EDITHA BESTOWS CHARITY
The time, for the first week or two after Earle’s departure, dragged
heavily to Editha, and then, with her usual good sense, she resolved to
fill up the months of his absence with work—the very best antidote in
the world for all life’s weariness and ills. Consequently, she set
herself a daily task in music and in perfecting herself in the languages
of German and French, and after that time flew as if on magic wings.
Twice every week she wrote to Earle, and twice every week she heard from
him. And such letters as they were, too! Full of such deep, strong,
abiding devotion as only such men as he are capable of feeling and
expressing.
Whether Mr. Dalton suspected the flight and reception of these little
white-winged messengers of love was a matter of doubt to Editha. At all
events they were none of them intercepted or tampered with, since she
alone held the key to lock-box 1,004, and trusted no one else with it.
She wondered often what the nature of Earle’s business abroad could be,
and what great good he expected it to bring him if he was successful.
She wondered if it was some case connected with the lords and nobles of
that country, and by which some American descendant expected to be
elevated to the nobility of the land.
She built many a romance and castle in the air, but whether they would
stand or fall she could not tell until her lover’s return. He did not
mention business matters to her in his letters, and therefore she had no
means of knowing whether he was meeting with success or not.
* * * * *
“Please, miss, give me a dime, my father is dying and we’ve neither fire
nor bread.”
These were the plaintive words which greeted Editha’s ears one cold,
threatening evening, as she was hurrying to reach the shelter of her
home before the storm should overtake her.
She had been out, as usual, to recite her German and French, and on
returning had stopped to do a little shopping, and it had begun to grow
dark before she was through.
In passing through a narrow alley to shorten the distance and catch a
car, the above words had fallen upon her ears.
No bread, no fire this cold, dismal night, she thought, with a shudder,
as a blue, emaciated hand was extended to receive the pittance craved.
Editha involuntarily stopped and turned toward the voice, and found
herself face to face with a young girl of about fourteen years of age.
She was tall for her age, and painfully thin, and very scantily clad. A
thin and tattered shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, and one end
also served for a covering for her head.
Her stockings were nothing but a covering to hide the nakedness of her
limbs, while through the gaping shoes, which had never been mates,
Editha could plainly see her cold and purple toes.
The sad face was blue and pinched, with such a hungry, appealing look in
the large, dark eyes that it went straight to Miss Dalton’s heart.
For an instant, as she stood there beside the forlorn little waif, her
own rich furs and elegant velvet cloak, with its costly trimmings,
brushing that scantily-clad figure, a feeling of shame and
self-condemnation rushed over her that so much should be lavished upon
herself while one of Christ’s poor was in want and suffering so near.
“How cold you look, my poor child! Why don’t you go home, instead of
staying here in the dismal street?” she asked, pityingly. The girl
shivered.
“We haven’t got any fire at home. If some one would only give me a
dime!” she pleaded.
“No fire on this wretched day?” Editha repeated, sorrowfully.
“No, miss; and father’s dying, and mother nearly stupid with the cold,
and we haven’t had anything to eat to-day.”
“Oh!” gasped Editha, horrified.
“I thought, miss, if I could only beg a dime of some one,” the girl went
on, encouraged by her sympathy, “I could buy a few coals and make father
a little gruel—there _is_ a handful of meal left.”
Her pitying heart prompted her to go at once to ascertain and relieve
the necessities of these wretched people; but she knew it was not always
safe for a lady to enter those poverty-stricken abodes alone, and
particularly so late in the day.
She was not sure either that the girl was telling her the truth, though
she undoubtedly was an object of charity, and should not be left to
suffer in her thin clothing—and there was no mistaking the look of
hunger in her wan face.
Looking up, she espied a policeman not far distant. She beckoned him,
and he immediately responded to her summons.
“Do you know much about the people in this street?” she asked.
“Yes, miss; I know that they’re a miserable set, mostly,” he returned,
politely touching his hat.
“Miserable?—how?”
“Why, so poor they can hardly keep soul and body together, while some of
them are desperate and vicious.”
“This girl tells me that her father is dying, and they have no fire, nor
anything to eat. Do you know her?” Editha asked, calling his attention
to her companion.
“Oh, this is Milly Loker,” he said, recognizing her at once. “Yes, I
know her well, and I reckon she’s told you the truth, for they’ve had a
hard time of it along back.”
