days did the boys mourn for her whose advent brought them such
disappointment.
A BOARDING HOUSE ROMANCE.
I keep a boarding-house.
If any fair proportion of my readers were likely to be members of my own
profession, I should expect the above announcement to call forth more
sympathetic handkerchiefs than have waved in unison for many a day. But
I don't expect anything of the sort; I know my business too well to
suppose for a moment that any boarding-house proprietor, no matter how
full her rooms, or how good pay her boarders are, ever finds time to
read a story. Even if they did, they'd be so lost in wonder at one of
themselves finding time to _write_ a story, that they'd forget the whole
plot and point of the thing.
I can't help it, though--I _must_ tell about poor dear Mrs. Perry, even
if I run the risk of cook's overdoing the beef, so that Mr. Bluff, who
is English, and the best of pay, can't get the rare cut he loves so
well. Mrs. Perry's story has run in my head so long, that it has made me
forget to take change from the grocer at least once to my knowledge, and
even made me lose a good boarder, by showing a room before the bed was
made up. They say that poets get things out of their heads by writing
them down, and I don't know why boarding-house keepers can't do the same
thing.
It's about three months since Mrs. Perry came here to board. I'm very
sure about the time, and it was the day I was to pay my quarter's rent,
and to-morrow will be quarter-day again; thank the Lord I've got the
money ready.
I _didn't_ have the money ready then, though, and the landlord left his
temper behind him, instead of a receipt, and I was just having a little
cry in my apron, and asking the Lord _why_ it was that a poor lone woman
who was working her finger-ends off should have such a hard time, when
the door-bell rang.
"That's the landlord again. _I_ know his ways, the mean wretch!" said I
to myself, hastily rubbing my eyes dry, and making up before the mirror
in the hat-tree as fierce a face as I could. Then I snatched open the
door, and tried to make believe my heart _wasn't_ in my mouth.
But the landlord wasn't there, and I've always been a little sorry, for
I was looking so savage, that a wee little woman, who _was_ at the door,
trembled all over, and started to go down the steps.
"Don't go, ma'am," I said, very quickly, with the best smile I could put
on (and I think I've been long enough in the business to give the right
kind of a smile to a person that looks like a new boarder). "Don't go--I
thought it was--I thought it was--somebody else that rang. Come in, do."
She looked as if I was doing her a great honor, and I thought that
looked like poor pay, but I was too glad at not seeing the landlord just
then to care if I did lose _one_ week's board; besides, she didn't look
as if she _could_ eat much.
"I see you advertise a small bedroom to let," said she, looking
appealing-like, as if she was going to beat me down on the strength of
being poor. "How much is it a week?"
"Eight dollars," said I, rather shortly. Seven dollars was all I
expected to get, but I put on one, so as to be beaten down without
losing anything. "I can get eight from a single gentleman, the only
objection being that he wants to keep a dog in the back yard."
"Oh, I'll pay it," said she, quickly taking out her pocketbook. "I'll
take it for six weeks, anyhow."
I never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. I made up my mind to read
a penitential passage of Scripture as soon as I closed the bargain with
her, but, remembering the Book says to be reconciled to your brother
before laying your gift on the altar, I says, quick as I could, for
fear that if I thought over it again I couldn't be honest:
"You shall have it for seven, my dear madame, if you're going to stay so
long, and I'll do your washing without extra charge."
This last I said to punish myself for suspecting an innocent little
lady.
"Oh, thank you--thank you _very_ much," said she, and then she began to
cry.
I knew _that_ wasn't for effect, for we were already agreed on terms,
and she had her pocketbook open showing more money that _I_ ever have at
a time, unless it's rent-day.
She tried to stop crying by burying her face in her hands, and it made
her look so much smaller and so pitiful that I picked her right up, as
if she was a baby, and kissed her. Then she cried harder, and I--a woman
over forty, too--couldn't find anything better to do than to cry with
her.
I knew her whole story within five minutes--knew it perfectly well
before I'd fairly shown her the room and got it aired.
They were from the West, and had been married about a year. She hadn't a
relative in the world, but _his_ folks had friends in Philadelphia, so
he'd got a place as clerk in a big clothing factory, at twelve hundred
dollars a year. They'd been keeping house, just as cozy as could be in
four rooms, and were as happy as anybody in the world, when one night he
didn't come home.
