THE FIRST AND LAST NEW YEAR'S CALL.
It was New Year's morning, and over the great city lay the deep,
untrodden snow, so soon to be trampled down by thousands of busy feet.
Cheerful fires were kindled in many a luxurious home of the rich, and
"Happy New Year" was echoed from lip to lip, as if on that day there
were no aching hearts--no garrets where the biting cold looked in on
pinching poverty and suffering old age--no low, dark room where Dora
and her pale, dead mother lay, while over them the angels kept their
tireless watch until human aid should come. But one there was who did
not forget--one about whose house was gathered every elegance which
fashion could dictate or money procure; and now, as she sat at her
bountifully-furnished breakfast table sipping her fragrant chocolate,
she thought of the poor widow, Dora's mother, for whom her charity had
been solicited the day before, by a woman who lived in the same block
of buildings with Mrs. Deane.
"Brother," she said, glancing towards a young man who, before the
glowing grate, was reading the morning paper, "suppose you make your
first call with me?"
"Certainly," he answered; "and it will probably be in some dreary attic
or dark, damp basement; but it is well, I suppose, to begin the New
Year by remembering the poor."
Half an hour later, and the crazy stairs which led to the chamber of
death were creaking to the tread of the lady and her brother, the
latter of whom knocked loudly for admission. Receiving no answer from
within, they at last raised the latch and entered. The fire had long
since gone out, and the night wind, as it poured down the chimney, had
scattered the cold ashes over the hearth and out upon the floor. Piles
of snow lay on the window sill, and a tumbler in which some water had
been left standing, was broken in pieces. All this the young man saw at
a glance, but when his eye fell upon the bed, he started back, for
there was no mistaking the rigid, stony expression of the upturned
face, which lay there so white and motionless.
"But the child--the child," he exclaimed, advancing forward--"can she,
too, be dead!" and he laid his warm hand gently on Dora's brow.
The touch aroused her, and starting up, she looked around for a moment
bewildered; but when at last she turned towards her mother, the dread
reality was forced upon her, and in bitter tones she cried, "Mother's
dead, mother's dead, and I am all alone! Oh! mother, mother, come back
again to me!"
The young man's heart was touched, and taking the child's little red
hands in his, he rubbed them gently, trying to soothe her grief; while
his sister, summoning the inmates from the adjoining room, gave orders
that the body should receive the necessary attention; then, learning as
much as was possible of Dora's history, and assuring her that she
should be provided for until her aunt came, she went away, promising to
return next morning and be present at the humble funeral.
That evening, as Dora sat weeping by the coffin in which her mother
lay, a beautiful young girl, with eyes of deepest blue, and locks of
golden hair, smiled a joyous welcome to him whose _first_ New Year's
call had been in the chamber of death, and whose _last_ was to her, the
petted child of fashion.
"I had almost given you up, and was just going to cry," she said,
laying her little snowflake of a hand upon the one which that morning
had chafed the small, stiff fingers of Dora Deane, and which now
tenderly pressed those of Ella Grey as the young man answered, "I have
not felt like going out today, for my first call saddened me;" and
then, with his arm around the fairy form of Ella, his affianced bride,
he told her of the cold, dreary room, of the mother colder still, and
of the noble little girl, who had divested herself of her own clothing,
that her mother might be warm.
Ella Grey had heard of such scenes before--had cried over them in
books; but the idea that _she_ could do anything to relieve the poor,
had never entered her mind. It is true, she had once given a _party
dress_ to a starving woman, and a _pound of candy_ to a ragged boy who
had asked for aid, but here her charity ended; so, though she seemed to
listen with interest to the sad story, her mind was wandering
elsewhere, and when her companion ceased, she merely said, "_Romantic_,
wasn't it."
There was a look of disappointment on the young man's face, which was
quickly observed by Ella, who attributed it to its right source, and
hastened to ask numberless questions about Dora--"How old was she? Did
he think her pretty, and hadn't she better go to the funeral the next
day and bring her home for a waiting-maid?--she wanted one sadly, and
from the description, the orphan girl would just suit."
"No, Ella," answered her lover; "the child is going to live in the
country with some relatives, and will be much better off there."
"The country," repeated Ella. "_I_ would rather freeze in New York than
to live in the dismal country."
Again the shadow came over the gentleman's brow, as he said, "Do you
indeed object so much to a home in the country?"
Ella knew just what he wanted her to say; so she answered, "Oh, no, I
can be happy anywhere with you, but do please let me spend just one
winter in the city after---"
Here she paused, while the bright blushes broke over her childish face.
She could not say, even to him, "after we are married," so he said it
for her, drawing her closer to his side, and forgetting Dora Deane, as
he painted the joyous future when Ella would be all his own. Eleven
o'clock sounded from more than one high tower, and at each stroke poor
Dora Deane moaned in anguish, thinking to herself, "Last night at this
time _she_ was here." Eleven o'clock, said Ella Grey's diamond set
watch, and pushing back her wavy hair, the young man kissed her rosy
cheek, and bade her a fond good-night. As he reached the door, she
called him back, while she asked him the name of the little girl who
had so excited his sympathy.
"I do not know," he answered. "Strange that I forgot to inquire. But no
matter. We shall never meet again;" and feeling sure that what he said
was true he walked away.
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