ANNA--WE LEAVE FOR SAN JOSE.
One evening, during the temporary absence of Lucy (on a few days' visit
with friends), Sister Taylor, matron of the Door of Hope, home for
girls, and I were invited by Brother Trotter of the Rescue Mission,
then situated on Main Street near St. Elmo Hotel, to take charge of the
meeting. When the invitation to seek the Savior was given, the altar
filled with many mothers' boys, both young and old, and in all sorts of
condition--semi-intoxicated, ragged, dirty, etc. (Reader, I have seen
this sight scores of times in similar places.)
Several workers joined us on the platform in aiding the seekers. As I
was kneeling with my autoharp lying across my lap and my eyes closed, I
inadvertently opened them. Out at the open door, about forty feet away,
stood a throng of observers, amongst them a girl. Never did I so long
to leave the platform, but I feared that an interruption might mean
disastrous results to both workers and seekers. Soon the meeting
gloriously closed, the doors were shut, and we were hurrying home. As I
walked up the street with Sister Taylor and presently stood waiting
with her for her approaching car, my lodging being in close proximity,
I told her of my seeing that girl by the door and of my longing to have
obeyed the impulse to go and speak to the stranger. Sister Taylor
comforted me with the assurance of God's never-failing response to the
prayer of faith for even the unknown, and urged me to pray for the
girl. I replied that it would have been infinitely more satisfactory to
have dealt with her face to face.
Suddenly some one gently touched me on the shoulder. Turning about, I
beheld a tall, pretty, but weary-looking young woman. It was the girl
whom I had noticed in that open doorway.
"May I speak to you a moment?" she asked.
"Yes, dear, gladly! I was wishing I might only meet you, for I saw you
looking into the mission just now. Come with me to my room," and I
placed my arm through hers.
"No, no!" she replied, "you wouldn't want my kind to visit you there."
"Indeed, I would, and do, dear child, so come along. Good night, Sister
Taylor. Remember us in your prayers." ...
It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, and Anna had told me her
story--her sad, sad story. Girls, you ought to hear it; so presently
I'm going to relate it for your benefit, but first I want you to know
that before we left my room, she had surrendered her future to her
loving Savior. Before we were off of our knees, she, with the tears in
her eyes, suddenly exclaimed:
"Oh! I quite forgot, I quite forgot. Let's go quickly. Poor Flora, my
chum, is awful sick, and I came out to hunt her friend and take her
some medicine." We hurried away.
* * * * *
There lay a dark-haired girl moaning and gaping for breath. She managed
to inquire:
"Who's this, Anna? Who've you brought with you?"
Soon I was reassuring the poor sufferer, whilst endeavoring to make her
more comfortable.
"Dear, have you a mother?" I inquired.
"Yes, only two blocks from here; but she doesn't know I'm anywhere near
her. She never comes near such a neighborhood as this. Don't tell her.
please don't. It would break her heart."
"Very well, my child; I won't."
But she hadn't told Anna not to tell; so I excused myself, called Anna
out of the room, and whispered:
"Get me a certain medicine; and if you know where her mother lives, go
there, gently break this news, and tell her that if she still loves her
child to come immediately with blankets, pillows, and a hack; to be
very, very gentle and quiet with her; to talk as little as possible.
And we will help to take her home; then she must send quickly for a
doctor."
Before five o'clock poor, forgiven, suffering Flora was in bed in her
mother's home, where we shall leave her for the present, in order that
we may hear Anna's story.
She said: "I'm not seventeen years old till next month, and I'm
the oldest of five children--three girls and two boys. My father is a
mechanic, but sometimes he's out of work, and then didn't he used to
scold! Just as though we were to blame! Poor Mother! I've often pitied
her for marrying my father, who was naturally cross and ill-tempered
even when things didn't go wrong. Half the time mother daren't say her
soul was her own, and, besides, she was naturally one of those meek,
timid kind that would put up with anything for the sake of peace.
"Winter before last when he was out of a job for quite a while and
mother was having a hard time of it trying to keep us warm and fed, I
heard of a place in the next town, just a car-ride away, where I could
work for my board and get my fifty cents a day and car-fare if I wanted
to go home at night. It was to work in a nice, genteel restaurant; so I
coaxed mother to let me take it, which she did. I didn't ask father.
"No, he wasn't what you'd call a drinking man, though he liked a glass
of beer once in a while.
"I soon caught on now to do my work well; sometimes used to get tips,
but not often, 'cause I had the family and ladies' department to wait
on. There was one swell-looking lady used to eat there, and used to
come to my table whenever she could. We weren't allowed to chat with
the customers, though sometimes we did, if the boss wasn't looking. One
day she told me she was very much taken with me, asked if I had a
mother and father, and several other questions. So I told her just how
it was with us and how I happened to take a situation until father got
back to work. Then she asked where I lived. I told her, but that now I
was only going home once a week in the afternoon for a little while, it
being too dark and cold to get up so early to take my car, and that,
besides, I had to work late sometimes, so the boss gave me one dollar
and fifty cents extra a week to pay my room rent. She asked if I liked
my room.
"'Well, nothing extra. One can't expect much of a place for one dollar
and fifty cents a week, can they?'
"She said no, certainly not; but as she had taken a fancy to me, and
had a nice house with a nice little spare room in it, if I liked it
better than where I was stopping, she would rent it to me, and for me
to come and see it that afternoon; which I did. Of course I took it. It
was fine! Worth double. She said she did it to encourage me, and for me
not to say a word to any one about it, as it might make the other girls
jealous; besides, she didn't keep lady roomers. So I promised, and I
kept my word.
