University of Virginia Library

12. XII.
RAIN.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 135. In-line Illustration. Image of two men trying on hats. The are standing in a bedroom in front of an open wardrobe.]

WEDNESDAY, of the ensuing
week, was a dreary autumn day.
One of those dismal east winds
for which Boston is noted blew
up mist and rain and cold weather
from the melancholy sea, saturating
the city, penetrating the
warmest garments and the closest
walls, and souring the tempers of
some of the best Christian people,
whose cheerful piety might have
been proof against every other
species of earthly tribulation.

There were two individuals, however, whose philosophical good
humor received but little prejudice from the storm. They were
room-mates in Mr. Wormlett's house, — Mr. Toplink and the
author of The Beggar of Bagdad. Of their companion, Mr. Leviston,
we would gladly say as much; but the truth is — we confess
it with disapprobation and regret — the foul weather that
morning, after provoking him to utter a deep oath from his pillow
on awaking, had covered him — so to speak — with a gloomy and
impenetrable cloak of silence for the remainder of the day.

“Have you got to go down town, this morning?” asked Mr.
Toplink, as Martin entered the chamber after breakfast.

“Yes,” replied Martin. His heart swelled at the thought of
the Beggar of Bagdad, whose fate was that day to be decided.
“I shall go down in about an hour.”

“I shall have to start off in a little while, I suppose,” observed
Mr. Toplink, pulling on his boots. “I — de - clare,” — yawning,
— “I 'm later than ever, this morning. Never mind. I don't
care for breakfast. O dear! what a storm! I rather like such
weather once in a while, though; don't you?”

Martin looked thoughtfully out of the window, and answered,
Yes, he did not object to it occasionally. All the time, however, he
was contrasting that wretched morning with the warm and sunny
mornings that had preceded it, and wondering if it was really to be
considered as a bad omen. For it had seemed to him that, to grace
the triumph of his Romance, that day should have been the brightest
of the month — a golden sheaf to cap the yellow bundles
Time had of late been binding up in the ripe October harvest.

“I 'd like to lie abed, such mornings, till about ten o'clock,”
resumed Mr. Toplink, tying his cravat before the broken looking-glass;
“then play whist till dinner-time, with a good company, —
with almost anybody, in fact, but Leviston and Tomes. How
Leviston did swear, though, this morning!” he added, chuckling
at the recollection. “I 'm glad I happened to be awake, for I
would n't have lost it for the world. You heard him, did n't
you?”

Mr. Toplink became convulsed with laughter, when Martin confessed
to having overheard their room-mate's improper remarks.

“It always tickles me to hear Leviston swear,” he resumed,
sitting down on one of the beds, in order to enjoy the reminiscence

at his ease; “his oaths are so deep and hearty! Do you remember
the precise words he used? I was half asleep; but I
believe it was something about a great number of fiends breaking
loose. I wish I could think just how he expressed it. The only
thing can make him rip out in that way is the weather; he feels
it in his bones, he says.”

Mr. Toplink was running on in this good-natured way, when
Martin interrupted him to ask if he could lend him an umbrella.

“I han't got but one; but I 'll tell you how we can fix it,”
replied the accommodating Mr. Toplink. “If you 'll walk with
me to the store, then you can have my umbrella to use all the
forenoon, if you like. Don't ye want an overcoat too? I 've got
one I can let you take; 't an't a very genteel one, though, I 'd
have you understand.”

He produced a shaggy garment, very short and very tight in
the waist, and begged of Martin to make as free use of it as if
it were his own.

“It makes me look like a bear, don't it?” asked the latter,
trying it on.

“It 's a capital fit,” laughed Mr. Toplink. “Turn around.
That cut was all the rage two years ago. You don't like it?
Well, I 'll wear it, and you may take my best one. I 'd just as
lives you would. Try this one.”

Declining to accept his friend's generous offer, Martin declared
himself perfectly satisfied with the shaggy surtout.

“Now, if you would any rather wear this,” insisted Mr. Toplink,
“it 's the same thing to me, precisely. Can't I lend you a
hat? Don't think I 'm meddlesome; but I should like to accommodate
you with anything I 've got in the way of hats and caps.”

