"Then it is 'yes,' father dear?" said Angela, looking across the
breakfast table with a smile. It was her mother's smile, and the girl
had filled her mother's vacant chair for more than a year.
The eyes of the father and daughter met, and Angela knew, before a word
was said, that she had conquered.
"I hate to see you at your age, beginning to worry over these things,"
Ephraim Frazier said, regretfully. "Let the _old_ women take care of the
charities, dear. You keep on dancing in the sunshine a while longer,
daughter."
Angela's smile grew graver, but not less sweet.
"I am twenty, dear," she said. "Too old to dance _all_ the time, and I
cannot help _thinking_, you know. And--it's no use, papa dear! I _must_
do something! It _is_ 'yes,' isn't it?"
"You are sure you won't mind being criticised and ridiculed?"
"Quite sure!" answered Angela.
"And sure you won't take your failures and disappointments to heart too
deeply?"
"Quite sure I can bear them bravely," answered the girl. "If only one,
_just one_, of those poor creatures may be helped, and lifted up, and
brought out of darkness, it will be worth trying for!"
"And what does Robert Johns say about it?"
A glow kindled in Angela's face.
"Robert is in perfect sympathy with me," she said softly. Then again,
this time having risen and gone around to his side, to speak with her
face against the old banker's smoothly shaven cheek, "It _is_ 'yes,'
isn't it, daddy dear?"
"Well, yes! Only you must go slow, dear. You are not over strong, you
know."
And soon it came to pass that on a vacant lot, hitherto given over to
refuse heaps, haunted by stray cats, ragpickers, and vagrant children,
in one of the vilest quarters of the metropolis, there sprang up, with
magic swiftness, a commodious frame building, surrounded by smooth green
sod, known in the lower circles as the Locust Street Home; in upper
circles, laughingly denominated "Angela's Experiment."
Angela did not mind. It was mostly goodnatured laughter, and many of the
laughers ended by lending willing hands and hearts to the cause. It was
wonderful how the news spread through the city's purlieus that here was
a sanctuary into which cold, hunger, and fatigue dared not intrude; a
place which the lowest might enter and be made welcome, and go
unquestioned, his personal rights as carefully respected as though he
were one of the Four Hundred.
That was Angela's theory. No man, woman, or child should be _compelled_
to anything. First make their bodies comfortable, then surround them
with ennobling influences and examples, entertain them, arouse them,
stimulate them, hold out the helping hand, _and leave the rest to God_.
"They shall not even be _compelled_ to be clean!" she said, laughing.
"If the beautiful clean bathrooms and clean clothing do not tempt them
to cleanliness, then so be it! I will have no rules; only influences.
You will see!"
And people did see, and wondered.
Sometimes, on warm, pleasant evenings, the spacious, cheerful hall, with
its tables and chairs, would be almost empty; but on nights like that on
which this story opens, a dark, cold December night, the seats were apt
to be well filled, mostly with slatternly, hard-featured women, and
dull-faced children, who sat staring stolidly about, while the music and
speaking went on; half stupefied by the warmth and tranquillity so
foreign to their lives.
Outside, a dismal sleet was falling, but from the open door of the
vestibule a great sheet of light fell upon the wet pavement, and above
it glowed a transparency bearing the words:
"A Merry Christmas to all! Come in!"
It was while the singing was going on, led by a high, sweet girl's
voice, that a human figure came hobbling out from a side street, and
stopped short at the very edge of the lighted space.
A woman by her dress, an old, old woman, with a seamed, blotched face;
an ugly, human wreck, all torn and battered and discolored by the storms
of life. Such was old Marg--"Luny Marg," as she was called in the haunts
that knew her best. Her history? She had forgotten it herself, very
likely, and there was no one to know or care--no one in the wide world
to care if she should at any moment be trampled to death, or slip from
the dock into the black river. The garret which lodged her would find
another tenant; the children of the gutters another target for their
missiles. Not that she was worse than others--only that she was old and
ugly and sharp of tongue, and the world--even _her_ world--has no use
for such as she.
