THE PROFESSED PHILANTHROPIST.
The two friends entered a parlor elaborately furnished, and warmed to a
degree that made Catharine faint, coming in as she did from the cold air
of the hall. A table, with a small desk upon it, stood before the fire,
and between that and the cheerful blaze sat a tall and exceedingly
sanctimonious person, clothed in a blue merino dress, gathered in folds
around the waist and fitting tightly at the throat.
Catharine’s heart sunk as she met this woman’s eyes, the expression was
so schooled—the sleek, hypocritical air was so transparent. She had
evidently assumed the saint, till she absolutely believed in her own
infallibility. Hollow and selfish to the core, she had no idea that it
was not a praiseworthy and most holy action to sit in pampered ease from
morning to night, and use the money provided by the truly benevolent as
a means patronizing and wounding those who were compelled to submit to
her unwomanly curiosity and sly dictation.
This woman had subdued her thin, tallowy features into sanctimonious
meekness so long, and had bedewed them so often with tears which came
obedient to her wish, that she had obtained the look of one ready to
burst into a holy fit of weeping, because all the world was not formed
upon the model of her own immaculate self. Whenever an applicant
appeared before her, a watery compassion for the wickedness, for which
she always gave credit in advance, suffused her cold eyes. Even her hair
partook of the general character, and was smoothed back from that narrow
forehead with a precision that nothing less than a tornado could have
ruffled.
In truth, Mrs. Brown, whom we have seen before in all her glory, was a
finished character. The only human feeling to which she ever gave way
was that of intense self-adulation. Even in her prayers she could not
refrain from thanksgiving, that one perfect type of human perfection had
still been left to a sinful world.
This woman was an absolute study, if poor Catharine had possessed the
experience or the will to read her. She had worked so hard in thoroughly
forming the character she had so long assumed, that it seemed to be her
own. Her tall, precise figure, the slim, long hand, of a dead white and
always cold, the narrow face with its dull pallor,—all these were
greatly in her favor; but there was one feature of the demure face not
quite under subjection. The long nose harmonized with the drooping
features both in form and color, but just at the end—as if her true
nature must break forth somewhere—it glowed out with a fiery redness
marvellous to behold. All the heat and color that should have warmed her
thin lips, centred there, as if the nose had instituted some private
experiments on the merits of the excise law, and had resolved to keep
its pleasant researches a secret from the other sanctimonious features.
“Well,” said the benevolent lady, softly, folding her hands over each
other and back again, with solemn graciousness, “well!”
Catharine leaned upon the table for support. The very presence of this
woman made her faint. Her own sensitive nature recoiled from the hollow
mockery of benevolence sitting in state before her.
Mary Margaret saw how pale the poor girl became and ran for a chair.
“She is sickly, ma’am, for all them red cheeks as she had a minute ago,
and it’s tiresome standin’ long,” said the good woman, planting herself
by the seat which she had thus considerately provided, with a feeling
that after all the place was not quite a paradise.
“I do not object to the young person sitting down if she is ill,” said
Mrs. Brown, with a wave of the hand, “but if she is so feeble as that, I
would remind you that this is not a hospital.”
“I am not ill, madam,” said Catharine, with feeling, “but I am homeless
and almost friendless.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Brown, bowing blandly, and caressing her hands again,
“this is your proper home; that is, providing you can be made useful to
the cause, and know how to feel sufficient respect for the dignity of
the Board.”
“I trust,” answered Catharine, gently, “that I shall not be deficient in
proper respect for anything that is in itself respectable.”
“What!” ejaculated the lady of professional benevolence, sharply, while
the bloom on her nose grew radiant, “perhaps I didn’t understand you?”
“I merely intended to say, madam, that anything which is true and
upright, never can lack respect. Even wicked people are forced to
reverence goodness.”
“Very true, very true. I have often felt this when addressed by
individuals who—who claim help here. Sometimes one is forced to bring
the duty of respect before them in forcible language; but it is sure to
come, sometimes in silent homage, sometimes in tears, sometimes with
sullen discontent; but it’s sure to come, before a dollar is paid out
from the funds of this institution.”
“Well,” said Mary Margaret, innocently; “if yer ladyship buys up respect
by the dollar’s worth, I’m just the person that’ll sell bushel-baskets
full at a time, especially regarding yer honor’s ladyship, for I’m
brimming over with reverence for ye, from the crown of yer head to the
sowl of yer foot, and ye’re welcome to it all; only give this poor young
crathur a helpen’ hand into the wide, wide world again. It isn’t for the
likes of her to be kept in a shanty like ours, anyhow.”
Even this singular blending of irony and blarney had its effect upon the
Lady-Bountiful, who had learned to feed her voracious vanity with husks
as well as grain. She smiled sublime condescension on the buxom Irish
woman, and gave her hands an extra twirl, stretching her neck and
rustling her dress like a heron pluming itself.