She was almost frantic about him all night long, and first thing in the
morning she was at the factory. She waited until all the clerks got
there, but George--his name was George Perry--didn't come. The
proprietor was a good-hearted man, and went with her to the
police-office, and they telegraphed all over the city; but there didn't
seem to be any such man found dead or drunk, or arrested for anything.
She hadn't heard a word from him since. Her husband's family's friends
were rich--the stuck up brutes!--but they seemed to be annoyed by her
coming so often to ask if there wasn't any other way of looking for him,
so she, like the modest, frightened little thing she was, staid away
from them. Then somebody told her that New York was the place everybody
went to, so she sold all her furniture and pawned almost all her
clothes, and came to New York with about fifty dollars in her pocket.
"What I'll do when that's gone I don't know," said she, commencing to
cry again, "unless I find George. I won't live on _you_, though, ma'am,"
she said, lifting her face up quickly out of her handkerchief; "I won't,
indeed. I'll go to the poorhouse first. But--"
Then she cried worse than before, and I cried, too, and took her in my
arms, and called her a poor little thing, and told her she shouldn't go
to any poorhouse, but should stay with me and be my daughter.
I don't know how I came to say it, for, goodness knows, I find it hard
enough to keep out of the poorhouse myself, but I did say it, and I
meant it, too.
Her things were all in a little valise, and she soon had the room to
rights, and when I went up again in a few minutes to carry her a cup of
tea, she pointed to her husband's picture which she had hung on the
wall, and asked me if I didn't think he was very handsome.
I said yes, but I'm glad she looked at the tea instead of me, for I
believe she'd seen by my face that I didn't like her George. The fact
is, men look very differently to their wives or sweethearts than they do
to older people and to boarding-house keepers. There was nothing vicious
about George Perry's face, but if he'd been a boarder of mine, I'd have
insisted on my board promptly--not for fear of his trying to cheat me,
but because if he saw anything else he wanted, he'd spend his money
without thinking of what he owed.
I felt so certain that he'd got into some mischief or trouble, and was
afraid or ashamed to come back to his wife, that I risked the price of
three ribs of prime roasting beef in the following "Personal"
advertisement:
"GEORGE P.--Your wife don't know anything about it, and is dying to see
you. Answer through Personals."
But no answer came, and his wife grew more and more poorly, and I
couldn't help seeing what was the matter with her. Then her money ran
out, and she talked of going away, but I wouldn't hear of it. I just
took her to my own room, which was the back parlor, and told her she
wasn't to think again of going away; that she was to be my daughter, and
I would be her mother, until she found George again.
I was afraid, for _her_ sake, that it meant we were to be with each
other for ever, for there was no sign of George.
She wrote to his family in the West, but _they_ hadn't heard anything
from him or about him, and they took pains not to invite her there, or
even to say anything about giving her a helping hand.
There was only one thing left to do, and that was to pray, and pray I
_did_, more constantly and earnestly than I ever did before, although,
the good Lord knows there _have_ been times, about quarter-day, when I
haven't kept much peace before the Throne.
Finally, one day Mrs. Perry was taken unusually bad, and the doctor had
to be sent for in a hurry. We were in her room--the doctor and Mrs.
Perry and I--I was endeavoring to comfort and strengthen the poor thing,
when the servant knocked, and said a lady and gentleman had come to look
at rooms.
I didn't _dare_ to lose boarders, for I'd had three empty rooms for a
month, so I hurried into the parlor. I was almost knocked down for a
second, for the gentleman was George Perry, and no mistake, if the
picture his wife had was to be trusted.
In a second more I was cooler and clearer-headed than I ever was in my
life before. I felt more like an angel of the Lord than a boarding-house
keeper.
"Kate," said I, to the servant "show the lady all the rooms."
Kate stared, for I'd never trusted her, or any other girl, with such
important work, and she knew it. She went though, followed by the lady,
who, though she seemed a weak, silly sort of thing, I _hated_ with all
my might. Then I turned quickly, and said:
"Don't you want a room for your wife, too, George Perry?"
He stared at me a moment, and then turned pale and looked confused. Then
he tried to rally himself, and he said:
"You seem to know me, ma'am."
"Yes," said I; "and I know Mrs. Perry, too; and if ever a woman needed
her husband she does _now_, even if her husband _is_ a rascal."