“If this is the case I will go home with her and see what I can do to
relieve their suffering. I am alone, and it is growing dark, so if you
will please have an eye upon this vicinity for the next half-hour or so,
I shall be obliged to you,” Editha said, as she turned to go with Milly.
“Yes, miss; I’ll see that no harm comes to you, and the house is only a
few steps from here,” he answered respectfully.
“Thank you. And now, my poor child, I will see what I can do for your
comfort,” Editha said, turning to the girl.
She found her wiping away the great tears with a corner of her shawl,
and her heart was deeply touched at the sight.
Without saying anything in reply, she turned and walked toward a
miserable-looking tenement-house only a few steps away. The door hung
swinging upon one hinge, making a dismal, creaking noise that sent the
chills anew over Editha.
Passing up a flight of dirty, broken stairs, Milly opened another door,
which led into a bare and wretched-looking apartment, having only one
window, and that broken in several places, the holes being stuffed with
rags. Upon a rude bed in one corner lay the wasted form of a man; his
hollow and unshaven face making an unsightly spectacle against the not
too clean pillow on which it lay.
He was sleeping, and a woman, scarcely less wretched in appearance, sat
in a broken chair by his side, her elbows resting upon her knees, and
her head bowed upon her hands. A small, cracked stove, upon which there
was a broken-nosed tea-kettle, was the only other piece of furniture in
the room.
“Mother,” whispered Milly, as soon as Editha had entered and she had
closed the door, “here is a lady who says she will help us.”
The girl passed lightly over the floor and stood by the woman’s side,
placing one hand on her shoulder to attract her attention.
She lifted her haggard face in a bewildered way, and gazed with a vacant
stare first upon her child, then upon Editha.
“Help!” she muttered, her hands working nervously. “We’ll need help
soon, or——”
A shudder finished the sentence more impressively than words could have
done, and then, without taking any further notice of her strange
visitor, she relapsed into her former indifference and position.
Editha was appalled at what she saw. She had not dreamed of such misery
as this, and her face grew white and grave with sorrow and pity. Drawing
her purse from her pocket, she took a bill from it with eager, trembling
fingers.
“Milly,” she said, in a low tone, pressing it into her hand, “go quickly
and get something with which to make a fire and something to eat; you
know what you need better than I can tell you.”
The words were scarcely uttered when the child’s thin fingers clutched
the money, and with a smothered cry of thankfulness, she was gone like a
flash of light.
Editha then turned her attention to the mother. Going to her side, she
touched her gently on the shoulder.
“My poor woman,” she said, kindly, “how long have you been like this?”
She looked up again, with the same vacant stare as before.
“What?” she said, in hollow tones.
Editha repeated her question.
“We’ve had no fire for a week, miss,” she said, with an effort to arouse
herself; “but it hasn’t been quite so bad until to-day, for the sun
comes in at the window when it’s pleasant, and we could sit in that and
keep comfortable.”
Comfortable!
Editha thought of the cheerful fire in her grate at home, while the
house was also heated from attic to cellar with steam, and her heart
smote her painfully.
“And have you absolutely _nothing_ to eat?” she asked, her eyes filling
with tears.
“We have not been entirely without food until to-day; we ate our last
penny’s worth of bread yesterday,” the woman answered, with a deep-drawn
sigh, and, from her manner of speaking, Editha instinctively knew that
at some previous time in her life she had known “better days.”
“Has your husband been ill long?” she asked, with a glance toward the
ghastly sleeper.
“Two or three months; he had a bad fall awhile ago, and lay out in the
rain and cold for several hours. The fall strained him, and that, with
the cold he took, threw him into a quick consumption. He will live only
a few days longer,” she concluded, with a sigh. “But how do _you_ happen
to be here?” she asked a moment after, with a stare of surprise at
Editha’s rich garments. It had but just come to her that she was
entertaining a very unusual guest.
“I met your daughter in the street, and she told me of your suffering;
so I came to see what I could do for you,” was the gentle answer.
“Poor Milly!” the woman sighed, and then, seeming to be overcome by
stupor, fell back into her former position.
She was so weakened by hunger, and cold, and the fatigue of watching,
that she was scarcely conscious of Editha’s presence, and had answered
her questions in a mechanical sort of way.
Ere long a quick, light step sounded on the stairs, and the next moment
Milly entered, bearing a basket of coal in one hand, a pail and two or
three packages in the other.
“Here, mother, come quick,” she said, in an eager whisper; “help me make
a fire and warm broth for father. I got it ’round the corner at the
oyster-house.”