“You seem a very sensible woman. Such warmth of piety does you credit,”
she said. “It is persons like you, strong and healthy, ready to work in
return for our charity, and to feel the depth of the benefit conferred,
that our Society rejoices in helping. How many children have you, my
good woman?”
Mary Margaret gave the number of her children, finishing with a burst of
maternal eulogium on the health and beauty of the youngest-born.
“Then,” she continued, “there is the little charity baby, just as good
as my own, that’s got a face like an angel’s, and eats like a hathen.
Arrah, but that’s the boy for ye, with his soft, sunshiny hair, and eyes
like the bluest robin’s egg; to say nothing of the old man, who wins
mate and drink for us all, when there’s work to be had.”
“Then you did not come for help?”
“Not on me own account, yer ladyship’s reverence, if I may call ye so on
account of the beauty and holiness that’s in ye. There is potaties
growin’ in the bit of garden, and a pig at the back door, that’ll keep
the hunger out yet a while; but this sweet young crathur, if yer
reverential piety will just turn itself on her!”
“So many children, and a husband without work! that is a hard case,”
persisted the Lady-Bountiful brimming over with gratified vanity, which
she solemnly believed to be an outburst of charity,—“something must be
done for you. Wait a moment.”
The lady arose, opened a store-room adjoining her parlor, and after some
research, drew forth a pair of heavy, woollen stockings, which some
blessed old farmer’s wife had sent down to the city in a donation of old
clothes, firm in the belief that her little mite would work out a
miracle of redemption somewhere among the reprobates of a great city.
“Here,” she said, with a look of intense benevolence, holding out the
yarn stockings, which, by the way, were not mates, “take these, and, in
gratitude to the Society, make a good use of them. Don’t use our
benevolence as an excuse for waste and idleness; but remember that an
obligation like this, received unworthily, can never prove a permanent
blessing. Take them, good woman, and while you receive our bounty with a
just appreciation of its value, we will remember you in our prayers.”
It was beautiful to see the tears spring up, cold and heavy, like
melting hail-stones, into those lustreless eyes, as the hackneyed
philanthropist, overwhelmed with the magnitude of her own virtues, held
out the huge, moth-eaten stockings to the astonished Irish woman.
“Don’t hold back; you may accept the charity of our Society without
fear; beneficence is its most heavenly attribute. You see before you a
proof that where the object is worthy, we are always ready to be
liberal.”
Mary Margaret took the stockings, tucked one under her arm, while she
thrust her hand into the other, which came out at an opening in the
heel, doubled-up like a sledgehammer.
Catharine, amid all her anxiety, could not prevent the smile, that
quivered on her lips, from breaking into a low laugh.
The Lady-Bountiful gave her a look of solemn indignation, which Mary
Margaret was quick to observe.
“She’s overjoyed at my good luck, yer ladyship,” said the kind woman,
withdrawing her hand into the foot of the stocking; “ye don’t know what
a grateful crathur she is, always smiling like that when good comes to a
friend. Now I dare say she was thinkin’ that a ball of yarn, and a
darning-needle, would make these the most iligant pair of stockings that
an honest man can put on his feet; and she knows, too, that I’m the
woman that can darn as well as the queen herself. Now, marm, that you’ve
overcome me with your goodness intirely, just give her a turn of your
ladyship’s benevolence.”
“She looks sickly. Besides, I’m afraid she will prove one of the
stiff-necked and rebellious class of persons whose ingratitude has
pierced the Society so often. But I will ask her a few questions. Will
the individual tell me where she was born?”
“Is it important that you should know?” questioned Catharine, in a
suppressed voice.
“Certainly; justice may be blind, but charity never is!”
“I have no reason for concealment; but it seems an unnecessary question.
I do not ask for money, or charity of any kind. I supposed that a
society, established for benevolent purposes, would gladly help an
honorable girl to obtain some means of earning her own livelihood. It is
not charity that I ask, but help; such as one woman may give to another,
quietly and with a feeling of sisterhood. This is what I expected.”
“Then you refuse to answer my questions. How am I to know whether you
are worthy or not?”
“If I were unworthy, would you be likely to learn it from my own lips?
But I will not refuse; it may be necessary. I was born in the city.”
“What is your name? Who are your relatives? How came you here?”
Catharine turned deathly pale and trembled. For the first time in her
life she came near assuming her husband’s name. It was an act of
disobedience, for, until his return, he had forbidden this; but she
shrunk from her own name as if it were a disgrace; it seemed to her that
every one must know that she was a childless mother. She hesitated, her
color came and went, the fear of disgrace struggled hard against her
natural dread of assuming her husband’s name unauthorized. At last her
resolution was taken. She would risk everything rather than disobey the
man whom she had loved and trusted so entirely. He might be false to
her, but she would still hold firm to her promise—never till he came
back would she take his name.