Page:Peterson Magazine 1869B.pdf/482

 OUR FORTUNE.

honored member of the Legislature, as well as one of the largest cultivators in that distant State; but that their good-will was not ephe- neral, is evinced by an occasional letter glow- ing with warm wishes and tender memories, not to speak of the barrels of apples and hazel-nuts which come in to our children every autumn.

Then there was poor Fanny Lynne, the seam- stress, who lived a story higher, and who used to pant so as she came up the stairs. Poor thing! her unaided hand-to-hand struggle with poverty was so severe, that all thoughts, save of labor, seemed to be crushed out of her being, till at last the kind All-Father, who understands and pities these toiling Marthas, gently drew the work from her weary hands, and folding them in everlasting rest, took her to sit, like Mary, at his feet in the heavenly kingdom.

Besides these, there were Jones, the police- man, the widow Ray, and old Mr. and Mrs. Greenfield, an ancient couple, whose early days had been passed among the fresh pastures ‘and budding orchards of a country homestead, with a number of others. For the old house, which had once been a princely mansion, was large, and sheltered many under its dilapidated roof.

In the back buildings was a colony of profes- sional people, principally actors and musicians, whose noisy, Bohemian manners used to amuse me very much. But the person who interested me most, was an old gentleman who lived far up in the attic. I said gentleman, for though he might certainly have claimed the superlative of the word descriptive of us all, (shabby, ) there was about’ him that nameless air of gentility, which, like the perfume of roses, is never wholly lost. Who he was, and how he lived, were alike unknown; for he evaded all companionship, and, indeed, was seldom seen, save at nightfall, when he sometimes passed up and down with a covered basket in his hand.

Often in the twilight, taking Vivia in my arms, and going out on the landing to ‘look for my husband, I watched this odd creature flitting, shadow-like, through the gloaming till a strange, yearning pity for the lonely old man took possession of my heart. But nothing beyond a ourt “good-evening” could my most cordial greeting ever elicit.

It was to chance at last that I owed my close acquaintance. It was one evening when Harry was rather late in returning, and I had left the door open to light him up the stairs, that my mysterious neighbor appeared upon the threshold, asking: for a match, apologizing for the trouble by saying that he did not feel well enough to go out to buy any. I suppose it was the light that attracted him there, though it may have been my overtures of friendship; for I do not think a creature in the house, save my silly self, ever gave a thought to the unsocial attic lodger. He stood a moment looking into my humble room—humble, but bright as lamp and firelight, humming kettle, purring puss, and baby-laughter could make it; and if ever I saw hunger, bitter, heart-hunger, on a man’s face, it was then.

“Will you not come in?” I said. But my words, kindly as I meant them to be, only seemed to startle him to a sense of his occupa- tion; and, thanking me, he turned and hurried away with the desperate haste of a lost spirit fleeing from the gate of that Paradise it may never enter.

“Unpromising subject for a romance, Bess,” said Harry, at supper, when I was telling him about it. But then he always had a habit of teazing me about my ‘unaccountable fancies.” Subsequent events cured him of it.

Two days, three passed, without my seeing the old gentleman again, and I began to grow strangely uneasy. I remembered his having complained of illness, and imagination pictured him dying alone, and untended, in the dreary garret. By the fourth day my anxiety had be- come so intense that I resolved upon the bold course of going up to see him.

Wrapping baby in her little plaid shawl—for though spring had eome in name, it was cold in the passages—I began my journey toward the sky, that is, up the stairs. But ere I had as- cended the last flight a strange noise greeted me, growing louder and louder as I approached the old man’s room, whence it evidently issued. It was that kind of sound which people speak of as making their blood run cold. I dare say the excited state of my nerves was unfavorable to calm judgment, for to me it seemed that it could proceed from nothing human. Sharper and sharper it came. I stood irresolute, not knowing whether to advance or te beat a re- treat. But a spice of reckless daring—which, had I been a man, would, doubtless, have made me a pioneer, or a, freebooter—is inherent in my nature, and summoning. up this courage of desperation, I ventured closer,“and knocked boldly upon the door.

The rasping and scraping, ér whatever it was, ceased instantly, and a voice ‘within demaded,

“Who is there?”

“Mrs. Lawrence,” I answered; then thinking that he might not know my name, I added, ‘The lady on the second floor, from whom you borrowed some matches the other evening.”