Ruth Hall Part 12

"Never put anything on paper, never put anything on paper," said Mr. Ellet, in a solemn tone, with a ludicrously frightened air; "parchments, lawyers, witnesses, and things, make me nervous."

"Ha! ha!" chuckled the old lady from her hiding-place in the china-closet.

"Well, then, if you won't put it on paper, _tell_ me what you will give," said the persistent doctor.

"I'll _think_ about it," said the frenzied Mr. Ellet, seizing his hat, as if instant escape were his only safety.

The doctor followed him into the hall.

"Did you make him do it?" asked the old lady, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, as the doctor entered.

"Yes; but it was like drawing teeth," replied the doctor. "It is astonishing how avaricious he is; he may not stick to his promise now, for he would not put it on paper, and there was no witness."

"Wasn't there though?" said the old lady, chuckling. "Trust me for that."

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

In a dark, narrow street, in one of those heterogeneous boarding-houses abounding in the city, where clerks, market-boys, apprentices, and sewing-girls, bolt their meals with railroad velocity; where the maid-of-all-work, with red arms, frowzy head, and leathern lungs, screams in the entry for any boarder who happens to be inquired for at the door; where one plate suffices for fish, flesh, fowl, and dessert; where soiled table-cloths, sticky crockery, oily cookery, and bad grammar, predominate; where greasy cards are shuffled, and bad cigars smoked of an evening, you might have found Ruth and her children.

"Jim, what do you think of her?" said a low-browed, pig-faced, thick-lipped fellow, with a flashy neck-tie and vest, over which several yards of gilt watch-chain were festooned ostentatiously; "prettyish, isn't she?"

"Deuced nice form," said Jim, lighting a cheap cigar, and hitching his heels to the mantel, as he took the first whiff; "I shouldn't mind kissing her."

"_You?_" said Sam, glancing in an opposite mirror; "I flatter myself you would stand a poor chance when your humble servant was round. If I had not made myself scarce, out of friendship, you would not have made such headway with black-eyed Sue, the little milliner."

"Pooh," said Jim, "Susan Gill was delf, this little widow is porcelain; I say it is a deuced pity she should stay up stairs, crying her eyes out, the way she does."

"Want to marry her, hey?" said Sam, with a sneer.

"Not I; none of your ready-made families for me; pretty foot, hasn't she? I always put on my coat in the front entry, about the time she goes up stairs, to get a peep at it. It is a confounded pretty foot, Sam, bless me if it isn't; I should like to drive the owner of it out to the race-course, some pleasant afternoon. I must say, Sam, I like widows.

I don't know any occupation more interesting than helping to dry up their tears; and then the little dears are so grateful for any little attention. Wonder if my swallow-tailed coat won't be done to-day? that rascally tailor ought to be snipped with his own shears."

"Well, now, I wonder when you gentlemen intend taking yourselves off, and quitting the drawing-room," said the loud-voiced landlady, perching a cap over her disheveled tresses; "this parlor is the only place I have to dress in; can't you do your talking and smoking in your own rooms? Come now--here's a lot of newspapers, just take them and be off, and give a woman a chance to make herself beautiful."

"Beautiful!" exclaimed Sam, "the old dragon! she would make a good scarecrow for a corn-field, or a figure-head for a piratical cruiser; beautiful!" and the speaker smoothed a wrinkle out of his flashy yellow vest; "it is my opinion that the uglier a woman is, the more beautiful she thinks herself; also, that any of the s.e.x may be bought with a yard of ribbon, or a breastpin."

"Certainly," said Jim, "you needn't have lived to this time of life to have made that discovery; and speaking of that, reminds me that the little widow is as poor as Job's turkey. My washerwoman, confound her for ironing off my shirt-b.u.t.tons, says that she wears her clothes rough-dry, because she can't afford to pay for both washing and ironing."

"She does?" replied Sam; "she'll get tired of that after awhile. I shall request 'the dragon,' to-morrow, to let me sit next her at the table.

I'll begin by helping the children, offering to cut up their victuals, and all that sort of thing--that will please the mother, you know; hey?

But, by Jove! it's three o'clock, and I engaged to drive a gen'lemen down to the steamboat landing; now some other hackney coach will get the job. Confound it!"

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

Counting houses, like all other spots beyond the pale of female jurisdiction, are comfortless looking places. The counting-room of Mr.

Tom Develin was no exception to the above rule; though we will do him the justice to give in our affidavit, that the ink-stand, for seven consecutive years, had stood precisely in the same spot, bounded on the north by a box of letter stamps, on the south by a package of brown business envelopes, on the east by a pen wiper, made originally in the form of a b.u.t.terfly, but which frequent ink dabs had trans.m.u.ted into a speckled caterpillar, on the west by half sheets of blank paper, rescued economically from business letters, to save too prodigal consumption of foolscap.

