Of all the houses which Martin Kendrick owned, he used the oldest and
meanest for his own habitation. It was an old tumble-down building, on
a narrow street, which had already lived out more than its appointed
term of service, and was no longer fit to “cumber the ground.” But the
owner still clung to it, the more, perhaps, because, as it stood there in
its desolation, unsightly and weather-beaten, it was no unfit emblem of
himself.
Martin the miser! Years of voluntary privation, such as in most cases
follow only in the train of the extremest penury, had given him a claim
to the appellation. It might be somewhat inconsistent with his natural
character, that, with the exception of the one room which he occupied,
the remainder of the large house was left tenantless. After all, it was
not so difficult to account for. He could not bear the idea of having
immediate neighbors. Who knows but they might seize the opportunity
afforded by his absence, and rob him of the gains of many years, which,
distrusting banks and other places of deposit, he kept in a strong box
under his own immediate charge?
Martin had not always been a miser. No one ever becomes so at once;
though doubtless the propensity to it is stronger in some than in others.
Years ago,—so many that at this time the recollection only came to him
dimly, like the faint sound of an almost-forgotten tune,—years ago, when
the blood of youth poured its impetuous current through his veins,
he married a fair girl, whose life he had shortened by his dissipated
habits; and the indifference, and even cruelty, to which they led.
The day of his wife’s death, the last remnant of the property which he
inherited from his father escaped from his grasp. These two events,
either of which brought its own sorrow, completely sobered him. The
abject condition to which he had reduced himself was brought vividly to
his mind; and he formed a sudden resolution,—rushing, as will sometimes
happen, from one extreme to the other,—that, as prodigal as his past life
had been, that which succeeded should be sparing and penurious in the
same degree; until, at least, he had recovered his losses, and, so far as
fortune went, was restored to the same position which he had occupied at
the commencement of his career.
But it is not for man to say, “Thus far shalt thou go, and no
farther,”—to give himself up, body and soul, to one engrossing pursuit,
and, at the end of a limited time, wean himself from it.
Habit grows by what it feeds on. It was not long before the passion of
acquisition acquired a controlling influence over the mind of Martin
Kendrick. He reached the point which he had prescribed for himself; but
it stayed him not. Every day his privations, self-imposed though they
were, became more pinching, his craving for gold more insatiable. Long
ago, he had cut himself off from all friendship,—all the pleasures and
amenities of social intercourse. He made no visits, save to his tenants,
and those only on quarter-day. Nor were these of an agreeable character
to those favored with them; for Martin was not a merciful landlord. He
invariably demanded the uttermost farthing that was due; and neither
sickness nor lack of employment had the power for a moment to soften his
heart, or delay the execution of his purpose. His mind was drawn into
itself, and, like an uncultivated field, was left to all the barrenness
of desolation. Such is always the case, when a man, by his own act, shuts
himself out from his kind, foregoes their sympathy and kind offices, and
virtually says, “I am sufficient unto myself.”
Martin had one child, a girl, named Florence. At the time of the death of
her mother, she was but six years old. He had loved her, perhaps, as much
as it was in his power to love any one; and, as long as she remained with
him, he did not withdraw himself so entirely from human companionship.
But, at the age of seventeen years, she became acquainted with a young
man, a mechanic, in whose favor her affections were enlisted. He proposed
for her hand; but her father, in whom love of gold was strong, on
account of his poverty drove him, with scorn, from his door.
The young man was not to be baffled thus. He contrived to meet Florence
secretly, and, after a while, persuaded her to forsake her home, and
unite her fortunes with his,—with the less difficulty, since that home
offered but few attractions to one of her age. Her father’s indignation
was extreme. All advances towards reconciliation, on the part of the
newly-wedded pair, were received with a bitterness of scorn, which
effectually prevented their repetition. From that time, Martin Kendrick
settled down into the cold, apathetic, and solitary existence which has
been described above. Gradually the love of gain blotted out from his
memory the remembrance of his children, whom he never met. They had
removed from the city, though he knew it not; and the total amount of
interest displayed respecting them discouraged any idea they might have
entertained of informing him.