For some time this forlorn creature continued to hover on the edge of
the lighted space. The sleet had become snow, and already a thin white
film covered the pavement, promising "a white Christmas," and the cold
increased from moment to moment.
The woman drew her filthy shawl closer; her jaws chattered, yet she
seemed unable to tear herself from the spot. Her eyes, alert under
their gray brows, as a rat's, were fixed now upon the open door, now
upon the transparency, yet she made no motion toward the proffered
shelter. Two men, hirsute and ragged, stopped near her and, after a
moments consultation, slunk across the square of light and disappeared
in the building. As the door was opened, there came a fuller burst of
song, and a rush of warm air, fragrant with the aroma of coffee and
oysters.
The old woman's body quivered with desire; food, warmth, rest--all that
her miserable frame demanded--were there within easy reach, for the mere
asking; nay for the mere taking; yet still the devils of stubbornness
and spite would not let go their hold upon her. But finally, as a bitter
blast swept the snow stingingly against her face, she uttered a hoarse
snarl, and glancing about to see that no jeering eye was upon her, the
poor creature crept across the pavement, clambered up the stone steps,
and, pushing open the door, slipped into the nearest vacant seat.
The chairs and benches were unusually well filled. Numbers of women and
children were in the foreground. A few men were also present, sitting
with their bodies hanging forward, their hats tightly clutched between
their knees, their eyes fixed on the floor. The women and children, on
the contrary, followed every movement of the young women on the platform
with furtive eagerness.
The simplicity of attire which Angela and her friends had assumed did
not deceive even the tiniest gutter-child present--these were "ladies,"
and one and all accorded them the same tribute of genuine, if reluctant,
admiration.
Old Marg, after the embarrassment of the first moment, took everything
in with one hawk-like glance--the Christmas greens upon the clean, white
walls, the curtained space in the rear which hid some pleasant mystery,
the men and women on the platform.
At the organ sat a young girl, leaning upon the now silent keys, her
face toward the young man who was speaking. Old Marg could not take her
eyes from this face--white, serious, sweet, set in a halo of pale golden
hair. The sight of it aroused strange feelings in the bosom of the old
outcast. Fascinated, tortured, bewildered, she sat and gazed. It was
long since she had thought of her youth. This girl reminded her of that
forgotten time. Like a violet flung upon a refuse-heap, the thought of
her own innocent girlhood lay for an instant upon the foul mass of
memories accumulated by sixty-miserable years. "_I_ was light-haired,
too!" ran old Marg's thoughts. "Light-haired, an' light-complected, like
her!"
The perfume of that thought breathed across her soul, and was gone.
Still she gazed from under her shaggy brows, and, without meaning to
listen, found herself hearing what the speaker was saying. He was
telling without rhetoric or cant the story of Christ, and with
simplicity and tact presenting the lesson of His life.
"This joy of giving, of sacrificing for others," the young man was
saying in his earnest, musical voice, "so far beyond the joy of
receiving, is within the reach of every human being. Think of that! The
poorest man or woman or child who breathes on earth to-night may know
this joy, may give some pleasure, some help, some comfort, to some
fellow-creature. Whether it be a human creature or a dumb beast, matters
not. It is all one in God's sight, being an act of love and kindness and
sacrifice."
Old Marg looked down upon her squalid rags; her rough features writhed
with a scornful smile. "That's a lie!" she muttered. "What could the
likes of _me_ do for anybody, I'd like to know!"
Still she listened; but at last, as the warmth stole through her sodden
garments, and into her chilled veins, and the peace of the place
penetrated the turbulent recesses of her soul, the man's voice became
like a voice heard in a dream, and the old outcast slept.