"Some way, I can't just tell how, I got acquainted with one of her
roomers. He soon began to say nice things and make love to me, and we
got so well acquainted that he'd leave his door open when I was off
duty of an afternoon and would call me in for a chat. But one day--oh!
I hate to tell it--he closed the door, and by and by who should walk in
on us but Madam herself. I was scared half to death, she raged so, said
I'd lose my job, threatened to tell my father, and ordered me to leave
her house. By and by she cooled down, and as I'd been crying till I was
a sight, said I needn't go back to the restaurant, she'd take care of
me, because, after all, she was sorry for me, and as things were so bad
for me at home, she'd see what she could do for another situation for
me, so for me to stay in and keep quiet.
"The next day she said she'd just fortunately received a letter from a
friend of hers in Council Bluffs, Iowa, who wanted a girl like me right
away. I wanted awful bad to go and say good-by to Mother and the
children, but I was too ashamed, so I did as she advised. I just wrote
a little note to tell them I had got a fine situation out of town, and
would soon send full particulars and my address; but I never did, no
not from that day to this. I couldn't. You know I couldn't, and you
know why."
"Yes, dear child, I know. You fell into the awful clutches of that
procuress and her accomplices. Poor, poor Anna! There are thousands of
cases similar to yours, my poor child. Of course you did not know. They
all say that. But go on with your story, Anna."
"I was awful homesick, Mother Roberts, and my conscience was hurting
me; my, how it was hurting! There was I decked out in gay cheap silks
and laces, drinking, and smoking cigarettes, and carrying on and doing
things to please people that I just hated; but I had to; there was no
getting out of it. All the time I was longing to go home or to send
money to my mother, though I didn't want to send any that came out of
that house. No, indeed. Besides, I had to give it nearly all to Madam.
One day I told her I was going back home and for her to give me my
money. She told me she didn't owe me any, that I owed her.
"'What for?' I asked.
"'For your clothes, jewelry, board, lodging, and the good will of my
house,' she said.
"'I thought you gave all that to me,' I said.
"Mother Roberts, you ought to have heard her laugh. It makes me shudder
when I think of it, it was so cruel and fiendish! Presently she added:
"'You can't leave till you've paid your debts. I'll have you arrested
if you do.'
"'How much do I owe you?' I asked.
"'Pretty near six hundred dollars,' she said.
"I nearly fainted with fright, but what was I to do? _I was afraid to
die, or else I'd have ended it then and there...._
"That night I told a friend of mine, a railroad employee, and he said
for me to keep a 'stiff upper lip,' and he'd get me out of there next
trip; so I kept my own counsel, and Madam concluded I'd decided to stay
where I was and make the best of it. She didn't know I was counting the
hours for three days, until my friend got back.
"When he came, he advised me to play drunk, and to go out with him to
dinner. He said I need never go back; he'd take me with him on his
train when it went out that night.
"'What about my debt?' I asked him.
"'Debt nothing!" he said. 'She can't have you arrested. She can't
collect one cent of a debt like _that_. Don't take any clothes, for
fear she'll suspect.'
"Pretty soon I staggered down the stairs, but I wasn't drunk; no,
indeed.
"'Where are you going, Anna?' she inquired.
"'Out to dinner with ----. Any objection?' I asked.
"'No, only be in in time for business.'
"Oh, thank God! I never laid my eyes on her again, nor she on me from
that day to this. But I don't want you to get the idea that that escape
from her ended my troubles. By no manner of means. Listen!" And then
she told me of experiences too dreadful for publication--experiences in
Ogden and Salt Lake, Utah; Reno, Nevada. Now she was in Los
Angeles--farther away from mother and home than ever; as unhappy, as
homesick, as miserable a girl as ever trod the earth. When she happened
to be passing the mission door, some one was singing, "Just as I am
without one plea." After that door had closed for the night, she
followed Sister Taylor and me, trying to summon up courage enough to
approach me, fearing that if she did not I should soon get on a car and
her opportunity of ever meeting me would be lost.
At the time of our meeting, Anna was well-nigh homeless, friendless,
penniless, and, worst of all, Christless. In less than four hours,
praise God! she had her greatest needs supplied, and, best of all, she
had found her Savior.
In memory of this, one of the songs appearing in this book was
written--"The Value of a Song." It was a particular favorite with our
family in the rescue home, some girl often remarking, "Doesn't it just
seem to fit my case, Mother Roberts?" Then she would get me to relate
the story of Anna or of some other poor unfortunate. Alas! their name
is "Legion."
THE VALUE OF A SONG.
Words and Music by Mrs. Florence Roberts
1. A poor girl was wand'ring alone on the street Of a great busy city,
thro' dust and thro' heat, With despair in her heart as she walked to
and fro, When she heard a sweet voice singing softly and low:
CHORUS
Just as I am, without one plea, But that they blood was shed for me,
And that thou bidd'st me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come, I come!
2. As she noted the words of this beautiful song, Her thoughts wandered
back to the days that were gone; And in fancy she hears her dear mother
once more Sweetly singing the song she now hears thro' that door.
CHORUS
3. "O God, I have sinned, I will do so no more, If thou wilt forgive
and a sinner restore; For the sake of my Savior, for mercy I pray:
Lord, give me a home with some Christian to stay."
CHORUS
4. "Thou knowest my weakness, my sorrow, my sin, Now grant me, dear
Lord, a new life to begin." And soon came the answer to this earnest
prayer,--A pardon, a home, and motherly care.
CHORUS.