* * * * *
“It’s a cold night,” quoth Martin to himself, as he sat before the least
glimmering which could decently be called a fire in the apartment which
he occupied. He cast a wistful glance towards a pile of wood which lay
beside the grate. He lifted one, and poised it for a moment, glancing
meanwhile at the fire, as if he was debating in his mind whether he had
best place it on. He shook his head, however, as if it were too great
a piece of extravagance to be thought of, and softly laid it back. He
then moved his chair nearer to the fire as if satisfied that this would
produce the additional warmth without the drawback of expense.
It was, indeed, a cold night. The chill blasts swept with relentless
rigor through the streets, sending travellers home with quickened pace,
and causing the guardians of the public peace, as they stood at their
appointed stations, to wrap their overcoats more closely about them.
On many a hearth the fire blazed brightly, in composed defiance of the
insidious visitor who shuns the abodes of opulence, but forces his
unwelcome entry into the habitations of the poor.
A child, thinly clad, was roaming through the streets. Every gust, as it
swept along, chilled her through and through; and at length, unable to
go farther, she sank down at the portal of Martin Kendrick’s dwelling.
Extreme cold gave her courage; and, with trembling hand, she lifted the
huge knocker. It fell from her nerveless grasp, and the unwonted sound
penetrated into the room where Martin sat cowering over his feeble fire.
He was startled, terrified even, as that sound came to his ears, echoing
through the empty rooms in the old house.
“Who can it be?—robbers?” thought he, as he walked to the door. “I will
wait and see if it be repeated.”
It was repeated.
“Who’s there?” he exclaimed, in a somewhat tremulous voice, as he stood
with his hand upon the latch.
“It’s me,” said a low, shivering voice from without.
“And who’s ‘me’?”
“Floy,—little Floy,” was the answer.
“And what do you want here at this time of night?”
“I am freezing. Let me come in and sit by the fire, if only for a moment.
I shall die upon your steps.”
The old man deliberated.
“You’re sure you’re not trying to get in after my money, what little I
have? There isn’t any one with you, is there?”
“No one. There is only me. Oh, sir, do let me in! I am so cold!”
The bolt was cautiously withdrawn; and Martin, opening a crack, peered
forth suspiciously. But the only object that met his gaze was a little
girl, of ten years of age, crouching on the steps in a way to avail
herself of all the natural warmth she had.
“Will you let me come in?” said she, imploringly.
“You had better go somewhere else. I haven’t much of a fire. I don’t keep
much, it burns out fuel so fast. You had better go where they keep better
fires.”
“Oh, sir, the least fire will relieve me so much! and I haven’t strength
to go any farther.”
“Well, you may come in, if you’re sure you haven’t come to steal any
thing.”
“I never steal: it’s wicked.”
“Umph! Well, I hope you’ll remember it. This is the way.”
He led her into a little room which he occupied. She sprang to the fire,
little inviting as it was, and eagerly spread out both hands before it.
She seemed actually to drink in the heat, scanty as it was, so welcome
did it prove to her chilled and benumbed limbs.
A touch of humanity came to the miser, or perhaps his own experience
of the cold stimulated him to the act; for, after a few minutes’
deliberation, he took two sticks from the pile of fuel, and threw them
upon the fire. They crackled and burnt; diffusing, for a time, a cheerful
warmth about the apartment. The little girl looked up gratefully, and
thanked him for what she regarded as an act of kindness to herself.
“Fuel’s high, very high; and it takes a fearful quantity to keep the fire
agoing.”
“But what a pleasant fire it makes!” said the little girl, as she looked
at the flames curling aloft.
“Why, yes,” said Martin, in a soliloquising tone, “it is comfortable; but
it would not do to have it burn so bright. It would ruin me completely.”
“Then you are poor?” said the little girl, looking about the room.
The furniture was scanty; consisting only of the most indispensable
articles, and those of the cheapest kind. They had all been picked up, at
second-hand stores, for little or nothing.
It was no wonder that little Floy asked the question. Nevertheless, the
miser looked suspiciously at her, as if there was some covert meaning in
her words. But she looked so openly and frankly at him as quite to disarm
any suspicions he might entertain.
“Poor?” he at length answered. “Yes, I am; or should be, if I plunged
into extravagant living and expenses of every kind.” And he looked half
regretfully at the sticks which had burned out, and were now smouldering
in the grate.
“Well,” said Floy, “I am poor too, and so were father and mother. But I
think I am poorer than you; for I have no home at all, no house to live
in, and no fire to keep me warm.”
“Then where do you live?” asked the miser.
“I don’t live anywhere,” said the child, simply.
“But where do you stay?”
“Where I can. I generally walk about the streets in the daytime; and,
when I feel cold, I go into some store to warm myself. They don’t always
let me stay long. They call me ragged, and a beggar. I suppose,” she
continued, casting a glance at her thin dress, which in some places was
torn and dirty from long wearing,—“I suppose it’s all true; but I can’t
help it.”
“Where do you think of going to-night?” asked Martin, abruptly.
“I don’t know. I haven’t any place to go to; and it’s very cold. Won’t
you let me stay here?” asked the child, imploringly.
The miser started.
“How can you stay here? Here is only one room, and this I occupy.”
“Let me lie down on the floor, anywhere. It will be better than to go out
into the cold streets.”
The miser paused. Even he, callous as his heart had become, would
not willingly thrust out a young girl into the street, where in all
probability, unless succor came, she would perish from the severity of
the weather.
After a little consideration, he took the fragment of a candle which was
burning on the table, and, bidding Floy follow him, led the way into
a room near by, which was quite destitute of furniture, save a small
cot-bed in the corner. It had been left there when Martin Kendrick first
took possession of the house, and had remained undisturbed ever since. A
quilt, which, though tattered, was still thick and warm, was spread over
it.
“There,” said Martin, pointing it out to Floy, who followed him
closely,—“there is a bed. It hasn’t been slept on for a great many years;
but I suppose it will do as well as any other. You can sleep there, if
you want to.”
“Then I shall have a bed to sleep in!” said Floy, joyfully. “It is some
time since I slept on any thing softer than a board, or perhaps a rug.”
Martin was about to leave her alone, when he chanced to think the room
would be dark.
“You can undress in the dark, can’t you?” he inquired. “I haven’t got but
one light. I can’t afford to keep more.”
“Oh! I sha’n’t take off my clothes at all,” said the young girl. “I never
do.”
She got into bed, spread the quilt over her, and was asleep in less than
five minutes.
Martin Kendrick went back to his room. He did not immediately retire to
bed, but sat for a few minutes, pondering on the extraordinary chance—for
in his case it was certainly extraordinary—which had thrown a young girl,
as it were, under his protection, though but for a limited time. He was
somewhat bewildered, so unexpectedly had the event happened, and could
scarcely, even now, realize that it was so.
But the warning sound of a neighboring church-clock, as it proclaimed
midnight, interrupted the train of his reflections, and he prepared for
bed; not neglecting, so strongly was the feeling of suspicion implanted
in him, to secure the door by means of a bolt. When he awoke, the sun was
shining through the window of his room. He had hardly dressed himself,
when a faint knock was heard at the door of his room. Opening it a
little ways, he saw Floy standing before him.
“What! you here now?” he inquired.
“Yes. Where should I go? Besides, I did not want to unlock the front door
without your permission.”
“That is quite right,” said Martin. “Some one, who was ill-disposed,
might have entered and stolen,—that is, if he could have found any thing
worth taking.”
“And now, sir, if you please, I’ll make your bed,” said the child,
entering the room. “I’ve made the one I slept in.”
Martin looked on without a word; while Floy, taking his silence for
assent, proceeded to roll back the clothes, shake the bed vigorously, and
then spread them over again. Espying a broom at one corner of the room,
she took it, and swept up the hearth neatly. She then glanced towards the
miser, who had been watching her motions, as if to ascertain whether they
met with his approval.
“So you can work?” said he, after a pause.
“Oh, yes! mother used to teach me. I wish,” said she, after a while,
brightening up, as if struck with a new idea,—“I wish you would let me
stay here: I would make your bed, take care of your room, and keep every
thing nice. Besides, I could get your dinners.”
“Stay with me! Impossible. I don’t have much to do: besides, I couldn’t
afford it.”
“It won’t cost you any thing,” said Floy, earnestly. “I know how to sew;
and, when I am not doing something for you, I can sew for money, and give
it to you.”
This idea seemed to produce some impression upon the old miser’s mind.
“But how do I know,” said he, a portion of his old suspicions
returning,—“how do I know but you will steal off some day, and carry
something with you?”
“I never steal,” said Floy, half indignantly. “Besides, I have no place
to go to, if I should leave here.”
This was true; and Martin, considering that it would be against her
interest to injure him in any such way,—an argument which weighed more
heavily than any protestations on her part would have done,—at length
said,—
“Well, you may stay,—at least, a while. I suppose you are hungry. There’s
a loaf of bread in the closet. You may eat some of it; but don’t eat too
much. It’s—it’s hurtful to the health to eat too much.”
“When will you be home to get some dinner?” asked the child.
“About noon. Perhaps I will bring some sewing for you to do.”
“Oh, I hope you will! It will seem so nice not to be obliged to be
walking about the streets, but to be seated in a pleasant room, sewing!”
When Martin came home at noon, instead of finding the room cheerless and
cold, as had been his wont, the fire was burning brightly, diffusing
a pleasant warmth about the apartment. Floy had set the table in the
centre of the room,—with some difficulty it must be confessed; for it was
rickety, and would not stand even, owing to one of the legs being shorter
than the rest. This, however, she had remedied by placing a chip under
the deficient member. There was no cloth on; for this was an article
which Martin did not number among his possessions. Floy had substituted
two towels, which, united, covered perhaps half the table.
A portion of the loaf—for there was but one—she had toasted by the fire,
and this had been placed on a separate plate from the other. On the
whole, therefore, though it was far from being a sumptuous repast, every
thing looked clean and neat; and this alone adds increased zest to the
appetite. At least, Martin felt more of an appetite than usual; and,
between them, the two despatched all that had been provided.
“Is there any more bread in the closet?” asked Martin.
“No,” said Floy: “it is all gone.”
“Then I must bring some home when I return to supper.”
“I have been thinking,” said Floy, hesitatingly, “that, if you would
trust me to do it, and would bring home the materials, I would make some
bread; and that would be cheaper than buying it; and, besides, it would
give me something to do.”
“What!” asked Martin, as he looked, with an air of surprise, at the
diminutive form of little Floy, “do you know how to make bread? How came
a child like you to learn?”
“Mother used to be sick a good deal,” said Floy, “and was confined to her
bed, so that she could do nothing herself. She used to direct me what to
do; so that, after a while, I came to know how to cook as well as she.”
“Well, what shall I have to bring home?” asked the miser, whom the hint
of its being cheaper had enlisted in favor of the plan.
“Let me see,” said Floy, as she sat down and began to reflect: “there’s
flour and saleratus and salt. But we’ve got the salt; so you need only
get the first two.”
“Very well; I will attend to it. Oh! I forgot to ask what sewing you knew
how to do. Can you make shirts?”
“Yes; I have made a good many.”
“Then I will bring you home some to-night, if I can get any.”
When she had cleared away the dinner-dishes, washed them, and put them in
the closet,—an operation which the simplicity of the meal rendered but a
short one,—Floy began to look round her, to see what else she could do.
A desire seized her to explore the old house, of which so many rooms
had for years remained deserted. They were bare and desolate, inhabited
only by spiders and crickets, who occupied them rent free. It might have
been years, perhaps, since they had echoed to the steps of a human foot.
They looked dark and gloomy enough to have been witness to many a dark
deed of midnight assassination. But it was all fancy, doubtless; and in
little Floy they produced no other feeling than that of chilliness. She
rummaged all the closets with a feeling of curiosity, but found nothing
in any one of them to reward her search until she came to the last.
There was a large roll of something on the floor, which, on examination,
proved to be a small carpet, quite dirty, and somewhat moth-eaten. It had
probably been left there inadvertently, and remained undiscovered until
the present moment. Floy spread it out, and examined it critically. An
idea struck her, which she hastened to put into execution. Threading
her way back to the miser’s room, she procured a stout stick which stood
in the corner, and, going back, gave the carpet a sound drubbing, which
nearly stifled her with dust. Nevertheless, she persevered, and soon got
it into quite a respectable state of cleanness. She then managed, by
a considerable effort, to lug it to Martin’s room, and, in an hour or
so, had spread it out, and finally fastened it by means of some tacks
which she found in one corner of the closet. The effect was certainly
wonderful. The carpet actually gave the room a very cosy and comfortable
appearance; and little Floy took considerable credit to herself for the
metamorphosis.
“What will he say?” thought she. “I wonder whether he will be pleased.”
It was but a few minutes after this change had been effected that Martin
came in. It was about three o’clock,—sooner than Floy expected him; but
he had thought she might require the materials early, in order to make
preparations for the evening meal.
As he opened the door, he started back in surprise at the changed
appearance of the room. It occurred to him, for a moment, that he had
strayed into the wrong place; but the sight of Floy, sitting at the
window, re-assured him, and he went in.
“What is all this?” he inquired in a bewildered tone.
Floy enjoyed his surprise. She told him in what manner she had effected
the change, and asked him if he did not like it.
He could not do otherwise than answer in the affirmative; and, in truth,
an unusual sense of comfort came over him as he sat down and looked about
him.
Floy had taken possession of the flour, and was already kneading it.
“Now,” said she, after this was done, “I must put it down by the fire to
rise; that will not take long; and then it will be ready to bake.”
“Have you got any shirts for me?” she inquired after a while.
“Yes,” said Martin, recollecting himself, and unrolling a bundle which
he had placed on the table. “There are half a dozen for you to begin on;
and, if you do them well, you can have some more.”
Floy looked pleased.
“Now,” said she, “I shall have something to do when you are away.”
“You like to be doing something?” said Martin, inquiringly.
“Oh, yes! I can’t bear to be idle.”
Martin did not go out again that afternoon. About six o’clock, Floy set
the table, and placed upon it a plate of warm cakes which might have
pleased the palate of an epicure. It was the best meal the miser had
tasted for years, and he could not help confessing it to himself. Floy
was gratified at the appetite with which he ate.
Thus matters went on. The presence of the little girl seemed to restore
Martin to a part of his former self. He was no longer so grasping and
miserly as before. Through little Floy’s ministry, he began to have more
of a relish for the comforts of life, and less to grudge the expense
necessary to obtain them.
It was not many weeks before he fell sick, in consequence of imprudent
exposure to the rain. At first he did not regard it; but a fever set in,
and he was confined to his bed.
At the urgent solicitation of Floy, he consented to have a physician
called, though not without something of reluctance at the thought of the
fee.