He tried to be angry, but he couldn't. He walked up and down the room
once or twice, his face twitching all the time, and then he said, a word
or two at a time:
"I wish I could--poor girl!--God forgive me!--what _can_ I do?--I wish I
was dead!"
"You wouldn't be any use to _any_body then but the Evil One, George
Perry, and you're not ready to see _him_ just yet," said I.
Just then there came a low, long groan from the backroom, and at the
same time some one came into the parlor. I was too excited to notice who
it was; and George Perry, when he heard the groan, stopped short and
exclaimed:
"Good God! who's that?"
"Your wife," said I, almost ready to scream, I was so wrought up.
He hid his face in his hands, and trembled all over.
There was half a minute's silence--it seemed half an hour--and then we
heard a long, thin wail from a voice that hadn't ever been heard on
earth before.
"What's that?" said Perry, in a hoarse whisper, his eyes starting out of
his head, and hands thrown up.
"Your baby--just born," said I. "Will you take rooms for your family
_now_, George Perry?" I asked.
"_I_ sha'n't stand in the way," said a voice behind me.
I turned around quickly, just in time to see, with her eyes full of
tears, the woman who had come with George go out the door and shut the
hall-door behind her.
"Thank God!" said George, dropping on his knees.
"Amen!" said I, hurrying out of the parlor and locking the door behind
me.
I thought if he wanted to pray while on his knees he shouldn't be
disturbed, while if he should suddenly be tempted to follow his late
companion, _I_ shouldn't be held at the Judgment day for any share of
the guilt.
I found the doctor bustling about, getting ready to go, and Mrs. Perry
looking very peaceful and happy, with a little bundle hugged up close to
her.
"I guess the Lord will bring him _now_," said Mrs. Perry, "if it's only
to see his little boy."
"Like enough, my dear," said I, thanking the Lord for opening the
question, for my wits were all gone by this time, and I hadn't any more
idea of what to do than the man in the moon; "but," said I, "He won't
bring him till you're well, and able to bear the excitement."
"Oh, I could bear it any time now," said she, very calmly, "It would
seem just as natural as could be to have him come in and kiss me, and
see his baby and bless it."
"Would it?" I asked, with my heart all in a dance. "Well, trust the Lord
to do just what's right."
I hurried out and opened the parlor-door. There stood George Perry,
changed so I hardly knew him. He seemed years older; his thick lips
seemed to have suddenly grown thin, and were pressed tightly together,
and there was such an appealing look from his eyes.
"Be very careful now," I whispered, "and you may see them. She expects
you, and don't imagine anything has gone wrong."
I took him into the room, and she looked up with a face like what I
hope the angels have. I didn't see anything more, for my eyes filled up
all of a sudden, so I hurried up-stairs into an empty room, and spent
half an hour crying and thanking the Lord.
There was a pretty to-do at the dinner table that day. I'd intended to
have _souffle_ for desert, and I always make my own _souffles_; but I
forgot everything but the Perrys, and the boarders grumbled awfully. I
didn't care, though; I was too happy to feel abused.
I don't know how George Perry explained his absence to his wife; perhaps
he hasn't done it at all. But I know she seems to be the happiest woman
alive, and that _he_ don't seem to care for anything in the world but
his wife and baby.
As to the woman who came with him to look at a room, I haven't seen her
since; but if she happens to read this story, she may have the
consolation of knowing that there's an old woman who remembers her one
good deed, and prays for her often and earnestly.
RETIRING FROM BUSINESS.
What the colonel's business was nobody knew, nor did any one care,
particularly. He purchased for cash only, and he never grumbled at the
price of anything that he wanted; who could ask more than that?
Curious people occasionally wondered how, when it had been fully two
years since the colonel, with every one else, abandoned Duck Creek to
the Chinese, he managed to spend money freely, and to lose considerable
at cards and horse-races. In fact, the keeper of that one of the two
Challenge Hill saloons which the colonel did not patronize was once
heard to absentmindedly wonder whether the colonel hadn't a money-mill
somewhere, where he turned out double-eagles and "slugs" (the Coast name
for fifty-dollar gold-pieces).
When so important a personage as a barkeeper indulged publicly in an
idea, the inhabitants of Challenge Hill, like good Californians
everywhere, considered themselves in duty bound to give it grave
consideration; so, for a few days, certain industrious professional
gentlemen, who won money of the colonel, carefully weighed some of the
brightest pieces and tested them with acids, and tasted them and sawed
them in two, and retried them and melted them up, and had the lumps
assayed.