She had deposited her burdens in the middle of the floor, and was down
upon her knees before the warped and cracked stove before she had ceased
speaking, nimbly yet quietly laying the kindlings, which in another
instant she kindled, and a cheerful roar and crackling sounded through
the room, giving promise of warmth and comfort ere long.
“That’s the sweetest music we’ve heard for a month, isn’t it mother?”
Milly said, in a cheery whisper; and Mrs. Loker, as if aroused by the
unaccustomed sound, arose and dragged her weary steps across the floor
toward where she sat.
But her strength was exhausted before she reached her, and she sank down
beside the stove, helpless and nearly fainting.
Milly, meanwhile, had produced a candle from somewhere, which she
lighted and set upon the mantel over the stove.
“Drink a little of this, mother,” the child said, springing to her and
putting the pail to her blue lips.
The woman eagerly grasped it and swallowed a few mouthfuls of the oyster
broth which it contained.
“Poor mother!” Milly said, pityingly. “I know you feel as if the bottom
had dropped out of your stomach. I did, and I _couldn’t_ help nibbling
just a little on the way home. Now eat this;” and she broke off a
mouthful of soft roll and gently forced it into Mrs. Loker’s mouth.
It was the saddest sight that the delicate and daintily-bred Editha
Dalton had ever seen in her life; and she could only stand there and
weep silently, while she watched that hungry child feeding her starving
mother with tender, loving hands.
Do pearls and diamonds never grow heavy with the weight of poverty’s
tears? Does the rustle of satins and silks never whisper of
hunger-moans? Do those rare and ghost-like laces, wrought with the
cunning device, and worth their weight in gold, never oppress the hearts
of the fair women who wear them?—are they never burdened with the sighs
of those whose scant covering scarcely conceals their nakedness, and
much less serves as a protection against the chilling blasts of winter,
and whom it would take the price of but one single yard of that delicate
lace to feed, and warm, and clothe?
Will the gratification of pride, and the wilful extravagance of which
these things are the result, afford any satisfaction when, at the last
call, the rich and the poor must meet on equal ground, and one shall
say: “I was an hungered and ye gave me no meat, I was athirst and ye
gave me no drink, naked and ye clothed me not, sick and in prison and ye
visited me not?”
Something of all this flitted through Editha Dalton’s mind as, standing
in that wretched room, she witnessed the heart-rending scene already
described, and, with a silent prayer that God would strengthen her
purpose, she resolved that henceforth her charities should be increased
fourfold.
A genial warmth began to pervade the room, a gentle simmering sound came
from the pail upon the stove, and an appetizing smell as well.
The woman, gaining strength from the nourishment she had taken, and also
feeling cheered and refreshed, arose and assisted her child to prepare
something for the husband and father.
The sick man now stirred and coughed feebly, then, becoming aware that
something unusual was transpiring, he opened his sunken eyes and looked
around.
The first object they rested upon was Editha, who had turned toward him
when he moved, and who looked like some fair, beautiful creature from
another sphere, as she was standing there with the flickering light
falling full upon her face, her golden hair, and rich robes.
The man no sooner saw her than an expression of recognition and fear
stole over his features.
“She has come! She has hunted me down at last!” he cried, in hollow
tones, and shrinking further down in the bed, but with his eyes still
fastened as if by magnetism upon Editha.
“Father,” cried Milly, cheerfully, “I’ll have something nice for you in
a moment.”
“No, no; don’t let them take me away to jail; I ain’t able to go to
prison,” he moaned, feebly, and trembling as if with fear.
His wife hastened to his side.
“No, John; no one shall disturb you or harm you,” she said, soothingly.
“His mind is weak, ma’am, when he first wakes,” she continued, turning
to Editha.
“No, my mind isn’t weak,” the man replied, impatiently. “I know her, and
she’s found me out at last;” and, raising his emaciated hand, he pointed
with one long, bony finger at their visitor.
“John, be quiet. You do not know the lady; she is a stranger, who came
with Milly to help us,” returned his wife, trying to quiet him.
“She’s found me out at last,” he repeated, his eyes still fixed upon
Editha. “She’s the rich chap’s girl, whose house we—Tom Drake and
I—cracked three or four years ago. She was asleep when we went into her
room and stole her trinkets; but she looked so beautiful that I’ve never
forgotten her face. I tried to make Tom leave her bracelets and rings,
but he wouldn’t. It’s Miss Dalton, Maria, and I tell you she’s come to
send me to prison.”