Then it was that he began to appreciate more fully the importance of
Floy’s services. Ever ready to minister to his wants, no one could
wish a more faithful or attentive nurse. As she sat by his bedside in
the long days through which his sickness was protracted, busily engaged
with her sewing, he would lie for hours, watching the motion of her busy
fingers with pleased interest. Occasionally—for he had nothing else to
do—his mind would wander back to the scenes of his early manhood, and he
would sigh over the recollection of the happiness which might have been
his. Then his thoughts would be borne along the dreamy years which had
intervened, unlighted by the rays of friendship, and uncheered by the
presence of affection. The image of his daughter, whom he had cast off,
and of whose after-fate he knew nothing, came up before him, and he could
not repel it. A change, a beneficial and salutary change, was rolling
over his mind,—the fruit of those long involuntary hours of sickness and
self-communing.
On the first day succeeding his recovery, he invited Floy to go out with
him. It was an unusual request, and Floy hardly knew what to make of it.
She got her bonnet, however (for shawl she had none), and complied. It
was a chilly March day, and the thin dress which she had worn from the
time of her coming to Kendrick’s was but an ill protection against the
weather. She shivered involuntarily.
“You are cold,” said Martin; “but you will not need to go far.”
He led the way into a dry-goods store.
“Have you any warm shawls suitable for a little girl?” he inquired.
He selected one, and paid for it. “Show me some dress-patterns,” he
continued.
Two different ones were chosen. Martin paid for them.
“Can you direct me,” he inquired, “to any good dressmaker’s?”
The clerk had at first been inclined to laugh at the old man, whose
attire, though warmer, was no better looking than Floy’s; but the
promptness with which he paid for his purchases, and the glimpse which
had in this way been obtained of a well-filled pocket-book, inspired him
with a feeling of respect, and he readily complied with his request.
“Now,” said Martin cheerfully to Floy, “we will have you a little better
dressed, so that you need not fear the cold.”
“I am sure,” said Floy, gratefully, “that I am much obliged, and I don’t
know how I can repay you.”
“You have already,” said the old man with feeling. “I don’t know how I
should have got along without you when I was sick.”
“Floy,” said Martin, thoughtfully, as they came out from the
dressmaker’s, “although you have been with me for some time, I have
never thought to ask your name,—I mean your other name besides Floy.”
“My name is not Floy,” said the child. “They only call me so. My real
name is Florence,—Florence Eastman.”
“Florence Eastman!” said the old man, starting back in uncontrollable
agitation. “Who was your mother? Tell me quick!”
“Her name,” said the child, somewhat surprised, “was Florence Kendrick.”
“Who was her father?”
“Martin Kendrick.”
“And where is he? Did you ever see him?”
“No,” said Floy, shaking her head. “He was angry with mother for marrying
as she did, and would never see any of us.”
“And your mother?” said Martin, striving to be calm. “Is she dead?”
“Yes,” said Floy, sorrowfully. “First, my father died, and we were left
very poor. Then mother was obliged to work very hard, sewing; and
finally she took a fever, and died, leaving me alone in the world. For
a week, I wandered about without a home; but at last you took me in.
I don’t know what would have become of me if you had not,” said she,
gratefully.
“Floy,” said Martin, looking at her steadfastly, “do you know my name?”
“No,” said Floy. “I have often wondered what it was, but never liked to
ask you.”
“Then,” said he, in an agitated tone, “you shall know now. I am Martin
Kendrick, your GRANDFATHER!”
Floy was filled with amazement, but, after a moment, threw herself into
his arms. “Will you forgive mother?” she asked.
“I will! I have! But, alas! she has much more to forgive me. Would that
she were still alive!”
Every day, Martin Kendrick became more alive to the claims of affection.
His miserly habits gave way, and he became more considerate in his
dealings with his tenants. The old house, in which he lived so many
years, was torn down; and he bought a neat cottage just out of the city,
where he and Floy live happily together. Floy, who has been sent to
school, exhibits uncommon talent, and is fitting for the station she will
soon assume as the heiress of her grandfather.