 | Chapter VII.
The Brown-Haired Boy. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone |  |
7. Chapter VII.
The Brown-Haired Boy.
LEAVING the drunkard's wretched wife and daughter
to their desolate communion, Mr. Peleg Ferret
descended from the attic of Kolephat College, treading
the devious passages and mouldering stairways, till he
reached the door of a front room upon the third floor, at
which he rapped sharply. It was opened by a girl, apparently
about twenty-eight years of age, whose cheeks were
very pale, and eyes sunken. She curtesied, as the agent
appeared, and invited him to enter, proffering, at the same
time, a chair.
“Don't trouble yourself, miss,” said Mr. Ferret. “Business
before pleasure! I've just called to”—and he sat
down, fingering his leather-covered book.
“The rent,” interrupted the girl, with a faint smile. “I
am glad it is ready; you will find it correct, I think.”
She handed him some bank notes, pinned together, which
he scanned closely.
“Ye-es! all right!” said he, holding one of the bills to
the light. “No offense, but there's counterfeits around;
and `a wise precaution is the parent of security.”'
“I received it from”—began the tenant, trembling
She was a thin, fragile creature, with hands transparent
and attenuated. Always, after every sentence she uttered,
a dry attempt to cough, or to clear the throat, followed,
denoting pectoral disease.
“Guess it'll do!” said the agent, placing the bills in his
wallet, and staring at the girl. “Business good, ma'am?
Plenty to do?—heh?”
“I'm pretty well supplied now,” answered the tenant.
“That's right. Work brings money, and money meets
bills. Short payments, long friends—heh, miss?”
“I suppose so,” returned the young woman, not knowing
what else to say.
“Had a death last night,” pursued the agent. “Woman
on the same floor.”
“A death, sir!”
“Yes!—new tenant—sewing-woman, like yourself—left
a little child, and owed two weeks' rent. Hard case!”
Mr. Ferret rose, as he said this, and moved towards the
door, allowing his hearer to determine in her own mind
whether the two weeks' indebtedness of her late fellow-tenant
for rent, or the payment of a greater debt to
nature, constituted what he termed a “hard case.”
“What did the poor woman die of?” timidly inquired
the girl.
“Pleurisy—or consumption, the coroner said. Most
of 'em die o' that!” answered the agent, as he nodded,
and went out, leaving his tenant standing in the middle
of the floor, her small hands pressed against her side, and
the short, hacking cough checking her breath.
“Most of them die of that!” she repeated, as the door
closed. “Yes—yes, indeed! and I, too, am dying!”
Murmuring these words, she sank into the chair which
Ferret had occupied, and, bowing her head upon her
hands, wept silently, while thick sighs broke from her
heaving bosom.
The room tenanted by this young seamstress was of the
pattern of most of the rooms in Kolephat College, with
all their dinginess and close-contracted dimensions; nevertheless,
it was clean and orderly, and possessed some certain
air of comfort. Near the fire-place, in which a few
coals were burning, stood a small walnut-wood stand,
whereon lay a half-finished shirt, with the needle sticking
in it. The room was cold, for it was accessible to every
blast, by many crevices in the floor and doors; but its
curtained window, and a thin carpet, together with a
few framed prints upon the walls, made it seem to be
more furnished than the generality of apartments in the
tenant-house.
The sewing-girl did not long yield to the grief which
had suddenly impressed her, for the consciousness of
duties to be performed recalled her to herself, and she
drew nearer to the little stand by the grate, resuming her
needle-work, and bending low, as if to hide from consciousness
the tears that gathered upon her pale cheeks.
Thus she went on in silence, her fingers becoming cramped
and cold, but plying their task, fast and deftly, over the
rows of stitching, until, at length, as in very weariness, the
cambric slipped from her relaxed hands, and fell to the
floor, her breath the meanwhile growing audible, and her
of pain. Some sound, however, seemed to startle her, and
rising, she moved to the inner chamber, where was her bed,
covered by a blanket and neat quilt, from under which
appeared the rosy face and open eyes of a boy—an innocent
face, with brown hair clustering round the forehead.
Bending over this child, the young girl pressed his cheek
with her lips, a half-checked sob breaking from them;
whereat the little one stretched out his hands.
“Sister Margery!” he said, folding his arms around
her neck. “Good mornin'! Did you hear me call
you?”
“Yes, dear. Are you pretty well, Harry?” she asked,
patting his glowing cheek.
“Real well, sissy! Must I get up now? Is it school-time?”
“I fear you cannot go to school to-day, dear Harry,”
she replied. “There has been a great snow, and the
streets are all blocked up.”
“Then, I may stay home and play with you, sister!
O, I'm so glad!” exclaimed the child, clasping his hands.
“Will you lie still a little while, dear? Are you very
hungry?”
“I'm pretty hungry, Margery; but I can wait. You're
sewing, ain't you?”
“Yes, dear!”
“And you were sewing 'most all night. I heard you
cough, and was so sorry.”
“Darling!—was you?” cried the poor girl, throwing
herself upon the bed, and kissing the boy again, while her
must I leave this child?” she murmured; for the thought
that her own life was ebbing pressed fearfully upon her
mind.
