HELEN FORD.
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.,
AUTHOR OF “RAGGED DICK,” “TATTERED TOM,” “LUCK AND PLUCK,” ETC., ETC.
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.,
PHILADELPHIA, CHICAGO, TORONTO.
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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
A. K. LORING,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the District of
Massachusetts.
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HELEN FORD.
CHAPTER I.
IN SEARCH OF LODGINGS.
Not many minutes walk from Broadway, situated on one of the cross
streets intersecting the great thoroughfare, is a large building not
especially inviting in its aspect, used as a lodging and boarding-house.
It is very far from fashionable, since, with hardly an exception, those
who avail themselves of its accommodations belong to the great class who
are compelled to earn their bread before they eat it. Mechanics,
working-men, clerks on small salaries, seamstresses, and specimens of
decayed gentility, all find a place beneath its roof, forming a somewhat
miscellaneous assemblage. It must not be supposed, however, that perfect
equality exists even here. It is often remarked, that social
distinctions are more jealously maintained in the lower ranks than in
the higher. Here, for instance, Alphonso Eustace, a dashing young clerk,
who occupies the first floor front, looks down with _hauteur_ upon the
industrious mechanic, who rooms in the second story back. Mademoiselle
Fanchette, the fashionable _modiste_, occupying the second story front,
considers it beneath her dignity to hold much intercourse with Martha
Grey, the pale seamstress, whose small room at the head of the third
landing affords a delightful prospect of the back yard. Even the
occupants of the fourth story look down, which indeed their elevated
position enables them to do, upon the basement lodgers across the way.
Mother Morton is the presiding genius of the establishment. She is a
stout, bustling woman, of considerable business capacity; one of those
restless characters to whom nothing is so irksome as want of occupation,
and who are never more in their element than when they have a world of
business on their hands, with little time to do it in.
Mrs. Morton is a widow, having with characteristic despatch, hustled her
husband out of the world in less than four years from her wedding-day.
Shortly afterwards, being obliged to seek a subsistence in some way,
good luck suggested the expediency of opening a boarding-house. Here at
length she found scope for her superabundant energies, and in the course
of seventeen years had succeeded in amassing several thousand dollars,
in the investment of which she had sought advice from no one, but acted
according to the dictates of her own judgment. These investments, it
must be acknowledged, proved to have been wisely made, affording a
complete refutation, in one case at least, of the assertion often made,
that women have no business capacity.
Why Mrs. Morton should have had the title of mother, so generally
conferred upon her, is not quite clear. She had never been blessed with
children. It might have been her ample proportions, for Nature had
moulded her when in a generous mood; but at all events for many years,
she had been best known by the name of Mother Morton.
Our landlady required promptness on the part of her lodgers in the
payment of their bills. She had no mercy on those whom she suspected of
fraudulent intentions. In such cases she had but one remedy, and that a
most efficacious one,—immediate ejectment. When, however, no such design
was suspected, and failure to make the regular payment proceeded from
sickness or misfortune, she had been known to manifest great kindness
and consideration. When, for example—Martha Grey, the young seamstress,
was stricken down by a fever, induced by over-work, Mother Morton
attended her faithfully during her illness, and, so far from making an
extra charge, even remitted her rent for the time she had been ill.
With these preliminary words, our story begins.
The dinner hour had passed. The last lingerer at the table had left the
scene of devastation, which he had contributed to make, and the
landlady, who superintended the clearing away, had just sent away the
last dish, when her attention was arrested by a faint ring of the
door-bell. Hastily adjusting her dress before the glass, she proceeded
to answer the summons in person.
Opening the door, she saw standing before her a young girl of perhaps
fourteen, and a man, who, though but little over forty, looked nearly
ten years older. The little girl is mentioned first, for in spite of her
youth, and the filial relation which she bore to her companion, she was
the spokesman, and appeared to feel that the responsibility in the
present instance fell upon her. There was a curious air of protection in
her manner towards her father, as if the relationship between them were
reversed, and he were the child.
“You have lodgings to let?” she said, in a tone of inquiry.
“We’re pretty full, now,” said Mother Morton, looking with some
curiosity at the eager face of the young questioner. “All our best rooms
are taken.”
“That makes no difference,” said the young girl; “about the best rooms,
I mean. We are not able to pay much.”
She cast a glance at her father, who wore an abstracted look as if he
were thinking of some matter quite foreign to the matter in hand.
Catching her glance and thinking that an appeal was made to him, he
said, hurriedly, “Yes, my child, you are quite right.”
“I wonder whether he’s in his right mind,” thought the practical Mrs.
Morton. “The little girl seems to be worth two of him.”
“I have one room in the fourth story,” she said aloud, “which is now
vacant. It is rather small; but, if it will suit you, you shall have it
cheaper on that account.”
“I should like to see it,” said the child. “Come, father,” taking him by
the hand, and leading him as if she were the elder; “we’re going up
stairs to look at a room which, perhaps, we may like well enough to
hire.”
At the head of the fourth landing the landlady threw open a door,
revealing a small room, some twelve feet square, scantily provided with
furniture. Its dreariness was, in some measure, relieved by a good
supply of light,—there being two windows.
The young girl was evidently accustomed to look on the bright side of
things; for, instead of spying out the defects and inconveniences of the
apartment, her face brightened, and she said, cheerfully, “Just what we
want, isn’t it, papa? See how bright and pleasant it is.”
Thus applied to, her father answered, “Yes, certainly;” and relapsed
into his former abstraction.
“I think,” said the young girl, addressing the landlady, “that we will
engage the room; that is,” she added, with hesitation, “if the rent
isn’t too high.”
Mother Morton had been interested in the child’s behalf by the mingling
of frank simplicity and worldly wisdom, which she exhibited, and perhaps
not least by the quiet air of protection which she assumed towards her
father, for whom it was evident she entertained the deepest and most
devoted affection. An impulse, which she did not pause to question, led
her to name a rent much less than she had been accustomed to receive for
the room.
“One dollar and seventy-five cents a week,” repeated the child. “Yes,
that is reasonable. I think we had better engage the room; don’t you,
papa?”
“Eh?”
“I think we had better engage this room at one dollar and seventy-five
cents a week.”
“Oh, certainly,—that is, by all means, if you think best, my child. You
know I leave all such matters to you. I have so many other things to
think of,” he added, dreamily, raising his hand to his forehead.
“Yes,” said the child, softly; “I know you have, dear papa.”
“We’ll take the room,” she said to Mother Morton, whose curiosity
momentarily increased, “at the price you named, and will commence now,
if you have no objection.”
“Oh, no; but your baggage. You will need to bring that.”
“We have not much to bring. We shall get it to-morrow.”
“You will board yourselves?” asked the landlady.
“Yes, I shall cook. I am quite used to it,” was the grave reply.
“At any rate you won’t feel like it to-night. I will send you up some
supper.”
“Thank you,” said the child, her face lighting up gratefully; “I am sure
you are very kind,” and she held out her hand in instinctive
acknowledgment.
If Mother Morton had before been prepossessed in her favor, this act, so
frank and child-like, completed the conquest of her heart.
“I am very glad,” said she, quite enveloping in her own broad palm the
little hand which the child extended; “I am very glad, my dear child,
that you are going to live here. I think I shall like you.”
“How kind you are!” said the child, earnestly. “Everybody is kind to
father and me;” and she turned towards her parent, who was gazing
abstractedly from the window.
“Your father does not say much,” said Mrs. Morton, unable to repress her
curiosity.
“He has a great deal on his mind,” said the child, lowering her voice,
and looking cautiously to see whether he heard her; but the report of a
pistol would scarcely have disturbed him, so profound seemed his
meditations.
“Oh!” said the landlady, somewhat surprised; “business, is it?”
“No,” said the child; “not exactly business.”
Observing that the landlady looked thoroughly mystified, she added,
quietly, “Papa has a great genius for inventing. He is going to make a
discovery that will give him money and fame. He is thinking about it all
the time, and that is the reason he doesn’t say much. I wish he wouldn’t
think quite so much, for I am afraid it will hurt him.”
Mother Morton looked at the father with a sudden accession of respect.
“Perhaps there is something in him, after all,” she thought. “There must
be, or this little girl, who has a great deal more sense than many that
are older, wouldn’t believe in him so firmly. I suppose he’s a genius.
I’ve heard of such, but I never saw one before. I must think well of him
for the child’s sake.”
“I hope your father’ll succeed,” she said aloud, “for your sake, my
child. I am going down stairs now. Is there anything you would like to
have sent up?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“One thing more. Your names, please?”
“My father’s name is Robert Ford. My name is Helen.”
“Good afternoon, Helen. I hope you will like your room.”
“Thank you; I am quite sure I shall.”
The landlady descended the stairs, wondering a little at the sudden
liking she began to feel for her young lodger.