The fact was that the awful possibility, mere conjecture of which had
frightened Crombie, had occurred. Littimer had received the young man's
shoes in place of his own.
They happened to fit him moderately well; so that he, likewise, did not
notice the exchange until he had started for his office. He believed in
walking the entire distance, no matter what the weather; and to this
practice he made rare exceptions. But he had not progressed very far
before he became annoyed by an unaccustomed intrusion of dampness that
threatened him with a cold. He looked down, carefully surveyed the
artificial casing of his extremities, and decided to hail the first
unoccupied coupe he should meet. It was some time before he found one;
and when finally he took his seat in the luxurious little bank parlor
at Broad Street, his feet were quite wet.
His surprise at this occurrence was doubled when, on taking off the
shoes and scrutinizing them more closely, he ascertained that they were
the work of his usual maker. What had happened to him? Was he dreaming?
It seemed to him that he had gone back many years; that he was a poor
young man again, entering upon his first struggle for a foothold in the
crowded, selfish, unhomelike metropolis. He remembered the day when
_he_ had worn shoes like these.
He sent out for an assortment of new ones, from which, with unnecessary
lavishness, he chose and kept three or four pairs. All the rest of the
day, nevertheless, those sorry Congress boots of Crombie's, which he
had directed his office-boy to place beside the soft-coal fire, for
drying, faced him with a sort of haunting look. However much he might
be occupied with weightier matters, he could not keep his eyes from
straying in that direction; and whenever they rested on that battered
"right" and that way-worn "left," turned up in that mute, appealing
repose and uselessness at the fender, his thoughts recurred to his
early years of trial and poverty. Ah! how greatly he had changed since
then! On some accounts he could almost wish that he were poor again.
But when he remembered Blanche, he was glad, for her sake, that he was
rich.
But if for her sake, why not for others? Perhaps he had been rather
selfish, not only about Blanche, but toward her. His conscience began
to reproach him. Had he made for her a large life? Since her mother's
premature death, had he instilled into her sympathies, tastes,
companionships that would make her existence the richer? Had he not
kept her too much to himself? On the other hand, he had gratified all
her material wants; she could wear what she pleased, she could go where
she chose, she had acquaintances of a sort becoming to the daughter of
a wealthy man. Yet there was something lacking. What did she know about
old, used-up boots and all that pertains to them? What did she know
about indigence, real privation, and brave endurance, such as a hundred
thousand fellow-creatures all around her were undergoing?
Somehow it dawned upon the old banker that if she knew about all these
things and had some share in them, albeit only through sympathy and
helping, she might be happier, more truly a woman, than she was now.
As he sat alone, in revery, he actually heaved a deep sigh. A sigh is
often as happy a deliverance as a laugh, in this world of sorrows. It
was the first that had escaped Littimer in years. Let us say that it
was a breathing space, which gave him time for reflection; it marked
the turning of a leaf; it was the beginning of a new chapter in his
life.
Before he left the bank he locked the door of the private parlor, and
was alone for two or three minutes. The office boy was greatly puzzled
the next morning, when he found all the new pairs of shoes ranged
intact in the adjoining cupboard. The old ones were missing.
Littimer had gone away in them, furtively. He was ashamed of his own
impulse.
This time he resolutely remained afoot instead of hiring a carriage. He
despatched a messenger to Blanche, saying that sudden business would
prevent his returning to dinner, and continued indefinitely on his
way--whither? As to that he was by no means certain; he knew only that
he must get out of the beaten track, out of the ruts. For an hour or
two he must cease to be Littimer, the prosperous moneyed man, and must
tread once more the obscure paths through which he had made his way to
fortune. He could hardly have explained the prompting which he obeyed.
Could it have had anything to do with the treacherous holes in the
bottoms of those old shoes?
As it chanced, he passed by "The Fried Cat"; and, clingy though the
place was, lie felt an irresistible desire to enter it. Seating
himself, he ordered the regular dinner of the day. The light was dim;
the tablecloth was dirty; the attendance was irregular and distracted.
Littimer took one sip of the sour wine--which had a flavor resembling
vinegar and carmine ink in equal parts--and left the further contents
of his bottle untasted. The soup, the stew, and the faded roast that
were set before him, he could scarcely swallow; but a small cup of
coffee at the end of the wellnigh Barmecide repast came in very
palatably.
In default of prandial attractions, Littimer tried to occupy himself by
looking at the people around him. The omnifarious assembly included
pale, prim-whiskered young clerks; shabby, lonely, sallow young women,
whose sallowness and shabbiness stamped them with the mark of
integrity; other females whose specious splendor was not nearly so
reassuring; old men, broken-down men, middle-aged men of every
description, except the well-to-do.
"Some of them," Littimer reflected, "are no worse than I am. But are
any of them really any better?"
He could not convince himself that they were; yet his sympathies,
somehow, went out toward this motley crowd. It appeared to him very
foolish that he should sympathize, but he could not help it. "And,
after all," was the next thought that came to him, "are we to give pity
to people, or withhold it, simply because they are better or worse than
ourselves? No; there is something more in it than that."
Leaving "The Fried Cat" abruptly, he betook himself to an acquaintance
who, he knew, was very active in charities--a man who worked
practically, and gave time to the work.
"Do you visit any of your distress cases to-night?" he asked.
"Yes, I shall make a few calls," answered the man of charity. "Would
you like to go along?"
"Very much."
So the two started out together. The places they went to were of
various kinds, and revealed a considerable diversity of misfortune.
Sometimes they entered tenement houses of the most wretched character;
but in other instances they went to small and cheap but decent lodgings
over the shops on West Side avenues, or even penetrated into
boarding-houses of such good appearance that the banker was surprised
to find his friend's mission carrying him thither. All the cases,
however, had been studied, and were vouched for; and several were those
of young men and women having employment, but temporarily disabled, and
without friends who could help them.
"You do well to help these beginners, at critical times," said the
banker, with satisfaction. "I take a special interest in them."
It was almost the same as if he were receiving relief himself. Who
knows? Perhaps he was; but to the outward eye it appeared merely that,
with his friend's sanction, he was dispensing money and offers of
goodwill to the needy. What a strange freak it was, though, in
Littimer! He kept on with the work until quite late in the evening,
regardless of the risk he ran by continuing out-of-doors when so ill
shod.
I think he had some idea in his mind that he was performing an act of
penance.