“Who leave?—you ain't going away, sissy, are you?”
“No, dear child!—no, no!” cried Margaret. “Not
from you, Harry.”
“Never, sissy—never?”
“No, dear Harry!”
“O! what a darling sissy you be!” cried the little one,
coaxingly, as he put up his dimpled mouth to receive the
convulsive kiss which Margaret imprinted.
“Now, dear! lie very still!”
“Yes, Margery.”
Once more the seamstress returned to her work, and
plied the needle busily for a half-hour longer, till the task
which she had toiled upon day and night was at length
finished, and folded away upon the table. Then, unheeding
the pain in her side, or the laboring tightness of her
chest, she began to sing merrily, as, placing a few more
coals upon the fire, and preparing a basin of warm bread
and milk for Harry's breakfast, she contented herself, as
often before, with a crust, or cracker, and glass of sweetened
water.
This was the daily life of one tenant of Kolephat
College, and, perhaps, the least painful phase of that
monstrous existence. Had Peleg Ferret entered at the
moment when, singing snatches of an old ballad, his
tenant romped with the brown-haired boy, eating his
porridge, that apothegmatic individual had surely delivered
Ferret would have divined but faintly the sewing-girl's
inner being. He would scarcely have credited the fact, of
which herself was conscious, that for years she had been
daily wearing away her young life, drying up her heart-springs,
searing her brain with the slow agony of neglect,
privation, and unceasing toil. Peleg Ferret would never
suspect that those light song-words smothered the inner
sobbings that bewailed a blighted heart, lying in her
bosom, like a rose trodden in the dust, but fragrant still
with sweetness kept alive by the watering of constant
tears. Peleg Ferret could never imagine that his tenant's
lonely hours were clouded by memories and fears—memories
stirring the bitterness of the past, and fears shadowing
the future of that brown-haired boy, whose only
protection in the wide world was a seamstress—one of
that class of whom the agent had carelessly said, “Most
of 'em die o' consumption!”
But many an hour had Margaret wept, many a night
watched, while the infant Harry slept, and sang at his
awakening. Often had she put her last morsel of bread
to his lips, when her own fast had not been broken through
the weary day. Thus had her young existence wasted,
like the oil of her midnight lamp.
Wasted! said I? Ah, no! For up, far up, in the
bright, eternal home of angels, a pure sisterhood await
the coming of that patient martyr of the world's neglect.
Holy eyes will light up the darkness of her pathway—soft
whisperings of love welcome her to the communion of
kindred saints! Yet, a little while, O suffering one! and
portals of an early grave.
The seamstress feels that death is nestling near her
heart—death, with dove-wings, shedding peace from their
dark plumage. Gladly would she lie down from earthly
toil; but the thought of her brown-haired brother is the
link that binds her to the dreary task. For him she
weeps—for him she prays, to the God of the poor and
fatherless.
“Margery! I do so love you,” said the child, as he
stood beside her knee, while she smoothed his wavy locks.
“Ain't you good-hearted, sissy?”
“Do you think so, Harry?”
“'Deed I do. When I'm a man, I mean to take care
of you, and not let you sew a bit, Margery—'cause it
hurts your side, and makes you cough.”
“When you're a man? That'll be a long time, Harry!
What else will you do, dear?”
“Have a sled!” answered the boy, quickly, as the
thought of snow in the streets suddenly crossed his young
fancy. “O, I wish I had a sled now.”
“Poor child!” murmured the seamstress; adding earnestly:
“But you would not go and slide, with all the
rude boys in the court, Harry?”
“No, indeed,” answered the boy; “but I'd draw you,
Margery, when you wanted to ride.”
Such prattle was Margery's sole comfort; but was it
not much? she often asked herself; ought she not be
thankful ever to toil, thus sweetly repaid by the dear
affection of her baby brother?
The little fellow finished his breakfast, and ran to look
at the snow, piled upon chimneys and roofs visible from
their window; and Margery was preparing to arrange her
remaining work, when a sudden cry, shrill and piercing,
resounded from the passage-way outside, and at the same
moment a noise was heard, as of shuffling feet. The
seamstress hastened to the door, and, opening it, beheld
two men carrying a rough, pine coffin towards the rear
of the entry. The remark of Ferret, concerning a death
on the previous night, now recurred to her recollection,
and for an instant a sickness at the heart paralyzed her
motions; but the next moment, she heard the shrill cry
again, and beheld a child standing at an open door, some
few rooms distant, and apparently struggling in the grasp
of a policeman. Yielding to a sudden impulse, she crossed
her threshold, and hurried after the coffin-bearers, who
entered the door at which the child was screaming.
“What is the matter, sir?” inquired she, of the policeman,
who seemed endeavoring to restrain the grief of the
little girl, rather than to coerce her movements.
“Well, ma'am, the poor thing takes it hard, you see!
Her mother is dead, and the little 'un's afeard they'll take
her to Potter's Field, she says!”
“They sha'n't—they sha'n't!” cried the child Fanny;
for it was she, who now, excited almost to hysteries from
her night's watch and abstinence from food, had completely
abandoned herself to despair.