The result was a complete vindication of the colonel, and a loss of
considerable custom to the indiscreet barkeeper.
The colonel was as good-natured a man as had ever been known at
Challenge Hill, but, being mortal, the colonel had his occasional times
of despondency, and one of them occurred after a series of races, in
which he had staked his all on his own bay mare Tipsie, and had lost.
Looking reproachfully at his beloved animal failed to heal the aching
void of his pockets, and drinking deeply, swearing eloquently and
glaring defiantly at all mankind, were equally unproductive of coin.
The boys at the saloon sympathized most feelingly with the colonel; they
were unceasing in their invitations to drink, and they even exhibited
considerable Christian forbearance when the colonel savagely dissented
with every one who advanced any proposition, no matter how
incontrovertible.
But unappreciated sympathy grows decidedly tiresome to the giver, and it
was with a feeling of relief that the boys saw the colonel stride out of
the saloon, mount Tipsie, and gallop furiously away.
Riding on horseback has always been considered an excellent sort of
exercise, and fast riding is universally admitted to be one of the most
healthful and delightful means of exhilaration in the world.
But when a man is so absorbed in his exercise that he will not stop to
speak to a friend; and when his exhilaration is so complete that he
turns his eyes from well-meaning thumbs pointing significantly into
doorways through which a man has often passed while seeking bracing
influences, it is but natural that people should express some wonder.
The colonel was well known at Toddy Flat, Lone Hand, Blazers, Murderer's
Bar, and several other villages through which he passed, and as no one
had been seen to precede him, betting men were soon offering odds that
the colonel was running away from somebody.
Strictly speaking they were wrong, but they won all the money that had
been staked against them; for within half an hour's time there passed
over the same road an anxious-looking individual, who reined up in front
of the principal saloon of each place, and asked if the colonel had
passed.
Had the gallant colonel known that he was followed, and by whom, there
would have been an extra election held at the latter place very shortly
after, for the colonel's pursuer was no other than the constable of
Challenge Hill, and for constables and all other officers of the law the
colonel possessed hatred of unspeakable intensity.
On galloped the colonel, following the stage-road, which threaded the
old mining camps on Duck Creek; but suddenly he turned abruptly out of
the road, and urged his horse through the young pines and bushes, which
grew thickly by the road, while the constable galloped rapidly on to the
next camp.
There seemed to be no path through the thicket into which the colonel
had turned, but Tipsie walked between trees and bushes as if they were
but the familiar objects of her own stable-yard.
Suddenly a voice from the bushes shouted:
"What's up?"
"Business--_that's_ what," replied the colonel.
"It's time," replied the voice, and its owner--a bearded
six-footer--emerged from the bushes, and stroked Tipsie's nose with the
freedom of an old acquaintance. "We hain't had a nip sence last night,
an' thar' ain't a cracker or a handful of flour in the shanty. The old
gal go back on yer?"
"Yes," replied the colonel, ruefully--lost ev'ry blasted race. 'Twasn't
_her_ fault, bless her--she done her level best. Ev'rybody to home?"
"You bet," said the man. "All ben a-prayin' for yer to turn up with the
rocks, an' somethin' with more color than spring water. Come on."
The man led the way, and Tipsie and the colonel followed, and the trio
suddenly found themselves before a small log hut, in front of which sat
three solemn, disconsolate-looking individuals, who looked appealingly
at the colonel.
"Mac'll tell yer how 'twas, fellers," said the colonel, meekly, "while
I picket the mare."
The colonel was absent but a very few moments, but when he returned each
of the four men was attired in pistols and knives, while Mac was
distributing some dominoes, made from a rather dirty flour-bag.
"'Tain't so late as all that, is it?" inquired the colonel.
"Better be an hour ahead than miss it this _'ere_ night," said one of
the four. "I ain't been so thirsty sence I come round the Horn, in '50,
an' we run short of water. _Somebody_'ll get hurt ef thar' ain't no
bitters on the old concern--they will, or my name ain't Perkins."
"Don't count yer chickings 'fore they're hetched, Perky," said one of
the party, as he adjusted his domino under the rim of his hat.
"'S'posin' ther' shud be too many for us?"
"Stiddy, Cranks!" remonstrated the colonel. "Nobody ever gets along ef
they 'low 'emselves to be skeered."