A confused sound greeted her awakening. Some one was playing the organ
jubilantly; people were moving about--girls with trays loaded with
steaming dishes; children were talking and laughing excitedly. The
curtain had been drawn, and a great Christmas-tree almost blinded her
with its splendor. She stared about in bewilderment. She looked at the
tree, at the people, at her own foul rags. A fierce revulsion of feeling
swept over her. Rage, shame, a desire to get out of sight, to be
swallowed up in the darkness and misery which were her proper element,
seized and mastered her. She staggered to her feet. A young girl
approached her with a tray of tempting food. The sight and smell of it
goaded the starved creature to madness. She could have fallen upon it
like a wolf, but instead she pushed the girl roughly aside and fumbled
dizzily at the door-knob.
A hand was laid upon her arm. The girl with the sweet, white face was
looking at her with a friendly smile.
"Won't you stay and have something warm to eat before going into the
cold?" the girl asked gently.
Old Marg shook the hand from her arm.
"No!" she snarled. "I don't want nothin'! Let me go!"
With a patient smile Angela opened the door.
"I am sorry you will not stay," she said softly. "It would give me great
pleasure. There is a gift for you on the tree, too. It is Christmas Eve,
you know!"
A hoarse, choking sound came from the woman's lips. She pushed by into
the vestibule. Angela followed.
"If you should feel differently to-morrow," she said, in her kind,
gentle voice, "come here again, about eleven o'clock. I shall be here."
Without waiting for a reply, she re-entered the hall. A young man, the
same who had been speaking, met her at the door.
"Angela!" he exclaimed. "You should not be out there in the cold!" She
smiled absently. "Did you see her, Robert?"
"That terrible old woman? Yes, I saw her. A hopeless case, I fear."
Angela's eyes kept their absent look.
"It was awful to see her go away like that, into the cold and snow,
hungry and half-clad!" she said.
The young man leaned nearer. "Angela," he whispered. "You must not let
these things sink into your heart as you do, or you cannot bear the work
you have undertaken. As for that old creature, it is terrible to think
of her, but she seemed to me beyond our reach."
"But not beyond God's reach _through us_!" said Angela.
Meantime old Marg was facing the storm with rage and pain in her face
and in her heart. The streets were deserted, and lighted only by such
beams as found their way through the dirty windows of shops and saloons.
From these last came sounds of revelry and contention, and at one or
another the poor creature paused, listening without fear to the familiar
hubbub. Should she go in? Some one might give her a drink, to ease for a
time the terrible gnawing at her breast. Might? Yes; but more likely she
would be thrust out with jeers and curses, and, for some reason, old
Marg was in no mood to use the caustic wit and ready tongue that were
her only weapons. So she staggered on until the swarming tenement was
reached, stumbled up the five flights of unillumined stairs, and almost
fell headlong into the dismal garret which she called her home.
Feeling about in the darkness, she found a match and lit a bit of candle
which stopped the neck of an empty bottle. It burned uncertainly as if
reluctant to disclose the scene upon which its light fell. A
smoke-stained, sloping ceiling, a blackened floor, a shapeless mattress
heaped with rags, a deal box, a rusty stove resting upon two bricks,
supporting in its turn an ancient frying-pan, a chipped saucer, and a
battered tin can from which, when the scavenger business was good, old
Marg served afternoon tea--such were her home and all her personal
belongings.
There was no fire, nor any means of producing one, but upon the box was
spread a piece of paper containing a slice of bread and a soup-bone,
whereto clung some fragments of meat--the gift of a neighbor hardly less
wretched than herself.
The old woman's eyes glittered at the sight, and, seizing the food, she
sank weakly upon the box and began gnawing at it; but her toothless
jaws, stiff with cold, made no impression upon the tough meat and hard
crust, and letting them drop to the floor, the poor creature fell to
rocking to and fro, whimpering tearlessly, like a suffering dog.
Strangely enough, within the withered bosom of this most wretched
creature there had welled up, from some hidden source of womanly
feeling, a passionate self-pity, a no less passionate self-loathing.
This was what a moment's contact with all that she had so long
abjured--purity, order, gentleness--had brought to pass.