“Hush! they're not a-goin' to hurt your mammy,” said
the policeman, soothingly. “You see, ma'am,” he continued,
addressing Margery, “she's a little queer, like.
accustomed to such bereavements.
“My poor child!—come to me! Let me talk to you,”
said Margery, in a low voice, that seemed to exert an
influence over Fanny, who, released by the policeman,
hesitatingly approached the seamstress, looking up, with
tearful eyes into her face.
“Will you tell the men not to take my mother to Potter's
Field?” she asked, earnestly, her lips remaining
parted, in anxious expectation of the response.
“Who told you, dear, they would take your mother
there?” asked the seamstress. The policeman rejoined:
“Ye see, ma'am, nobody knows the woman, it seems.
She's not been a tenant long, and there ain't no friends o'
the family, like—and so, you see, the `Guardians' has
charge of sich cases.”
“I understand,” murmured Margery; and the reflection
occurred to her, for the first time, “Where shall I be
buried?” At the same moment, her rapid fancy pictured
a scene, perhaps not distant, when she might be the dead
and friendless woman, and her orphan brother the despairing
child.
“The poor thing is afeard of the men, like, that Mr.
Ferret sent for, to box up the mother, and take her to the
almshouse.”
“And this child—what is to become of her?”
“The Governors, on the Island, I suppose,” returned
the policeman—“they has charge of orphans.”
Margery stooped, and looked at the weeping child,
and pressed her lips on the poor forehead, where a mother's
voice was heard at a few yards' distance, and the form of
a negro appeared, emerging from the narrow staircase,
and sustaining with his outstretched arm the slow footsteps
of an old gentleman, attired in a shabby camlet
cloak and broad-brimmed hat.
“Bless, me, Samson! it is very dark, surely, for a
dwelling-house!”
“Sartain sure, Massa Granby! Dis are a tenant-house,
not a dwelling-house, massa!”
The two had now stepped upon the passage-floor, and
were at once attracted by the sight of the group collected
at the open door; for, in the room beyond, they could
see a rough coffin resting on the bare floor.
“What's wanting?” inquired the policeman, advancing
towards the new-comers
“A Mr. Ferret—isn't that the name, Samson?—the
owner or agent of this building.”
“He's in the house, somewhere about,” answered the
policeman, while Margery shrank back into the shadow,
soothing the orphan Fanny, who clung to her with an
instinct of confidence. At this moment, too, the voice of
Harry called for his sister, and the little figure appeared
running towards them.
“A poor woman died here this morning, or last night?”
interrogated Mr. Granby.
“In that room—there's her child Are you a friend?”
asked the policeman, scanning the old camlet cloak with a
glance that seemed to indicate his impression that so
rusty-looking a friend might be of very little service.
“I trust I am a friend of the unfortunate, always,”
replied Mr. Granby. “That is her child, you tell me!”
he continued. “Pardon me, madam,” addressing Margery,
“did you know the poor deceased?”
“No, sir. I but a little while since heard of her death
—last night.”
“This must be the little girl, Samson,” affirmed Mr.
Granby. Then, very much to the surprise both of Margery
and the policeman, he stretched out his hand to the
child, and said, in an assuring tone—
“Come hither, little Fanny, and tell me if you were out
in the storm, last night?”
Fanny looked wonderingly at the old gentleman, and
burst into tears again.
“I went for Robert,” she murmured, “before mother
died!”
“And I have promised your friend Robert,” said Mr.
Granby, lifting a fold of his camlet cloak, to wipe a tear
that started suddenly to his eye, “that your mamma
should not be buried in Potter's Field.”
The last words were uttered thickly, for the old gentleman's
emotion interfered with his voice; but Fanny
understood them, and, with a loud cry, sprang away from
Margery's side, and fell at the feet of Mr. Granby.
“Dear me, Samson! lift her up!” cried the master,
much affected, and not a little frightened, as the girl
remained without motion on the floor. But the seamstress
had already darted forward, and raised the poor orphan,
whose head fell slackly backward, as she did so; revealing
the countenance pallid and the eyes closed in insensibility.
endurance of her young soul and body had been taxed to
its uttermost.
“Poor, dear little one!” exclaimed the old gentleman.
“Very likely, famished, too!”
“Berry like, indeed,” echoed Samson.
“I will lay her on my bed,” said Margery, quickly, and
lifting the puny form in her arms. “It is just there, sir—
where the door is open.”
In a moment more, the orphan was laid quietly in the
sewing-girl's bed, while Margery bathed her forehead with
camphor, used often for her own aching brow. Mr. Granby
and Samson, with the policeman, conferred together,
meantime, in the outer apartment; the result of their
colloquy being the sending for Peleg Ferret, and his
issuing of instructions to the coffin-bearers to permit the
corpse to remain for the present undisturbed by removal.
This accomplished, Mr. Granby applying a handkerchief
to his eyes, declared that he felt better, and that he was
glad he had come to see a tenant-house.
| Chapter VII.
The Brown-Haired Boy. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone | |