A year had passed since Maddy's flitting. The skimped delaine was
sadly rusty,--Miss Wimple very poor. The profits of the Hendrik
Athenæum and Circulating Library accrued in slow and slender pittances.
A package of envelopes now and then, a few lead pencils, a box of
steel pens, a slate pencil to a school-boy, were all its sales.
Almost the last regular customer had seceded to the "Hendrik Book
Bazaar and Periodical Emporium,"--a pert rival, that, with
multifarious new-fangled tricks of attractiveness, flashed its
plate-glass eyes and turned up its gilded nose at Miss Wimple from
the other side of the way.
But Miss Wimple's proud and honorable fund for the relief of the
shop, by no means fell off. As she had anticipated, her expert and
nimble needle was in steady demand by all the folks of Hendrik who
had fine sewing to give out. Her earnings from this source were
considerable; and, severely stinting herself in the very necessaries
of life by a strained ingenuity of economy, to which the skimped
delaine--turned and altered to the utter exhaustion of the cleverest
dressmaker's invention, and magically rejuvenated, as though again
and again dipped in the fountain of perpetual youth--bore conclusive
testimony, she bravely reinforced her fund from time to time.
Miss Wimple's repasts were neither frequent nor sumptuous; "all the
delicacies of the season" hardly found their way to her table; and
in her bleak little nest, for it was now winter, a thin and scanty
shawl but coldly did the office of a blanket.
But Miss Wimple partook of her tea and dry toast with a cheerful
heart, and shivered in her nest with illustrious patience,--regaled
by satisfied honor, and warmed by the smiles of courage and of hope.
Between Simon and herself negotiations rested where we left them last;
only there was now a heartier welcome for him when he came, and
often a sparkling smile, that seemed to say, he had waited well, and
not in vain, she hoped,--a smile that, to the eye of his healthy
spirit, was an earnest of the rose-star's reappearance; it was only
behind the rusty skimped delaine, as behind a cloud. His visits were
not so rare as before, nor always "upon business"; he lingered
sometimes, and sometimes had _his_ way.
One night, Simon was outrageously rebellious; he had cheated Sally
of half an hour, and spent it in rank mutiny; he compared the
rose-star to the remotest of the asteroids, as seen through Lord
Rosse's telescope, and instituted facetious comparisons between
Miss Wimple's honorable fund and the national debt of England. It
was near closing-time; Miss Wimple said, "Now, Simon, _will_ you go?"
--she had said that three times already. Some one entered. O, ho!
Miss Wimple snatched away her hand:--"Now go, or never come again!"
Simon glanced at the visitor,--a woman,--a stranger evidently, and
poor,--a beggar, most likely, or one of those Wandering Jews of
womankind, who, homeless, goalless, hopeless, tramp, tramp, tramp,
unresting, till they die. She had almost burst in, quite startling
Miss Wimple; but now she stood by the glass case, with averted face,
and shabby shawl drawn suspiciously about her, and waited to be
noticed, peering, meanwhile, through the little window into the dark
street.
"Good-night, little Sally!" said Simon; "put up your bars, and so
put up my bars. Now there's a fine speech for you!--if my name were
Philip Withers, you'd call it poetry."
The strange woman actually stamped with her foot twice, and moved a step
nearer to the window. Miss Wimple took it for a gesture of impatience,
and at once arose to accost her. Simon eyed her curiously, and somewhat
suspiciously, as he passed; but, taking her attire for his clue, he
thought he recognized one of a class with whom Miss Wimple was
accustomed to cope successfully; so he took his leave unconcerned.
Miss Wimple approached the stranger. "What will you have?" she asked.
But the woman only followed Simon with her eyes, not heeding the
question.
"Do you hear me?" repeated she; "I say, what will you have, Madam?"
By that time, Simon had disappeared among the distant shadows of the
street. The woman turned suddenly and confronted Miss Wimple.
"Look at me," she said.
Miss Wimple looked, and saw a pale and haggard, almost fierce, face,
that had once been fair,--one that she might, she fancied, have met
somewhere before.
"You seem to have suffered,--to suffer now. What can I do for you?"
"Look at me!"
"I see; you are very wretched, and you were not always as you are now.
You are cold; are you hungry also? I, too, am very poor; but I will
do all I can. I will warm you and give you food."
The woman walked to where the bright camphene lamp hung, and stood
under it.
"Now look at me, Miss Wimple."
"I have looked enough; desperation on a young woman's face is not a
pleasant sight to see. If you have a secret, best keep it. I have to
deal only with your weariness, your hunger, and your half-frozen
limbs. If I can do nothing for those, you must go.--Merciful Heaven!
Miss Madeline Splurge!"
"Yes!--Now hide me, quick, or some one will be coming; and warm me,
and feed me, or I shall surely die on your hands."
Not another word said Miss Wimple,--asked no question, uttered no
exclamation of surprise; but straightway ran and closed the windows,
put up the bars, adjusted the shutters in the glass door, and
screwed them down. Next she took Madeline's hand and led her up the
narrow staircase to the nest, seated her in the little Yankee
rocking-chair, and wrapped her in the scanty, faded shawl that
served for a coverlet. Then she ran quickly down into the cellar, and,
with a hammer, broke in pieces an old packing-box;--it was a brave
achievement for her tender hands. Back to the nest again with the
sticks;--Madeline slept in the chair, poor heart!
Miss Wimple made a fire in her little stove, and when some water was
hot, she roused her guest with a kiss. Silently, languidly, and with
closed eyes, Madeline yielded herself to the kind offices of her
gentle nurse, who bathed her face and neck, her hands and feet, and
dressed her hair; and when that was done, she placed a pillow under
the wanderer's head, and, with another kiss, dismissed her to sleep
again.
Then she prepared tea and toast, and, running down to the street,
returned quickly with some fresh eggs and a morsel of golden butter,
wherefrom she prepared a toothsome supper, the fragrance of which
presently aroused the famished sufferer, so that she opened her
eyes feebly, and smiled, and kissed Miss Wimple's hand when she
came to draw her nearer to the table. Then Madeline ate,--not
heartily, but enough to comfort her; and very soon her head fell
back upon the pillow, and she would have slept in the chair again,
holding Miss Wimple's hand. But Miss Wimple arose and took the sheets
from the cot, and, having warmed them by the fire, made up the bed
afresh,--a most smooth, sweet, and comfortable nest; and, raising
Madeline in her arms, supporting her still sleeping head upon her
shoulder, she very tenderly and skilfully removed her garments, all
coarse and torn, soiled and damp, and clad her afresh in pure
night-clothes of her own. But first--for Madeline began to shiver,
and her teeth had chattered slightly--Miss Wimple untied her own
warm petticoat of quilted silk, that for comfort and for decency
had been her best friend through the hard winter,--wherefore it
was most dearly prized and ingeniously saved,--and put it upon
Madeline, whom then she led, almost carrying her, as one may lead a
worn-out and already slumbering child, to the nest, and laid her
gently there, drawing the covering snugly about her, and spreading
the faithful shawl over all. And all the while, not a word had been
spoken by either;--with one, it was the silence of pious carefulness,
--with the other, of newly-found safety and perfect rest. Then
Miss Wimple placed the lamp on the floor behind the door, fed the
stove with fresh sticks, and with her feet on the little iron hearth,
and her head resting on her knees, thought there all night.
All night poor Madeline's slumber was broken by incoherent mutterings,
convulsive starts, and, more than once, a fearful cry; and when the
day dawned, she suddenly sat erect, stared wildly about her, and
raved. A fierce, though brief, fever had seized her; she was
delirious, and knew not where she was. When Miss Wimple would have
soothed her, tenderly caressing, and promising her a sister's
kindness and protection,--a home safely guarded from intrusion,--
Madeline assailed her savagely, bidding her be off, with her smooth
treachery, her pretty lies.
"'Sister!'--devil! Do I not know what a hell your 'home' is?--and as
for 'safety,' shall I seek that among snakes? Oh, I am sick of all
of you!--have I not told you so a hundred times?--sick with the
contempt I feel for you, and weary of your stupid tricks."
"Madeline," said Miss Wimple, "look at me! Here,--touch my face, my
dress! Do you not know me now? Do you not see that I am not your
mother, nor Josephine, nor Adelaide, but only Sally Wimple, little
Miss Wimple, of the bookstore? What harm could I do you?--how could
I offend or hurt you? Look me in the eyes, I say, and know me, and
be calm. See! this is my chamber,--this is my bed; below is the
little shop,--the Athenæum, you remember. We are alone in the house;
there is no one to hear or see. You came to me,--did you not?--over
the long, weary road, through the darkness and the bitter cold, for
warmth and food, for rest and safety; and I have hidden you away,
and watched by you. Look around you,--look through that window; do
you not know those trees, the mulberries by the Athenæum?--they are
bare now; but you have seen them so before, a dozen winters. Look at
this face,--look at this dress,--look at this dress!--Ah! now you
know all about it,--'little Miss Wimple,' of course; and this shall
be your home, and you are safe here."