Martin had just been thinking that his old white hat would

look quite ridiculous that cold, stormy day; and, accepting the
proposition with thanks, he began to examine a small pile of the
aforesaid articles which his companion took down from the top-shelf
of the closet and dusted for the occasion. Unfortunately, he
could find nothing to suit his size; the largest article worn by
Mr. Toplink being of such narrow proportions that it would have
fitted the crown of his head quite as well had it been a solid
block, instead of a hollow cylinder.

“That 's too bad, I declare,” said Mr. Toplink, convulsed with
laughter. “But here 's something that 'll fit you, I know.”

“It 's just my size,” replied Martin. “How happens it? Can
you wear it?”

Placing the hat as he spoke on Mr. Toplink's head, he had the
pleasure of seeing it shut down over that slim young gentleman's
eyes in a manner which startled him.

“It 's Leviston's hat — this is,” said the delighted Toplink, as
soon as he could speak distinctly. “But you can wear it, all the
same. I 'll be responsible for lending it. Leviston knows me. I
often use his things without asking.”

“I am afraid, however, I could n't feel comfortable in a hat
borrowed without leave,” replied Martin; “so I think I 'll try to
content myself with my own.”

After Mr. Toplink had swallowed a cup of cold coffee, and
labored for some minutes on a slice of tough steak at the breakfast-table,
the two left the house together. Through the raw
wind and drizzling rain they walked to Mr. Toplink's place of
business, where that cheerful young man kept his companion
standing on the sidewalk, in the storm, for a quarter of an hour,
while he finished a pleasant story touching a love affair between
Miss Tomes and a widower, with nine children in want of a

mother. Having concluded, and expressed a conscientious hope
that he had said nothing to prejudice Martin against any person
in the world, he dismissed him, with the umbrella, and went
laughing into the store.

Mr. Toplink, who doubtless flattered himself that he had
afforded his companion a rare entertainment, remembered the
occasion with a satisfaction which lasted him all the forenoon.
Not so Martin. With his mind absorbed in other things, he
had scarce comprehended a word of the conversation, — pretending
to listen, and submitting to the discomfort of standing in the
storm, simply because — Mr. Toplink's surtout being on his back,
and his umbrella over his head — he had not the heart to take
leave in a manly way of that good-natured bore: a fact of
which he felt heartily ashamed, even while indulging in that
natural human weakness.

But Mr. Toplink, Miss Tomes and the widower with nine children,
were speedily banished from his mind. After a rapid walk
of a few minutes, he found himself at the door of the publishing-house
to which The Beggar of Bagdad had been intrusted; and,
with a swelling heart, he closed his umbrella, paused to gather
breath, arranged his shirt-collar, and entered. As he passed
through the sales-room towards the publisher's desk, he was conscious
of exciting a degree of interest in the clerks, who eyed him
in silence; but, whether they recognized him as the author of the
great Oriental Romance, or simply regarded him as the wearer of
a shaggy black surtout, and a shabby white hat, he could not
guess.

It was somehow a relief to Martin to learn that the publisher
was not in. High as his hopes were, he could not but feel a certain
dread of the crisis which was to decide his literary destiny; and

he was not sorry to have it postponed still an hour. Yet no
sooner was he in the street than an unhappy feeling of suspense
came over him, such as he had not experienced before; and he
heartily wished that the final ordeal was passed, whatever the
result might be.

With a heavy hour before him, Martin spread his umbrella and
walked mechanically up the street. Before he was aware in
what direction he was going, he had wandered around by the
Common, where, during the pleasant weather of the past few
days, he had spent so many happy hours with his blind companion,
Alice Thorne. Having passed the iron gates, he paused, raising
his eyes to the cold desolation of the scene. He shuddered at the
change which time in so brief a space had wrought. The soft
October sky, the golden sunshine, the blue haze sleeping on the
air, the flushed foliage, and the shadows of the branching elms
lying like grotesque tracery upon the yellow paths, — all had been
swept away. The heavens were lowering and watery; the heavy
mist hung gloomily over the hill-side slopes, where everything had
seemed so warm and pleasant during the sunny days that were
gone; and the shivering trees strewed the ground with cold, wet,
faded and melancholy leaves. The scene was picturesque enough,
and at any other time Martin would have enjoyed it with the eye
of a poet; but somehow he could not help connecting it with the
fate of the Beggar of Bagdad; and, as he stood gazing out upon
it from the shelter of Mr. Toplink's umbrella, the same miserable
feeling of suspense, which he had experienced on leaving the
bookstore, weighed heavily upon his heart.

