“Sister Jessie, I am so hungry. Please give me some bread!” sobbed the
pleading voice of a little child, clinging to the skirts of the young
house mother, a dark-eyed girl of sixteen.
“I’se hungry, too. I want my bekfus!” sobbed a still younger child,
petulantly, and for answer Jessie stooped down and gathered both the
little boys into her yearning arms, crying tremulously:
“Wait a little while, my darlings, and sister Jessie will go and try to
get you some bread!”
Oh! what a tale of wretchedness was told by the bare, fireless room
and the pinched faces and hollow eyes of the three children, the girl
of sixteen, the boys of six and four, respectively. It was midday,
but they had not tasted food for twenty-four hours, and the cupboard
was empty of the smallest crust. It was a chilly November day, but
the small stove was fireless, though their thin, ragged garments were
insufficient to keep out the biting cold.
Jessie kissed the wan, tear-wet faces of her hungry little brothers,
then stood up again and looked round the room to see if there was
anything left worthy the attention of the old pawnbroker on the corner.
A choking sob escaped the girl’s lips:
“Alas, there is nothing but trash! The little purse is empty, and the
rent unpaid for two months. What shall we do?”
A loud rap on the door gave her a violent start, and she sprang to open
it, exclaiming piteously:
“They have come again for the rent!”
She was confronted by a medium-sized young man, good-looking in a
coarse style with red cheeks, keen, black eyes, and close-cropped,
black hair, dressed flashily, with a long, gold watch chain dangling
across his breast.
Staring curiously into the room and at the girl, he demanded:
“Is John Lyndon at home?”
“He is not.”
“Where is his wife, then, hey?”
A sob came from all three of the children, but no reply until a little,
motherly looking woman suddenly pushed past the young man into the
room, exclaiming:
“Arrah, now, how dare ye break the hearts av thim by yer impidence,
axin for their mither, and herself dead of a faver six months ago!”
“Ah, and the father?”
“Poor sowl, they took him to the hospital, a month ago, hurt by an
accident, and he died there but yesterday. I just came in to take the
childer to git the last look at his dead face before they bury him at
the city’s expinse.”
“Ah, very sorry, I’m sure, but, of course, now the rent will never be
paid, and I was sent here to bring a dispossess warrant, so I may as
well read it for the benefit of the children.”
And he coolly proceeded to do so, apparently unmoved by the sad story
of death and disaster he had just heard.
Then he beckoned to two rough-looking men who had been standing in the
hallway. They came up at once, and at a motion of the hand from the
dispossess officer, they began at once to move the few shabby household
effects into the street.
Painful sobs burst from the hapless orphans, but the little Irishwoman,
with the calmness of one long familiar with the stern face of poverty,
said to them gently:
“You see, dears, ye are turned into the street. Have yees any friends
to take yees in?”
Jessie answered forlornly:
“We have an aunt, a dressmaker, in a distant part of the city. She was
papa’s sister, but he would never let her know that we were so poor
after he lost his steady job, saying she had troubles enough of her
own.”
“Av coorse she will help yees, when she knows about your troubles, poor
things, so now come to my room and have a little snack before we start
to the hospital,” said Mrs. Ryan tenderly, marshaling the orphans past
the dispossess agent, who remarked insinuatingly:
“The oldest girl’s big enough to go out and earn her own living, and if
her aunt won’t take her to keep, I know of a situation she can get as
parlormaid with a very nice lady.”
“Thank you kindly, but I hope she won’t need it,” returned Mrs. Ryan
curtly, as she led the little flock to her own poor apartment where she
fed them on the best she could afford, weak tea, baker’s stale bread,
and a bit of cheese, but a feast to the famishing orphans whose thanks
brought tears to her kind eyes.
Afterward she took them to look their last on the face of their dead
before he was consigned to his grave among the city’s pauper dead, poor
soul, the victim of penury and misfortune. Then she led them weeping
away to their aunt, Mrs. Godfrey, who heard with grief of her poor
brother’s death and looked with pity on his orphan children.
She said plaintively:
“I’m a lone widow with a sick daughter and no support but my needle,
but, of course, I cannot turn John’s children out into the cold world.
I’ll take Mark and Willie and do the best I can by them, but as for
Jessie, she is old enough to go out and work for herself. Besides, she
has no claim on me, as she was not my brother’s child!”
“Not papa’s child!” almost shrieked Jessie, in her astonishment, and
Mrs. Godfrey, looking ready to faint under the burden of her new
responsibilities, replied:
“No, you were only the niece of my brother’s wife, though she brought
you up as her own child, and loved you just as well.”
Mrs. Ryan questioned eagerly:
“Are Jessie’s own parents living?”
“The Lord only knows,” was the answer, and, seeing the anxiety on their
faces, Mrs. Godfrey continued:
“You see, it was this way: Jessie’s father and mother were divorced
when they hadn’t been married more than seven months or so, and
afterward their child was born, and when it was a few years old the
father in a fit of rage stole Jessie away from her mother and brought
her to his sister to raise as her own. He went away and for years sent
money liberally to keep and educate the child, but at last letters
and money both stopped suddenly, and ’twas supposed he was dead. The
Lyndons kept Jessie all the same, and did the best they could, but
misfortunes began to come and death followed--so everything came to
this pass. I’ll say it for Jess, she’s a good child, but I’m too poor
to keep her, so she will have to look for a situation.”
“I’ve heard of one already, so I will take her back and try to get
it for her. Bid your little brothers good-by, dear,” said Mrs. Ryan
gently, in her pity for the forlorn girl, who now turned to Mrs.
Godfrey, faltering:
“Maybe you can tell me where to find my mother?”
“I can’t, my dear, for now I remember I never heard her name, nor
your pa’s, neither. You always went by the name of Lyndon, and was
considered their child, so you will have to go on calling yourself
Lyndon till you find out better. Maybe your ma wasn’t a good woman,
anyway, or she wouldn’t had to be divorced.”
Cruel was the parting between Jessie and the little ones, but with
kisses and tears, and promises to come again, the desolate girl was
hurried away to her fate--every link broken between her and the past,
her brain on fire, her heart aching, her future a chaos that no hope
could pierce.
“If I could only find my mother!” she sighed to Mrs. Ryan.
“Sure, darlint, don’t fix your heart on her, for she must have been
a bad woman indade, or your father wouldn’t have stole ye away and
put ye in his sister’s care. Arrah, now, I’m thinking of what the
dispossess agent said about knowing of a good place for ye to stay as
parlormaid. And good luck to ye, darlint; there he is in front of the
tiniment now, having the old sticks of your furniture moved, bad cess
to his eyes! But then ag’in, ’tain’t his fault. He was sint by the
landlord to do it, and can’t help himself, so why should we be hard on
him, thin! Och, if you plaze, sir, we would like to have the address of
the good lady as you said would take Jessie for a parlormaid.”
The agent’s face beamed with surprise and delight, and, hastily drawing
a card from his pocket, he presented it, saying:
“There’s the address, and just tell the lady I sent you, and I know she
will give Miss Lyndon the place,” beaming on the girl in a way that
made her shrink and shudder.
“Why, ’tis the old fortune teller in the next street,” said Mrs. Ryan,
surveying the dingy card that read:
“Know your fate and fortune. Consult Madame Barto, scientific palmist,
No. 16A West Twenty-third Street. Hours between ten and four daily. Fee
one dollar.”