"AN AWFUL PROBLEM!"
ISN'T it strange the ways the Lord takes to answer prayers?
Much prayer had been made for Dirk Colson, but few had thought of his
sister. Sallie Calkins, it is true, had come with trembling steps
into the light of Christ's love, and had immediately desired to have
Mart enjoy it with her, but was very trembling and doubting as to her
ability to reach Mart, or to influence her in the right direction. She
sent the bonnet and cape to the lecture with a prayer, but she did not
look for the prayer to be answered. Verily, He has to be content with
faith "less than a grain of mustard-seed."
Was the rest of the story an answer to prayer? We are to remember that
he has strange ways. Events startling enough in their import followed
each other in rapid succession. In the first place, Dirk's father,
poor, wrecked man, returned no more. Whether he had wandered among the
network of railroads which lined the southern portion of the city and
lost his life there, or whether he had fallen into the river, or just
how he had disappeared, could not be discovered.
There were three men killed by an accident on the road one night, but
their disfigured bodies were buried before Dirk heard of it. There was
a man seen struggling in the water off the lower wharf one evening, but
he sank before help could reach him, and his body was not recovered.
There were half-a-dozen men killed by a boiler explosion, but that was
not heard of in time to look into it. There were so many ways in which
the wreck might have gone out of life and left no sign. They were safe
in supposing that he was intoxicated, and that was about all they could
be perfectly sure of concerning him—that, and the fact that he came no
more. Of course, there was no such search for him as is made for the
man of respectability and position.
To one who had some idea of the worth of a soul, it was pitiful to see
what a tiny ripple this disappearance made on the surface of life.
A moment of startled questioning by those who lived in the immediate
neighbourhood; a few women with aprons thrown over their heads
congregating in groups around the pump or before the door of the
bakery; a crowd of dirty children, stopping their play for a moment,
and speaking lower: then the tide of noisy, fighting, swearing life
went on.
One was gone out from it. Whither? None knew, few cared; and there were
such crowds and crowds left, how could he be missed?
One missed him—an abused, insulted, down-trodden woman—one whom,
years before, he had promised to love and cherish, until death parted
them, and had broken the vows almost as soon as taken, and never
renewed them again. Yet that woman wept bitter tears over his absence;
watched for him, listened nightly for his staggering footsteps; rose
up from her heap of straw in the corner in the middle of the night,
and set wide-open the cellar door, and listened to the angry voices
floating down to her from some drunken brawl further up the street,
if, perchance, she might hear his; listened, and held her breath, and
quivered all over with hope and fear; then crept back to her miserable
bed, covered her head with the ragged quilt, and cried herself into a
few hours of forgetfulness.
"She is crying herself to death about him!" Mart said. There was
surprise mingled with awe in her voice.
She told it to Dirk, and the two stood thoughtfully for a moment
looking out at the one window. They carefully avoided looking at each
other. They did not understand. To them there was simply relief in the
father's absence. They had no trace of love for him in their hearts.
The word "father" meant nothing to them but misery.
Still there was that in them which respected the mother's grief; they
tried to shield her. Dirk, of his own thoughtfulness, brought home some
tea in a paper, and bought half a pint of milk at the corner dairy.
And Mart took lessons of Sallie, and made a delicate slice of toast,
and borrowed Sallie's one cup and saucer to serve the tea in. She was
disappointed that the mother cried, and could hardly drink the tea. She
was even almost vexed that the mother said with tears that:
"Poor Jock always did like tea so much, and she had always thought that
maybe if he could have had it hot and strong, he would not have taken
to the drink."
Mart had no faith in this, no belief that anything in her father's
past life could have kept him from the drink; but she held herself
silent, and let the tears have their way. All the time she had in her
heart one great solemn regret. There was One who would have helped her
father, would and could have saved him, even from rum. What if she, his
daughter, had known the Lord Jesus, and could have taken the miserable
father to him and had him transformed! Mart had no doubt about his
power to do it. An unanswerable argument had been given her. No infidel
need try to assail her now.