Discovering, by reference to the clock on Park-street church,
that he had still three-quarters of an hour to drag through, he
bethought him of a promise he had made to visit his young friend

Cheesy in his new situation, obtained for him through the influence
of Mrs. Jesse Dabney. Martin called at the store, — a
wholesale establishment in Pearl-street, — and the boy, who was
hard at work up stairs at the time, was sent for to come down
and meet him. He had not long to wait, for presently his promising
young friend made his appearance, in his shirt-sleeves, grinning,
and rubbing his hands on his trousers, with a consciousness
of greenness in his novel employment.

“Well, Cheesy, how do you get along?” asked Martin, smiling
good-humoredly.

“Perty well,” replied Cheesy, in his coarsest tones, with a
large display of teeth. “I begun here this morning, and like it
fust-rate.”

“Have you got a boarding-place?”

“Yes, up in High-street; I don't like that much, though.
They 're mean folks, and I can't never feel to hum there, I 'm
sure. I wish Aunt Dabney could a took me to board.”

“Does your uncle know where you are?” asked Martin.

“That 's the thing on 't,” said Cheesy, tittering nervously.
“He don' know where I be, more 'n nothing; S'phrony said he
did n't. Have you seen her?”

“I met her in the street yesterday.”

“Did you, though? She likes you fust-rate; I heard her tell
her mother she did. An't she re'l perty?”

“Hush!” said Martin, coloring. “Don't speak so loud.”

“I forgot,” replied Cheesy, looking around. “Did n't nobody
hear, though. Say, Mr. Mer'vale, what d' ye s'pose the old
woman thinks has 'come of me?”

“She is probably lamenting for you as for the dead, poor
woman! Now, would n't you really like to see her, Cheesy?”

“I don' know. She 'd be glad enough to lay hands on me; I
bet she won't, though, yit a while. I would like to see her, come
to think, fust-rate, jest long enough to tell her I 've got a place,
and would n't go hum agin to live for fifty dollars, — no, nor for
twice that, nuther.”

Cheesy looked proud and triumphant. He was quite a different
being from the miserable, disheartened lad, who, alone and lost
in the wide city, appealed to his Uncle Jesse for protection four
mornings ago. His watch-house friends would hardly have recognized
him. Even Jake, the youth of oblique vision, would have
been astonished to observe so much spirit in his late meek and
submissive victim.

“I like that,” said Martin, laughing. “As long as you keep
up courage you will do well, my brave Cheesy! But, if you get
home-sick, let me know, and I 'll have you sent back to your step-mother.”

Cheesy shook his head knowingly, stiffened his upper-lip, and
giggled.

“Don't go yit,” said he, as Martin was about to take his leave.
“There 's lots o' things I want to tell ye. Have you found Mr.
Thorne?”

“Not yet, but I hope to hear from him in a day or two. After
what you told me, I thought the best way would be to apply to
the police for information, and I have the promise of being notified
when Caleb turns up.”

“You don't keep the girl with you yit, do ye?”

“To be sure, I do. She is a wonderful child, Cheesy, and I 'm
getting quite fond of her.”

“Don't go,” pleaded Cheesy. “I han't half begun to talk yit.

Say, what is 't about your Romance; I want to read that 'ere last
chapter, the wust way. Is it printed?”

“I 'm on my way to see about having it printed,” replied Martin,
shaking out his umbrella.

With glistening eyes Cheesy saw his old friend depart, and
returned slowly up stairs to his work, chuckling fitfully, and
brushing his face with his sleeve, as if undecided whether to laugh
or cry.

Discovering, to his distress, that he had still a dreary half-hour
on his hands that he did not know how to dispose of, Martin began
to wander listlessly about in the rain. At length he stopped to
look at a collection of pictures displayed in a shop-window, the
most life-like and remarkable of which was a young man about his
size, in a shaggy surtout and a shabby hat, standing under a wet
umbrella. He was at first startled by the striking resemblance
the figure bore to himself; but, perceiving that he was only looking
in a mirror, he smiled with melancholy pleasantry, pulled up
his limp dickey with his humid fingers, and practised a bow for
his publisher.