When Miss Wimple began to speak, she stood somewhat off from the bed;
for Madeline, with a gesture full of hate, and close-set lips that
looked dangerous, had thrust her back. But as she proceeded with her
calm and clear appeal, Madeline was arrested, in the very movement
of springing from the bed, in an attitude "worth a painter's eye,"
half-sitting, half-reclining, supported by her right arm, which,
rigidly extended, was planted pillar-like in the bed,--with her left
hand tossing aside the bed-clothes,--her knees drawn up, as for the
instant of stepping out upon the floor,--her right shoulder, bare,
round, and white, thrust from the night-dress, which in the
restlessness of her distraction had burst its chaste fastenings,
bestowing a chance glimpse of a most proud and beauteous bosom,--a
glimpse but dimly caught through the thick brown meshes of her
dishevelled hair. So, now, with impatient eyes and eager lips, she
rested and listened. And when Miss Wimple said,--"I have hidden you
away and watched by you," the fierce look was softened to one of
pitiful reflection and recollection; and at the words, "Look at this
dress! Ah! now you know all about it,--'little Miss Wimple,' of
course!" she sat up and stretched forth her arms beseechingly,
and in a moment was sobbing helplessly on Sally's neck.
A little while Miss Wimple, still and thoughtful, held her so, that
her soul's bitterness might pour itself out in wholesome tears; then
she gently stroked the tangled brown hair, and said,--"Sit close
beside me now, and lean upon my bosom, and tell me all,--where you
have been, and how you have fared, and what you would have me do."
With a brave effort, Madeline controlled herself, and replied, firmly,
though with averted face,
"You remember, dear Miss Wimple, our last interview. I insulted you
then."
Miss Wimple made no sign. Madeline blushed,--brow, neck, and bosom,
--crimson.
"And then I told you that I believed in you as I believed in little
else, in this world or the next; and I said, that, if in my hour of
shame and outcasting, I could implore the help of any human being, I
would come to you before all others. I have come. You thought me
raving then, and pitied me, because you did not understand.
Presently you will understand, and you will still pity me,--but with
a difference.
"I fled away that very night, you recollect,--fled from my
self-contempt, from the sickening scorn I felt for them,--for
_him_."
There was agony in the effort with which she uttered that last word.
She named no names, but, with a sort of desperation, raised her head
and looked Miss Wimple in the face; in the quick, sensitive glances
they interchanged at that moment the omission was supplied.
"Though my flight was premeditated, I took with me no clothes save
those I wore; but I had concealed on my person every jewel and
trinket I possessed. With these,--for I readily converted them into
money,--I purchased a safe asylum in an obscure but decent family,
whose poverty did not afford them the indulgence of a scrupulous
fastidiousness or impertinent curiosity; it was enough for their
straitened conscience that I had the manners and the purse of a lady,
--they asked no questions which might cost them a profitable boarder,
the only one they could accommodate in their poor way. I had no fear
that any hue-and-cry would be raised for me; I had left behind me
two who would prevent that,--in that, my worst foes were my best
friends. If I had any relatives who cared for me enough to pursue me,
I rejoiced in at least one sister on whose cunning, if not good sense,
I could rely, to convince them of the futility of such efforts,--one
_friend_ whose fears would be ingenious and busy to put the
best-laid chase at fault.
"So I lay concealed and safe till the time came when I had to
purchase pity, help, and precious secrecy. My discreet hosts could
furnish those extras; but they were poor, and such luxuries are
expensive in New York;--it was not long before my last dollar was
gone. I had been ill,--_ill_, Miss Wimple,--and every way crippled;
I could not, if the work had offered itself to me, have earned more
then. My last trinket was gone; I had pawned whatever I could spare
from the hard exigencies of living; for I am no coward,--I did not
wish to die,--I had challenged my fate, and would meet it. I had
even changed with the women of the house the silk dress I wore, and
my fine linen, for the mean rags you cleansed me of last night,
--that they might pay themselves so; and when all was expended, and
the last trick tried that pride, honor, and modesty could wink at, I
came away in the night, leaving no unsettled scores behind me. But I
saw my own resources sinking fast; I knew I must presently be debtor
to some one for protection, aid, and counsel. I remembered you,--and
that I had said I could beg of none but you; therefore I am here.