"Fact," chimed in the smallest and thinnest man of the party. "The Bible
says somethin' mighty hot 'bout that. I disremember dzackly how it goes;
but I've heerd Parson Buzzy, down in Maine, preach a rippin' old sermon
from that text many a time. The old man never thort what a comfort them
sermons wus a-goin' to be to a road-agent, though. That time we stopped
Slim Mike's stage, an' he didn't hev no more manners than to draw on me,
them sermons wus a perfec' blessin' to me--the thought uv 'em cleared my
head ez quick ez a cocktail. An'--"
"I don't want to disturb Logroller's pious yarn," interrupted the
colonel; "but ez it's Old Black that's drivin' to-day instid of Slim
Mike, an' ez Old Black ollers makes his time, hedn't we better vamose?"
The door of the shanty was hastily closed, and the men filed through the
thicket until near the road, when they marched rapidly on parallel lines
with it. After about half an hour, Perkins, who was leading, halted, and
wiped his perspiring brow with his shirt-sleeve.
"Far enough from home now," said he. "'Tain't no use bein' a gentleman
ef yer hev to work _too_ hard."
"Safe enough, I reckon," replied the colonel. "We'll do the usual; I'll
halt 'em, Logroller'll tend to the driver, Cranks takes the boot, an'
Mac an' Perk takes right an' left. An'--I know it's tough--but
consid'rin' how everlastin' eternally hard up we are, I reckon we'll
have to ask contributions from the ladies, too, ef ther's any
aboard--eh, boy?"
"Reckon so," replied Logroller, with a chuckle that seemed to inspire
even his black domino with a merry wrinkle or two. "What's the use of
women's rights ef they don't ever hev a chance of exercisin' 'em? Hevin'
ther purses borrowed 'ud show 'em the hull doctrine in a bran-new
light."
"They're treacherous critters, women is," remarked Cranks; "some of 'em
might put a knife into a feller while he was 'pologizin'."
"Ef _you're_ afeard of 'em," said Perkins, "you ken go back an' clean up
the shanty."
"Reminds me of what the Bible sez," said Logroller; "'there's a lion on
the trail; I'll be chawed up, sez the lazy galoot,' ur words to that
effect."
"Come, come boys," interposed the colonel; "don't mix religion an'
bizness. They don't mix no more than--Hello, thar's the crack of Old
Black's whip! Pick yer bushes--quick! All jump when I whistle!"
Each man secreted himself near the roadside. The stage came swinging
along handsomely; the inside passengers were laughing heartily about
something, and Old Black was just giving a delicate touch to the flank
of the off leader, when the colonel gave a shrill, quick whistle, and
the five men sprang into the road.
The horses stopped as suddenly as if it was a matter of common
occurrence, Old Black dropped his reins, crossed his legs, and stared
into the sky, and the passengers all put out their heads with a rapidity
equaled only by that with which they withdrew them as they saw the
dominoes and revolvers of the road-agents.
"Seems to be something the matter, gentlemen," said the colonel,
blandly, as he opened the door. "Won't you please git out? Don't trouble
yourselves to draw, cos my friend here's got his weapon cocked, an' his
fingers is rather nervous. Ain't got a han'kercher, hev yer?" asked the
colonel of the first passenger who descended from the stage. "Hev? Well,
now, that's lucky. Jest put yer hands behind yer, please--so--that's
it." And the unfortunate man was securely bound in an instant.
The remaining passengers were treated with similar courtesy, and then
the colonel and his friends examined the pockets of the captives. Old
Black remained unmolested, for who ever heard of a stage-driver having
money?
"Boys," said the colonel, calling his brother agents aside, and
comparing receipts, "'tain't much of a haul; but there's only one woman,
an' she's old enough to be a feller's grandmother. Better let her alone,
eh?"
"Like enough she'll pan out more'n all the rest of the stage put
together," growled Cranks, carefully testing the thickness of case of a
gold watch. "Jest like the low-lived deceitfulness of some folks, to
hire an old woman to kerry ther money so it 'ud go safe. Mebbe what
she's got hain't nothin' to some folks thet's got hosses thet ken win
'em money at races, but--"
The colonel abruptly ended the conversation, and approached the stage.
The colonel was very chivalrous, but Cranks's sarcastic reference to
Tipsie needed avenging, and as he could not consistently with business
arrangements put an end to Cranks, the old lady would have to suffer.