That fair young girl-tall, pale, sweet as an Easter lily--stood before
her like an incarnate memory, pointing toward the past, the far-distant
past, when she, too, was young, and pretty, and innocent, and gay--too
pretty and too gay for a poor working girl! That was where the trouble
began.
"I was light haired, too," moaned old Marg, twisting her withered
fingers restlessly. "Light-haired, and light-complected! A pretty girl,
an' a good girl, too! Not like _her_. No! How could I be? Little the
likes o' her knows what the likes o' me has to face! Lord!"
The bit of candle guttered and went out. The cold increased. It had
ceased snowing, and a keen wind had arisen, tearing the clouds into
shreds through which the stars gleamed. And presently the moon climbed
up behind the belfry of the old church across the square, and sent one
broad white ray through the dingy window and across the floor. All at
once the great bell began to strike the midnight hour, its mingled
vibrations filling the garret with tumultuous sounds. The vision of the
fair girl faded, and old Marg was herself again, a hard, bitter,
rebellious old woman, with a burning care where her heart had been, and
only one thought, one desire, left in her desperate mind--the thought
and the desire of death.
In young and passionate days she had often thought of seeking that way
out of life's agonies, but at its worst there is always some sweetness
left in the cup--when one is young! It was not so now. The dregs only
had been hers for many a year, and she had enough. Death--yes, that was
best.
Her eyes glittered as she cast a look about the silent room. Bare, even
of the means to this end! Ah, the window!
With an inarticulate cry the woman arose and hobbled along the shining
moon-ray to the window, and threw open the sash. Awed by the stern
beauty of the heavens, the splendor of the moon tangled in the lace-like
carvings of the belfry as in a net, she leaned some moments against the
sill, looking out and down. Far below lay the deserted square, its white
bosom traced with the sharp shadow of the tower. With a keen eye old
Marg measured the distance, a sheer descent of fifty feet. Nothing to
break the fall--nothing!
One movement, a swift fall, and that white surface would be broken by a
black shapeless heap. A policeman would find it on his next round, or
some drunken reveler would stumble over it, or the good people on their
way to early mass--ah! The seamed countenance lit up suddenly with a
malignant joy.
Why not wait until they began to pass--those pious, respectable people
in their comfortable furs and wools--and cast herself into their midst,
a ghastly Christmas offering from Poverty to Riches, from Sin to Virtue?
This suggestion commended itself highly to her sense of humor. With a
hoarse chuckle she was about to close the window when a portion of the
shadow that lay alongside the chimney showed signs of life, and, rising
on four long and skinny legs, became a cat--a lean, black cat, which
crept meekly toward the window, its phosphorescent eyes gleaming, its
lank jaws parted in a vain effort to mew. Startled, old Marg drew back
for an instant; then, glancing from the animal to the pavement below, a
brutal cunning, a malicious pleasure, lit up the witch-like features.
Reaching out one skinny arm, she called coaxingly: "Puss! Puss!"
The cat dragged herself up to the outstretched arm, rubbing her lank
body caressingly against it.
The cruel, cunning old face softened suddenly. "Lord!" muttered old
Marg, "if she ain't a-tryin' to _purr_! Wall, that beats me!"
The poor beast continued its piteous appeal for aid, arching its
starved frame, waving its tail, fawning unsuspectingly against the arm
that had threatened.
With an impulse new to her misery-hardened heart, old Marg drew the
animal in and closed the window. Far from resisting, the cat nestled
against her with every sign of pleasure.
"She's been somebody's pet," said the old woman, placing her on the
floor. "She ain't always been like this."
The divine emotion of pity, so new to this forlorn creature, grew and
swelled in her bosom. The man at the hall had _not_ lied, after all.
Here was another of God's creatures as miserable as herself--nay, more
so, for she had a roof to shelter her! And she could share it with this
homeless one.
