It was the night before Antoine’s departure for the hospital, and
already April breaths were balmy with Southland odors. Through the open
windows of Margaret’s room there floated down to passers-by the
vanishing strains of a deftly-handled violin. Antoine and Elsie were
giving a farewell concert to Margaret’s Busy Fingers Club, and the
strains of music had drawn first one inmate of the house and then
another up the long flights of stairs until the rooms were full. It was
a treat to which the children had long been looking forward, and their
elders found a short surcease of care in the delight and abandon of the
two untrained musicians. Elsie and Antoine were in their gayest mood,
and violin and organ seemed to laugh with them. Like the birds they had
tried to imitate a year ago, music seemed to be innate in their breasts,
and they flung off gay quicksteps, ariettas, and rondos until hands,
feet, and heads of the little audience kept almost unconscious time, and
smiles flitted from face to face in self-forgetfulness.
The music came in fitful gusts through the open windows, and passers-by
paused to listen, seemingly loth to lose a note of the gladness
trembling on the air. Across the street in the shadow of a portico a man
had stood for some time in a listening attitude, and as the music seemed
to grow madder and merrier, a certain restlessness became apparent in
shifting feet, and an uneasy tapping of fingers on the wooden column
against which he leaned.
“Antoine is gay to-night,” he thought. “Hope has been awakened in his
breast, and if it were not that I might seem to be seeking his thanks I
should climb the stairs and make myself known to them. I wonder if my
Lady Scornful would be as unbending to-night as she is within my
sister’s walls! I’m strongly tempted to try her—yet I’m afraid it would
be an unwise thing to do; for as Lizzette counsels, it is best to await
developments. What an extraordinary position this is for me, anyway!
I’ve tried my best to reason it out on one of Helen’s hypotheses, but it
all comes point-blank against the fact that life isn’t worth living
without that little bunch of spitefulness. And, after all, she moves in
an orbit that is distinctly outside of mine and with which, to tell the
truth, I have very little sympathy. She and her sister are charming
types of self-cultured women, and worthy of any man’s or society’s
recognition; but their quixotic notions regarding a regenerated humanity
seem the veriest nonsense to me. Every man for himself—et sauve qui peut
is, as the world makes it, a fairly good doctrine. What is the use of
being burdened with the sins and sorrows of the world? I don’t consider
myself responsible for them or that they would be materially lessened if
I threw away my money in clothing the sans culottes. Such people are as
ragged as ever the next day after your philanthropy, and you are
certainly none the better for it. Indeed, the leaven of generosity, like
that of love, ought to have a narrow circle; it grows too pale if you
widen it. And yet those two slender girls would build up a social
paradise in which the ignoble qualities of humanity have no part. Greed,
avarice, jealousy, insincerity, are entirely eliminated from their
scheme of life. Surely in their position they must have encountered all
these evils, and still they ignore them! They look upon others as
themselves in replica, at least in motive. A natural conclusion, no
doubt, but one the facts do not bear out. One may safely prophesy
regarding the outcome of these Eutopian ideas. There never can be, never
will be, anything but the survival of the fittest. I suppose if Elsie
heard me she would say that the fittest ought to include the majority at
least, and that it is in the hands of the fittest to help the unfit to
become fit. But that is what Christianity has been trying to do all
these years, and still the cry is, ‘save us or we perish.’ These slender
girls, hearing this cry, have offered their empty hands to the
multitude. And the result? Well, from what Lizzette tells me of that
little club of Margaret’s, the outlook is by no means disheartening; but
how will it be as the circle widens? How much of heart and hope—for it
is all they have—will they be able to bring into the work? I rather
imagine that unknown quantity is beyond my arithmetic at present. How
long am I going to be content to let this pathetic little drama go on?
Elsie seems to have locked the door against me in that pitiful plea of
hers not to jeopardize her standing with my sister, and I am more
completely shut out of her sympathies than if I were the beggar at her
door. Even Lizzette shakes that sage head of hers and says it is not
right. Right! what’s wrong about it? If I had a perverted taste and
Elsie was coarse and ignorant, and the chances were all against the
ultimate happiness of such a union, perhaps I might be induced to see my
error. But when did reason ever lend her balances to a man in love? I
always supposed I was sane enough until a certain Miss Elsie Murchison
took to snubbing me; yet here I am, a love-sick boy, mooning outside of
her window, and like Benedick, ‘a college of wit-crackers cannot flout
me out of my humor.’ Dear Lady Disdain, good-night! I’m going home to
read my Shakespeare once more and learn of my prototype how to rail at
and forget you—if I can!”
It was late in the afternoon of the next day, and Margaret sat alone in
her room thinking wistfully of Antoine and the long six months of his
stay at the hospital. The lad had gone cheerfully to the loneliness and
pain before him, never doubting that the glad promise of walking like
other men and awaking to the joy of vigorous life would be fulfilled.