It is unnecessary to add that Mr. Tom Develin was a bachelor; perpendicular as a ram-rod, moving over _terra firma_ as if fearful his joints would unhinge, or his spinal column slip into his boots; carrying his _arms_ with military precision; supporting his ears with a collar, never known by 'the oldest inhabitant' to be limpsey; and stepping circ.u.mspectly in boots of mirror-like brightness, never defiled with the mud of the world.

Perched on his apple-sized head, over plastered wind-proof locks, was the shiniest of hats, its wearer turning neither to the right nor the left; and, although possessed of a looking-gla.s.s, laboring under the hallucination that _he_, of all masculine moderns, was most dangerous to the female heart.

Mr. Develin's book store was on the west side of Literary Row. His windows were adorned with placards of new theological publications of the blue-school order, and engravings of departed saints, who with their last breath had, with mock humility, requested brother somebody to write their obituaries. There was, also, to be seen there an occasional oil painting "for sale," selected by Mr. Develin himself, with a peculiar eye to the greenness of the trees, the blueness of the sky, and the moral "tone" of the picture.

Mr. Develin congratulated himself on his extensive acquaintance with clergymen, professors of colleges, students, scholars, and the literati generally. By dint of patient listening to their desultory conversations, he had picked up threads of information on literary subjects, which he carefully wound around his memory, to be woven into his own tete-a-tetes, where such information would "tell;" always, of course, omitting quotation marks, to which some writers, as well as conversationists, have a const.i.tutional aversion. It is not surprising, therefore, that his tete-a-tetes should be on the _mosaic_ order; the listener's interest being heightened by the fact, that he had not, when in a state of pinafore, cultivated Lindley Murray too a.s.siduously.

Mr. Develin had fostered his b.u.mp of caution with a truly praiseworthy care. He meddled very gingerly with new publications; in fact, transacted business on the old fogy, stage-coach, rub-a-dub principle; standing back with distended eyes, and suppressed breath, in holy horror of the whistle, whiz-rush and steam of modern publishing houses. "A penny saved, is a penny gained," said this eminent financier and stationer, as he used _half a wafer_ to seal his business letters.

"Any letters this morning?" said Mr. Develin to his clerk, as he deposited his umbrella in the northwest corner of his counting-room, and re-smoothed his unctuous, unruffled locks; "any letters?" and taking a package from the clerk's hand, he circ.u.mspectly lowered himself between his coat-tails into an arm-chair, and leisurely proceeded to their inspection.

"MR. DEVELIN:--

"Sir,--I take the liberty, knowing you to be one of the referees about our son's estate, which was left in a dreadful confusion, owing probably to his wife's thriftlessness, to request of you a small favor. When our son died, he left a great many clothes, vests, coats, pants, &c., which his wife, no doubt, urged his buying, and which, of course, can be of no use to her now, as she never had any boys, which we always regretted. I take my pen in hand to request you to send the clothes to me, as they will save my tailor's bill; please send, also, a circular broadcloth cloak, faced with velvet, his cane, hats, and our son's Bible, which Ruth, of course, never looks into--we wish to use it at family prayers.

Please send them all at your earliest convenience. Hoping you are in good health, I am yours to command,

"ZEKIEL HALL."

Mr. Develin re-folded the letter, crossed his legs and mused. "The law allows the widow the husband's wearing apparel, but what can Ruth do with it? (as the doctor says, she has no boys,) and with her _peculiar notions_, it is not probable she would sell the clothes. The law is on her side, undoubtedly, but luckily she knows no more about law than a baby; she is poor, the doctor is a man of property; Ruth's husband was my friend to be sure, but a man must look out for No. 1 in this world, and consider a little what would be for his own interest. The doctor may leave me a little slice of property if I keep on the right side of him, who knows? The clothes must be sent."

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

"'Tisn't a pretty place," said little Katy, as she looked out the window upon a row of brick walls, dingy sheds, and discolored chimneys; "'tisn't a pretty place, mother, I want to go home."

"Home!" Ruth started! the word struck a chord which vibrated--oh how painfully.

"Why _don't_ we go home, mother?" continued Katy; "won't papa ever, ever, come and take us away? there is something in my throat which makes me want to cry all the time, mother," and Katy leaned her curly head wearily on her mother's shoulder.

Ruth took the child on her lap, and averting her eyes, said with a forced smile:

"Little sister don't cry, Katy."