"Poor puss!" muttered old Marg, stroking the rough fur. "You're
starvin', too, ain't ye? an' I ain't got nothin' to give ye, not a bite
or a sup. Ah!"
Her eyes had fallen upon the discarded food. Eagerly she seized it and
placed it before the cat; the starving creature gnawed greedily at the
bone an instant, then looked up with a hopeless mew.
The old woman felt a keener pang of pity.
"Poor beast!" she said, with a bitter smile. "Ye can't eat 'em, can ye?
No more could I! We're in the same box, puss! Old, an' toothless, an'
nobody belongin' to us. We'll have to starve together, I guess. An' it's
Christmas day! Did ye know that, puss? Christmas day! Lord! Lord!"
The cat rubbed against her skirts, her eyes fixed upon her benefactor's.
"Seems to understand every word I say!" old Marg muttered. "If only I
had a drop o' milk for her now!"
Hobbling to the stove, she examined the battered tin can, letting the
moonlight shine into its rusty depths. A little water or tea remained in
it, and with this she moistened some of the bread and placed it before
the cat, which devoured it now eagerly. Then she took the animal in her
arms and laid herself down on the mattress, drawing the ragged covers
over them. The cat nestled against her side; the warmth of the two poor
bodies mingled, and both slept.
The moon-ray crept along and spread itself over the heap of rags, the
knotted fingers resting on the cat's rough fur, the seamed old face; it
passed away, and morning dawned, with a peal of bells and the sound of
footsteps on the pavement below, and still the two slept on.
Angela stood near the door, receiving her Christmas guests. They came
straggling in, in twos and threes, some boldly and impudently, some
shame-faced and shy, some eager, some indifferent, but all
poverty-pinched. Each one was pleasantly welcomed, and passed on to the
feast. Angela watched and waited, and at last the door opened slowly to
admit old Marg, who stopped short on the threshold, with a look at once
stubborn, appealing, suspicious, ashamed. Like a wild animal on the
alert for the faintest sign of repulsion or danger, she stood there, but
Angela only smiled, proffering her white, soft hand, destitute of
jewels, but the hand of a lady.
"A Merry Christmas!" she said brightly.
"I was ugly to ye last night," said old Marg huskily, ignoring the
beautiful hand she dared not touch.
"Never mind!" Angela answered sweetly. "You were tired."
"I am a bad old woman!" said old Marg, mistrustfully.
"Never mind that, either!" said Angela. "Let me be your friend. If you
will, you shall never be cold or hungry again."
A profound wonder came into the old face--then it began to writhe, and
from each eye oozed scant tears, seeking a channel amid the seams and
wrinkles of the sunken cheeks.
"You will let me be your friend," urged Angela.
Still old Marg wept silently, the scant tears of age.
"You shall have a pleasant home and----"
A swift, suspicious glance darted from the wet eyes.
"Not a 'sylum, miss, please!" said the old woman.
"No," said Angela quietly. "Not an asylum, A home--a bright, clean,
comfortable home----"
"I can work, miss!" put in old Marg, doubling her knotted hands to show
their strength. "I can wash, an' scrub----"
"Yes," said Angela, "you may work all you are able, helping to keep
things clean and comfortable."
Still old Marg looked doubtful. Wiping her cheeks with a corner of the
shawl, she half turned toward the door.
"Have you a family, or any one belonging to you?" asked Angela, thinking
to have reached the root of the difficulty.
"Yes," said the old woman stoutly. "I have a cat. Where I go, she must
go, too!"
Angela patted the grimy hand, with a laugh which was good to hear.
"I understand you perfectly," she said. "I have a cat of my own. You and
_your_ cat shall not be separated."
A half-hour later entered the young man Robert. Angela pointed silently
to old Marg, sitting in a warm corner, contentedly munching her
Christmas dinner. "What have you done to her?" he asked. "She looks more
human already."
Angela laughed again, that same laugh which goes to one's heart so. "I
have adopted her--and her cat!" she answered. "That's all!"