But the father! Why had everybody kept silence and let him sink away?
Awful!
Why had not she known Christ? Why had she not listened to Sallie but a
week before? Why had not Dirk learned the way and saved his father? An
awful problem! Mart's life must henceforth be shadowed by it.
Meantime what was Mrs. Roberts to do for this new-born soul? How was
she to help her, and, through her, to help her brother?
She, in her elegant home, sat down to study this problem.
Life at East Fifty-fifth Street was so far removed from life in the
alley that she knew nothing about the missing father. Days passed,
and, busy with many claims of society, she had made no movement toward
helping the girl, and knew as yet no way to do it; yet she carried her
on her heart. Monday evening came and went, and still she had been
detained from any effort.
One afternoon her thoughts shaped themselves into action. She would go
and see Mart. She would get Dirk to protect her in her journey down
the alley; also, in accomplishing this, she would accomplish another
thing. She would call on Dirk at his place of business. The chief of
the office was a Christian man; yet she had reason to believe that he
knew less about Dirk, and cared much less for him, than he did for his
little dog that sat in the window and barked at passers-by.
She had no difficulty in securing attention. Ladies were not often
admitted, but a card bearing the name "Mrs. Evan Roberts" was
sufficient passport among any of the business men of the city.
Mr. Stone was more than ready—he was eager to serve her. What could he
do for the elegantly-dressed lady whose carriage waited at the door,
while she came in person among the bales and boxes? Her business must
be urgent.
It was. Could she speak with Mr. Colson just for a moment? She would
not detain him long, but she wished to make an appointment with him for
the next day.
"Mr. Colson!" The chief and his perplexed assistant looked at each
other thoughtfully and shook their heads. There was no such person
connected with their establishment. She must have the wrong number.
No; she was positive.
"He told me only three days ago that he was in your employment. He is
on the third floor, I believe."
The gentlemen looked at each other again.
"Colson!" repeated Mr. Stone. "There is certainly a mistake. Briggs is
in charge on the third floor front, and Dickson has the back rooms. No,
Mrs. Roberts, we have no such name among our men, I am positive."
But Mrs. Roberts gently held her ground. She was sure she was not
mistaken, for she had talked with him about his work and the different
men. He was in Mr. Briggs's department, she felt quite sure. He was not
a foreman, she explained, but quite a young man, had been there but a
few weeks, and Dr. Everett was the one who had interested himself in
securing the place.
Light of some sort began to dawn on the perplexed faces of the
gentlemen.
"Can she mean black Dirk, do you suppose?" questioned the elder,
looking hard at his associate.
Then came the sweet voice of the visitor.
"Oh, no, he is not a coloured gentleman. His name is Colson—Mr. Derrick
Colson."
"That is the one," said the gentleman quickly. Should he laugh or be
annoyed?
It took but a moment after that to summon "Mr. Derrick Colson." Black
he was, certainly, not only by reason of his naturally dark skin, but
because of the grimy work, whatever it was, which fell to his lot. His
big apron was soiled with ink and oil, and daubed with bits of dark
colour which seemed not to be either.
He came forward with his usual shambling gait, and an additional shade
of sullenness apparent on his face, but it glowed a swarthy red when he
recognized the lady.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Colson," she said, and she held forth her
delicately-gloved hand.
His own went forward to meet it, then drew suddenly back.
"It is not clean enough," he said; "there's ink or something on it."
But the lavender kids were not withdrawn.
"Never mind the ink; a little honest soil never hurt anybody," and the
rough, dark hand was taken in her own.
Then occurred a few moments' chat; at least the lady chatted with easy
familiarity. She referred to the "Social Parlours," to the "Monday
Evenings," to Miss Dennis's "Musicale," to half-a-dozen themes about
which the bewildered gentlemen within hearing knew nothing.
Could it be that the low-voiced, gentle lady was trying to give them a
lesson as well as to talk with Dirk? Finally she made an appointment
for the next afternoon. Would his employer be so kind as to excuse
him for an hour, if convenient? Certainly, it would be convenient, to
please Mrs. Evan Roberts.
