A CHARITABLE LADY.
If a drunkard in a sober fit is the dullest of mortals, an enthusiast in
a reason-fit is not the most lively. And this, without prejudice to his
greatly improved understanding; for, if his elation was the height of
his madness, his despondency is but the extreme of his sanity. Something
thus now, to all appearance, with the man in gray. Society his stimulus,
loneliness was his lethargy. Loneliness, like the sea breeze, blowing
off from a thousand leagues of blankness, he did not find, as veteran
solitaires do, if anything, too bracing. In short, left to himself, with
none to charm forth his latent lymphatic, he insensibly resumes his
original air, a quiescent one, blended of sad humility and demureness.
Ere long he goes laggingly into the ladies' saloon, as in spiritless
quest of somebody; but, after some disappointed glances about him, seats
himself upon a sofa with an air of melancholy exhaustion and depression.
At the sofa's further end sits a plump and pleasant person, whose aspect
seems to hint that, if she have any weak point, it must be anything
rather than her excellent heart. From her twilight dress, neither dawn
nor dark, apparently she is a widow just breaking the chrysalis of her
mourning. A small gilt testament is in her hand, which she has just been
reading. Half-relinquished, she holds the book in reverie, her finger
inserted at the xiii. of 1st Corinthians, to which chapter possibly her
attention might have recently been turned, by witnessing the scene of
the monitory mute and his slate.
The sacred page no longer meets her eye; but, as at evening, when for a
time the western hills shine on though the sun be set, her thoughtful
face retains its tenderness though the teacher is forgotten.
Meantime, the expression of the stranger is such as ere long to attract
her glance. But no responsive one. Presently, in her somewhat
inquisitive survey, her volume drops. It is restored. No encroaching
politeness in the act, but kindness, unadorned. The eyes of the lady
sparkle. Evidently, she is not now unprepossessed. Soon, bending over,
in a low, sad tone, full of deference, the stranger breathes, "Madam,
pardon my freedom, but there is something in that face which strangely
draws me. May I ask, are you a sister of the Church?"
"Why--really--you--"
In concern for her embarrassment, he hastens to relieve it, but, without
seeming so to do. "It is very solitary for a brother here," eying the
showy ladies brocaded in the background, "I find none to mingle souls
with. It may be wrong--I _know_ it is--but I cannot force myself to be
easy with the people of the world. I prefer the company, however
silent, of a brother or sister in good standing. By the way, madam, may
I ask if you have confidence?"
"Really, sir--why, sir--really--I--"
"Could you put confidence in _me_ for instance?"
"Really, sir--as much--I mean, as one may wisely put in a--a--stranger,
an entire stranger, I had almost said," rejoined the lady, hardly yet at
ease in her affability, drawing aside a little in body, while at the
same time her heart might have been drawn as far the other way. A
natural struggle between charity and prudence.
"Entire stranger!" with a sigh. "Ah, who would be a stranger? In vain, I
wander; no one will have confidence in me."
"You interest me," said the good lady, in mild surprise. "Can I any way
befriend you?"
"No one can befriend me, who has not confidence."
"But I--I have--at least to that degree--I mean that----"
"Nay, nay, you have none--none at all. Pardon, I see it. No confidence.
Fool, fond fool that I am to seek it!"
"You are unjust, sir," rejoins the good lady with heightened interest;
"but it may be that something untoward in your experiences has unduly
biased you. Not that I would cast reflections. Believe me, I--yes,
yes--I may say--that--that----"
"That you have confidence? Prove it. Let me have twenty dollars."
"Twenty dollars!"
"There, I told you, madam, you had no confidence."
The lady was, in an extraordinary way, touched. She sat in a sort of
restless torment, knowing not which way to turn. She began twenty
different sentences, and left off at the first syllable of each. At
last, in desperation, she hurried out, "Tell me, sir, for what you want
the twenty dollars?"
"And did I not----" then glancing at her half-mourning, "for the widow
and the fatherless. I am traveling agent of the Widow and Orphan Asylum,
recently founded among the Seminoles."
"And why did you not tell me your object before?" As not a little
relieved. "Poor souls--Indians, too--those cruelly-used Indians. Here,
here; how could I hesitate. I am so sorry it is no more."
"Grieve not for that, madam," rising and folding up the bank-notes.
"This is an inconsiderable sum, I admit, but," taking out his pencil and
book, "though I here but register the amount, there is another register,
where is set down the motive. Good-bye; you have confidence. Yea, you
can say to me as the apostle said to the Corinthians, 'I rejoice that I
have confidence in you in all things.'"