe. Perhaps
the child's vision was in itself nothing. But the simple narrative
falling from her lips; the singular aptness of certain things she
described, which Martin recognized as almost prophetic in his
case; the unstudied, spontaneous flow of imagery and words, so
remarkable in a child of her years; these circumstances combined
to impress him strangely, and give the dream, or vision, or whatever
it might be named, a power to move his soul as it had
rarely been moved in all the experience of his life.

Martin's thoughts were so absorbed in what the child had been
saying, that he had quite forgotten the mysterious ladies. But
the ringing of the door-bell recalled them to mind. Instantly his
curiosity returned with a keener edge than ever, and his heart
swelled with expectation. He opened the chamber-door, and,
listening on the landing, heard a silvery voice inquire if Mr.
Merrivale had come in. A minute later, quite nervous with anxiety,
he went down to the door, to speak with the mysterious
ladies, at their request.

The young romancer colored up to his eyes on finding himself
face to face with an arch, merry, blue-eyed little beauty, who
asked, with a charming coquettish air, if she had the honor of
speaking to Mr. Merrivale.

“That is my name,” replied Martin, quite bewildered.

“I 've had such a time hunting you up!” exclaimed the blue-eyed,
with vivacity. “Then, when I found where you lived, you
were not in. But, now that I have the honor —” the blue-eyed
curtseyed with a droll expression of fun, covered by a thin veil of

politeness — “of — of addressing Mr. Merrivale, the author —
Excuse me, but I 'm all out of breath.”

“That is certainly my name,” said Martin, a good deal confused.
“But I was not before aware that any person in Boston
ever so much as heard of me. I think there must be some pleasantry
connected with all this,” he added, perceiving that the
blue-eyed was smothering with merriment, “and should be glad to
enjoy the joke with you.”

“It is so comical!” cried the young lady, laughing without
restraint. “You should have seen his odd figure when he came
to our house.”

“When he came? I am not aware what person you are
speaking of.”

“Why, of my country cousin, — of Cheseboro' Dabney. He
said you would know all about it, if I said `Cheesy' to you,
that being the name he goes by.”

“Cheesy! Cheesy come to light!” exclaimed Martin, pleased
with the intelligence, but disappointed in the romance of the
adventure. “I 'm glad to hear it. He has found his Uncle
Jesse then?”

Thereupon Miss Dabney threw wide open the flood-gates of
speech, and poured forth a stream of words, which amused, astonished
and overwhelmed, the modest young romancer. She gave
a capital account of Cheesy's arrival, with a witty description of
his appearance and manners; related what had been done for him
by herself and mother, without Mr. Dabney's knowledge, and finished
by inviting Martin to call in the evening to see the boy, and
consult with his aunt about his forlorn and unhappy condition.
Martin readily promised to do so; and, having brought down
Cheesy's property for Hannah, Miss Dabney's companion, to carry

away with her, took leave of the blue-eyed with many expressions
of polite regard on both sides.

After tea, Martin left Alice in the care of Miss Tomes and
Eliza, and went out to fulfil his engagement. He found Mr.
Dabney's residence without much difficulty; was admitted to a
private room, where he enjoyed an affecting scene on meeting
with his young and innocent friend Cheesy; became acquainted
with Mrs Dabney, whom he liked very much, and whom he managed
to please in a high degree; commenced a wild and desperate
flirtation with Miss Sophronia, who showed alarming symptoms of
falling in love; and went home elated with the adventure, having
promised to repeat his visit on an early occasion.