Indeed, his faith was so absolute that it took away much of the pang of
separation, and Margaret and Elsie had choked back unbidden tears and
promised him a weekly visit of long talks and merry times. Books,
violin, and a mandolin, the gift of Herbert, had been sent with his
other belongings, and a daily order for flowers had been left by Herbert
at the florist’s. All that loving hands could do to smooth the painful
path had been done, and now there was nothing left but to hope and wait.
But how they all missed him! The pale quiet face, the great dark eyes,
the loving smile, and the sweet strains of his violin had so entwined
themselves around their hearts that not to find them daily ministers to
their need seemed a sore deprivation. “Elsie’s smile will be more
infrequent now that Antoine is no longer with us,” sighed Margaret. “I
am afraid our loved evenings will be doleful enough without our laddie.
Still there must be the same adherence to duty wherever the lines fall,
and perhaps our progress will be all the more substantial when we
realize that hard work is our only master.”
There was a sudden scurrying of feet up the stairs and several children
burst breathlessly into the room. “O Miss Margaret!” they cried, “just
come and see what some men have done to the new tenant—the one that only
moved in a week ago! They’ve just come and took every bit of furniture,
and the woman is sick, and they took the bed from under her and left her
only a straw tick and a quilt, and she’s crying awful, and the two
little babies are squalling, and—oh! it’s dreadful!”
Margaret quickly followed the children down two flights of stairs, to
find the scene even more pitiable than the children had described. Upon
a thin straw mattress in the corner lay a woman with her face hidden in
her arms, while heart-rending sobs shook her frame from head to feet,
and two little children, as yet only prattling babes, crouched beside
her crying: “Mamma, mamma, look up. Talk to baby. Don’t cry! Mamma!
Mamma!”
Margaret knelt beside the agonized form and softly stroked back the hair
from the face that remained persistently hidden, and then, taking both
of the wondering babies in her lap, said softly to the group of children
at the door: “Now run away, dears, and shut the door.”
The children obeyed instantly, and Margaret remained softly stroking the
woman’s hair and hugging the now quiet babies to her bosom. Under the
soothing influence of Margaret’s touch and presence the violent sobbing
soon ceased, and a tear-stained face, lit up by a pair of hollow eyes,
glanced up at Margaret. One glance caused a sudden transformation in the
convulsed and agonized face, and a thin hand crept out toward Margaret
as the woman said brokenly, but in the unmistakable voice and language
of refinement: “You are good not to pass by on the other side. What made
you come here?”
“Love,” said Margaret simply.
“Love?” repeated the woman interrogatively. “Love died long ago, and the
devils of greed and pride danced at his funeral.”
“Not in all hearts, I trust. Love lives to help and strengthen sufferers
like you. Can you tell me any way to help you?”
“Yes—kill me!” The hollow eyes gleamed with sullen despair.
“And the babies?” asked Margaret as she stroked back the rings of flaxen
hair above the fair little brows.
“Oh, God forgive me! I am so wretched, so desperate.”
“I know it, and I do not blame you; but let us see if there is not some
way toward the sunshine. Tell me all about it.”
“It is only a little to tell. The marriage of a petted, only daughter,
with a head full of romantic notions, to a man whose only fortune was
head and hands; but who held, at the time of my marriage, a salaried
position as manager of a prosperous business firm. A panic, a failure,
and consequent loss of employment, followed by unsuccessful attempts at
re-establishment in the old line, the yielding of health at the shrine
of motherhood, the gradual settling into bare and bitter poverty, the
disposal of every article of value, and that, last resort of the
impecunious, the buying of needed furniture on the instalment plan,
followed by the forcible taking back of the furniture just before the
last payment could be made.”
“And your husband?”
“He went out again this morning in the old, well-nigh hopeless search
for work.”
“Your parents?”
“They live in a distant city and know nothing of this. I married against
their wishes. There were just five dollars more due on the furniture,
but the chattel-mortgage shark exacted immediate payment, and of course
I could not meet it. He was kind enough to leave me this,” and the thin
hands pulled at the tattered quilt.
“Oh, it is pitiful! Shameful!” exclaimed Margaret. “You must not be left
to lie here. Can you walk?”
“I haven’t walked a step in three months. Edward, my husband, has lifted
me in his arms and managed to care for me and the babies. Oh, it is
terrible, the way we have been compelled to live.” And sobs again shook
the slight frame.
“Never mind,” said Margaret soothingly. “It will be better soon. My
rooms are two flights above, so it will be impossible to take you there,
but you shall have a comfortable bedroom and kind friends to look after
you. I shall be compelled to leave you for a few moments, until I can
ask some of these friends to make room for you.”
“Oh, don’t trouble anybody! I can’t bear to be thrown upon charity. It
hurts my pride so.”
“We won’t call it charity; we’ll call it love. The love that prompted
the Samaritan and a greater than he to moisten parched lips with cooling
waters and taught mankind the constant need they have of each other.”
“And do you believe in Him?”
“With an everlasting faith,” answered Margaret.
“I did once until the inhumanity of the world made me doubt.”