Dirk was very much embarrassed. He blushed and stammered, and did not
know how to answer any of the kindnesses.
But there were two things during the interview which gave Mrs. Roberts
more pleasure than you, perhaps, are able to understand.
One was, that at sight of her he had suddenly snatched off the paper
cap which he wore; and the other, that having set it again on his head
as he turned from her, he glanced back from the door, and, in answer to
her bow and smile, lifted the ugly little cap with an air that was an
exact imitation of young Reid, and yet so well done that you would not
have thought of it as an imitation.
Mrs. Roberts could have clapped her bands, but she did not. Instead she
said sweetly,—
"I am very glad that Mr. Colson is in the employment of a Christian
gentleman. He is greatly in need of help from all Christian sources,
and I am sure there is that in him which will respond to judicious
effort."
Then she let the bewildered man attend her to her carriage, and went on
her way rejoicing.
But there were plans being laid for her at that moment of which she
knew nothing.
To-morrow she would go and see the golden-haired girl. In a
neatly-packed basket she had certain things—among them a bonnet and a
sack that she knew would fit the hair and face, and she believed would
give Mart pleasure. If only she could contrive a natural way to give
them to her, and there could be planned ways of keeping them safe from
the pawnbroker's grasp.
All this time she knew nothing of the fact that the hand which had
grasped for years to furnish the pawnbroker was stilled for ever. It
had not once occurred to Dirk to tell her. It is a solemn fact that in
this greater excitement he had actually forgotten it!
As for the "Christian employer," he did not know of it to tell. He had
not so much as known whether black Dirk had a father or not. He was
simply a street rough whom Dr. Everett was trying experiments with. And
because there was an unusual pressure on the office, and poor help was
better than none, he was helping the experiment.
However, when Dirk went home from the office that night, he remembered
that the father was gone.
Mart met him at the door, a look of solemn determination on her face.
"Dirk," she said, "she's going; as sure as you live, she's going. She's
been bad all the afternoon. Sallie says that Mark's doctor will come
to see her—she knows he will, and Mark shall go for him as soon as he
comes home; but I don't mean to wait for no doctor. I want 'her' to
come. 'She' knows the way, and I want mother to be told it right, so
there won't be no mistake. You go for her, Dirk, right off straight.
There ain't any time to lose, for I tell you now she's 'going.' She's
been failing all along, you know, and she has just cried herself down.
Dirk, will you go for 'her' as fast as you can?"
The confusion of pronouns might have bewildered you. They did not Dirk.
"Her" meant to him exactly what it did to Mart. He could not think how
it could possibly mean any other person. But this was astounding news
about his mother! It was one thing to have a father disappear whom he
had simply feared until he had learned to hate. It was quite another
thing to talk about the going away of the only one who had ever tried
to mend his clothes, and who had sat up nights to wash them when she
could.
He strode past Mart into the wretched room, and looked at the bed in
the corner.
The mother was asleep, but on her face was a strange change—a something
that he had never seen there before, worn and sunken as it always was.
It made him understand Mart's fears.
"I'll go," he said huskily, and rushed from the house.
"Her" carriage was just rolling down the avenue as his swift feet
cleared the alley. He knew the horses. He was a little ahead of them;
but it was not probable that the driver would stop for him.
"Won't you stop that carriage?" he said in breathless haste to a
policeman at the corner. "I've got to speak to the lady that's in it."
"I'll be quite likely to, no doubt!" said the policeman in quiet irony.
"What rascality are you up to now, Dirk? Can't you be decent for a few
days?"
But Dirk was trying to free himself from the detaining hand, and threw
up one arm in a sort of despairing gesture to the coachman. Mr. Roberts
caught the signal, recognized the face, and in another moment the
horses stood restlessly by the curbstone, and Dirk, his embarrassment
gone, told his brief story rapidly:—
"Father went off a little ago, and never came back; and mother, she
is sickly, and it set her crying; and she's going, Mart thinks, and I
guess it's so; and Mart wants you to come and show her the way. She
said you knew how, and you would come."