As he was on the point of turning away, the mirror reflected a
scene which riveted his attention. Two men, who had met on the
walk and shaken hands, retired to the shop-window to converse.
One, having closed his umbrella, held it down by his side, while
the other — a fine-looking, middle-aged man, of spirited deportment
— held his over both their heads. The side-face of the latter,
reflected, met Martin's eye; and instantly a qualm smote his
heart, his own face whitened suddenly in the glass, then flushed
purple, and a tremor of agitation weakened his limbs. The shock
was but momentary, however, and, rallying at once, he stood
watching, with a quick-leaping heart, those remarkable features,

the unexpected appearance of which had occasioned such a phenomenon
of colors in his own.

Martin was not at all ambitious of being recognized by his
neighbor; he therefore quietly lowered his umbrella, turned from
the window, and — still with conflicting emotions in his breast —
walked deliberately away. He had scarce taken three steps,
however, when, hearing a voice, and feeling a touch on his
shoulder, he stopped, looked around, and stood face to face with
the man whose presence had troubled him so strangely. The
latter was making some inquiry concerning a street he wished to
find; but, recognizing Martin in turn, he started with surprise,
and broke off abruptly in the midst of his sentence.

“I am a stranger in town,” observed the young man, affecting
great coolness. “I am unable to answer your question.”

He bowed politely, but his face was very pale and white, and
there was a passionate fire in his eye. Still looking steadily at
the other face, he was turning once more to go, when the gentleman
said, with a smile, extending his hand,

“I don't think I 'm mistaken, although I could at first hardly
believe the evidence of my senses. How do you do, Martin?”

“I am quite well,” replied Martin, promptly. “A stormy day,
sir. I — I hope you are well, sir. Good-morning.”

“Ah, my boy! this will never do,” said the other, holding his
hand. “You have avoided me long enough.”

“No, sir, not quite,” returned Martin, quickly. “I am sure,”
— his voice quivered, — “I am sure that any further intercourse
between us will only be a source of annoyance to both.”

“How you have misunderstood me, Martin!” resumed the other,
in a sad and pitying tone. “I must have a little conversation
with you, now that we have met, so providentially, it seems to me,”

Taking leave of his friend, who had been waiting during this
time, he stepped under Martin's umbrella, and drew him back to
the shop-window.

“As you please,” murmured the young man, with a dissatisfied
air. “If you insist on talking to me, I must hear.”

“You think you hate me, I presume,” replied his friend, good-humoredly,
but with deep feeling in his tones.

“No, sir, I do not. I hate no man. But you have done me
wrong, sir; and when I think of your unjust treatment, I feel
something in my breast not over and above pleasant — something
rather bitter and burning,” said Martin, struggling to preserve a
calm exterior. “You certainly do not wonder at that.”

“I certainly do, my dear boy. Have I not always taken a
lively interest in your welfare?”

“You have appeared to, I confess. And I am indebted to you
for many kindnesses, which I shall never forget.”

“Could you not, then, believe me, when I averred that the
very treatment of which you complain was instigated by motives
of love?”

“I could never believe, I never can believe,” cried Martin,
“that such treatment was dictated by motives of love alone. I
think I have discovered a vein of policy running through the pure
marble of your intentions.”

“Policy?” echoed the other, smiling still, but with a darkening
of the face the while.

“I said policy. I came near using a less polite word,” answered
the impetuous Martin. “Supposing I had spoken of selfishness
and falsehood? But I did not. Policy is the word I chose
to employ in this connection, and I hope you will not take offence.”

“You are bitter enough, I must confess,” said his friend, smiling

still, but with his features darkening more and more. “I am
sorry, for your sake. I hoped, on meeting you just now, that we
should come to an understanding, — that you would return to the
position you once occupied towards me.”

“To the position of a dependant, — of a cringing coward, — of
a miserable dupe? Excuse me,” said Martin, his voice failing
him, and tears of passion rushing to his eyes; “but it is my way
to speak as I feel. You have been more than kind to me in
many things; you have been rather a father than an uncle.”

His voice became quite choked, and he began to fumble hurriedly
in Mr. Toplink's coat-pocket for his handkerchief. The
shadow of displeasure passed from the face of his friend, the smile
on the firm lip brightened, and those dark, searching eyes beamed
with unwonted emotion.

“My arms are open still,” said the latter; “my heart is open
still. And I can assure you that you shall never have cause to
complain of illiberality, if you will accept of it on the easy terms
I propose. I will continue to be rather a father than an uncle to
you — as I am indeed at heart.”