"And now, Miss Wimple,"--and as she spoke, Madeline arose, and,
standing before her companion, said her say slowly, proudly, with
head erect and unflinching eyes,--"I told you I believed in you, as
I believed in nothing then, on earth or in heaven,--as I believe
only in God's mercy now. I will prove that that was no merely pretty
phrase, meant cunningly to cheat you of your forgiveness for a
coarse insult. Since I saw you last, I have been--a mother; I have
brought forth a child in shame and sin and blasphemous defiance,
--and God has been merciful to it and to me, and has taken it unto
Himself. I think you also will be merciful; you will help me to save
myself from the pit that yawns just now at my feet; you will help me
to prove it false, that a woman who has strayed off so far in her
wilful way may not, if she be strong and truly proud, retrace her
steps, to fall in at last--though last of all the stragglers--with
the happy procession of honored women,--of women who have done the
best they could, and borne their burden bravely."
Miss Wimple sat on the side of the bed, her chin resting on her
clasped hands, her gaze fixed vacantly on the floor,--"Poor baby!
Dead,--thank God!" was all she said.
"Miss Wimple," said Madeline, "I have addressed myself to your heart,
rather than to your understanding, your education. I had no right to
do so. If my presence is, in your opinion, an outrage to your house,
I am ready to go now. I can face the street, the town; no one will
dare to stop me, if any were inclined."
"Be seated, Miss Splurge,--you are very welcome here. My
appreciation of the difference between your education and mine is as
kind as you could wish. This is a question of hearts,--and our hearts
have been always right, I hope; we are as woman to woman, and the
womanly part of either of us may still be trusted. Be seated,--I
have a word to say for myself"; and, as she spoke, Miss Wimple went
to her little bureau, and, unlocking a drawer, drew from it a
miniature rosewood cabinet; unlocking that, again, she took
something out, which, as she returned to resume her seat beside
Madeline, was hidden in her hand.
"Miss Splurge," said Miss Wimple, "the night on which you
disappeared so strangely from this place, I had been visiting a sick
friend on the other side of the river, and returned home at a late
hour,--that is, about nine o'clock, perhaps. As I entered the
covered bridge, I heard the voices of a lady and a gentleman in
excited conversation."
Madeline became deadly pale; but she did not speak, uttered no
exclamation,--only a slight movement of her eyebrows expressed
eagerness, as she turned more attentively to Miss Wimple, who
proceeded as though unconscious of any trace of emotion in her
companion.
"The voice of the gentleman was familiar to me; the lady's I did not,
at first, recognize,--something had changed its quality. Supposing
themselves alone,--for it was plain they had not heard me approach
and enter the bridge,--they were incautious; their words reached me
distinctly. I might have retraced my steps and waited till they had
gone; but the moon was shining brightly, and the night was very still,
--in a pause of their conversation they might have heard or seen me;
I chose to _spare_ them that. So I fell back into a corner, where the
shadows were deepest, and remained quite quiet until they went away.
I have told you that I heard their words; but I did not understand
them then;--now, I do."
Madeline bowed her head. Miss Wimple seemed not to observe that, but
continued in the same quiet, even tone:--
"When they had gone, I found, lying in the moonlight near the
bridge--this."
Miss Wimple held out the little pocket-book. Madeline started, made
a quick movement, as though to snatch the book, but checked herself
with an effort, and said, with stern composure,--
"Well?"
"Well," said Miss Wimple, "there it is, and it is yours. It contains
a card, for the safety of which you were once concerned. It has
remained as safe, from that hour to this,--not only from my curiosity,
but that of all others, be they friends or foes of yours,--as though
you had kept it hidden in your bosom, and defended it with your
teeth and nails; _on my honor_!"
In these last words, and only then, Miss Wimple showed that she
could remember an insult, and avenge it--in her own way. She dropped
the pocket-book into the lap of Madeline, who, without a word, placed
it in her bosom.
"And now, my poor Madeline," said Miss Wimple, "we will speak no
more of these things. I beg you to understand me clearly,"--and
Miss Wimple suddenly altered her tone,--"we must not recur to this
subject. You will remain with me until we shall have decided what is
best for us to do. You are quite safe in this house; that you were
ever here need not be known hereafter, unless your honor or your
happiness should require that we divulge it. I must go now and open
the shop; and when I return to you, we will speak, if you please,
of other things."
"_But Miss Wimple's Hoop,--will you never come to that? Or is it
your intention to 'omit the part of Hamlet by particular request_?'"
Slowly and fairly,--we come to it now.