“It is not of much use to talk,” returned Martin. “You are
in possession of secrets which I have a right to know; and, as long
as you refuse my claim to them, treating me as a child, I cannot
accept of your bounty. I 'd rather dig in the dirt of poverty with
these hands, unaided and friendless as I am, all my days, than
submit to the degradation of mind which I must feel if I become
the pliable tool you would make me.”

“You are rash and foolish; I cannot help saying so, Martin.”

“Perhaps I am; but such is my nature, and I 'll be true to it.
I want your love, I want your confidence, I want your respect;
but your money alone I do not want!”

“You have my love, my confidence, my respect, — except when
you conduct yourself in this headstrong manner. I feel no
stronger ties of affection for my own children than I do for you.”

The uncle spoke in fervent, earnest tones; but Martin's lip
curled incredulously, and there was bitterness in the manner of
his reply.

“Your affection is something a little out of the common
course of events, it seems to me. At least, it manifests itself
oddly. It is uncertain and spasmodic, I cannot help thinking.
Why, sir,” cried Martin, bursting forth, “you have loved me, if
at all, as you would love a thing you were afraid of! You
have held me at arms-length, as if I were a viper. The ties
you speak of must be exceedingly fine and elastic, to extend over
the space which you have been careful to keep between you and
me. You love me across a gulf, and I must rest content to stand
on the other bank, and receive the trifles you toss me. Your
arms and heart are open — at a distance.”

“You complain because I have not taken you into my family,”
said the uncle, with a troubled look. “I did not expect this
from you. Have I not sufficiently explained the domestic circumstances
which shut you out?”

“You misunderstand me. I do not wish to enter your family.
I should be sorry to have any fond mother made jealous on my
account. You do well to hold me off, I doubt not; but you hold
me from your heart at the same time; and so I feel that I am
accepting alms when you bestow your benefits.”

“There is spirit in you which I like, Martin. But you carry
your scruples to extremes.”

“Very likely; that 's characteristic of my faulty nature, I suppose.
I wonder,” said Martin, looking full in his uncle's face,

“I really wonder what sort of a man my father was. I think I
must be like him.”

“In some respects you are,” said his uncle, returning the look
with a steady gaze.

“If I ever had a father!” added Martin, quickly. He looked
down and gnawed his lip, his spirit beginning to chafe within him
again, like a bird tearing its plumage and beating its bare neck
against the bars of its cage. “This is torture!” he muttered,
after a pause, turning away his face. “You are right when you
call me rash and foolish. Rash and foolish I was, indeed, when
the whim entered my head to spend a vacation in visiting the place
where my parents were said to have passed their obscure lives.
What possible good could it do me to hunt up old friends of theirs,
in order to learn something more about them than you could
tell me? Why should I take an interest in a father I never
knew? Why should I feel such a yearning to gather up every
trifling circumstance connected with a mother whose smiles — if
she ever had any for me — were forgotten in my childhood? I
was certainly rash and foolish; for that mad excursion cost me
all my peace of mind, overthrew my confidence in you, filled
me with doubts about my birth, dashed to dust the pretty little
picture of my parentage, you had so kindly painted to divert my
boyish mind from more serious searches for the truth.”

Martin fixed his burning eyes once more upon his uncle's, and
kept them there, until the latter passed his hand before his face,
to veil his feelings and collect his thoughts.

“I still hope to satisfy you with regard to this matter, in a
measure,” the uncle answered, once more taking the young man's
hand. “There are certain points which have always been a mystery,
even to me; the rest I will explain fully. Come with me

to my hotel, and we will converse more freely, and more to your
satisfaction, I do believe, than we have yet done. Will you come?”

“I am engaged, this forenoon,” said Martin, briefly.

“Then come in the afternoon. You shall promise to do that
before I let you go. I leave for home in the morning, and I
don't know when we shall have another opportunity of this kind.
I want to learn what you have been doing of late, what occupies
you here in town, and all about you.”

The uncle spoke in a cheerful, cordial tone, which Martin could
not resist. There was both authority and persuasion in it, — an
influence such as only men of strong magnetic powers know how
to use successfully; and, before they parted, the young man, contrary
to his inclinations and his pride, had promised to meet his
uncle at the Tremont House in the afternoon.

Once more alone, in the rainy street, he looked up at the Old
South clock, and discovered, with a start, that the hour had
arrived when the fate of the Beggar of Bagdad was to be decided.