“Doubt no longer,” said Margaret, smiling, “for He has raised up succor
for you.” With these reassuring words Margaret sought the rooms of
several good women of the house, to hold counsel with them and determine
the best course to pursue. Margaret’s story evoked such a storm of
indignation and invective against the mortgage shark that, if it could
have gathered sufficient volume, would have swept the whole guild from
the face of the earth. And yet, one and all counselled Margaret not to
meddle with the matter.
“You can’t do nothin’ with ’em. They’ve got the power and they know it,”
was the unanimous conclusion of the little circle.
“But the injustice of it,” exclaimed Margaret. “I can’t stand tamely by
and see a helpless being robbed.”
“No more could we if there was any chance, but you’ll find, the longer
you live, that the poor don’t have no justice in this world. The laws is
all made for the rich.”
“Then it is the fault of the poor man if he has no justice, for he is a
recognized factor in the vote that sends men to make those laws, and if
he knows his rights he can have them maintained.”
“Well, I don’t know how it is, but my man has to vote as the boss tells
him or lose his place.”
“Shame! Shame!” said Margaret indignantly, “and this is America’s
boasted freedom of life and thought! But we are forgetting that poor
woman. Who among you will take her in until something can be done?”
“I,” exclaimed Mrs. Smith, a motherly woman whose rooms were on the same
floor. “We’re a good deal crowded now, but she shan’t lay there and
suffer so long as I have a crust.”
“Let us hope it will be only a temporary inconvenience. I am going to
find some way to unravel this web of injustice and regain possession of
those goods.”
“You’ll have your trouble for your pains,” said Mrs. Smith dubiously as
they walked along the hall.
“It may be, but there will be some satisfaction in trying. Here we are!”
Margaret exclaimed as they entered the sick woman’s room “Now we’ll make
a chair of our hands and between us carry you to Mrs. Smith’s room,
whose heart is as large as her back is broad.”
“You’re making it pretty big,” laughed Mrs. Smith as she presented her
ample form to the sick woman’s view. A faint smile at the pleasantry
played over the wan face, as she allowed them to lift her to the
improvised seat and carry her to a bed.
“Now,” said Margaret, when their charge was safely bestowed between
clean sheets, and the babies were softly cooing on either side of her,
“I want all the information you can give me, and all the papers you have
relative to this furniture. I am going to make an effort to get it
back.”
“You will find an old portfolio in the tick I was lying on. All the
receipts for money paid and the contract are in it.”
As Margaret returned with the portfolio, a sheet of paper fell from it
and fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and was about to restore
it, when the sick woman said: “Read it. It will verify the statement I
made a few moments ago.”
Margaret glanced along the page and saw that it was poetry written in a
free-flowing hand. Seating herself beside the bed she read:
“O Soul, I am tired of you, tired!
You do nothing but think and feel,
And often you weep,
In some sensitive deep,
O’er wounds that you cannot heal.
“O Soul, I am tired of you, tired!
You have threaded the paths of life,
And found the sweet,
Too incomplete
To answer the pain and strife.
“O Soul, I am tired of you, tired!
You give me no peace or rest;
The blinding steep,
Or lonely deep
I walk at your stern behest.
“O Soul, I am tired of you, tired!
You have only your faith and prayer;
For every ill,
Their utterance still
Comes back on the empty air.
“O Soul, I am tired of you, tired!
How often with faith and you,
I have tried to soar
Where doubt is no more,
And humanity’s sometimes true.
“O Soul, I am tired of you, tired;
Why ask for an endless day?
I am tired of the light,
And long for the night,
To rest forever and aye!
“O Soul, I am tired of you, tired!
Go ask of Time, and find
Some quiet spot,
Where feeling is not,
And oblivion conquers mind!”
As Margaret finished reading she bent over and kissed the white face.
“Is this yours?” she asked.
“Yes, and dozens of others. They have been my safeguard against
insanity. Only when I could go outside of myself, could I find anything
to make the barren life endurable.”
“Have you offered any for publication?”
“No; I have neither stamps nor courage.”
“May I keep this?” asked Margaret, referring to the one she had just
read.
“Certainly, if you like it.”
“I do, very much; and now let me see the contract and receipts.”
Margaret found that the original bill and contract called for one
hundred and fifty dollars, but that the expense of making mortgage and
the interest had been compounded until, although one hundred and
seventy-five dollars had been paid, it still called for a balance of
five dollars, which remaining unpaid, permitted foreclosure and forcible
seizure of the furniture.
“A Shylock’s bond!” exclaimed Margaret indignantly. “It is so manifestly
unjust that I feel sure there is a law somewhere to cover it.”
“We knew at the time the goods were bought that it was an unjust
contract, but we had no money to pay down, and what could we do? It is
just the way the world takes advantage of necessity. The trite maxim
that ‘sentiment and business have nothing in common’ you’ll hear on the
lips of every man in trade.”
“We shall hear how justice agrees with business, then,” said Margaret,
rising. “I should like to put the bitter dose of equitable payment for
these crimes against common humanity, between the teeth of these sharks.
At any rate, if there is no justice for such despicable creatures it is
time it was known.”
“Humanity has a grand defender in you,” said the sick woman, looking
admiringly at Margaret’s flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.
“Not so,” she replied, shaking her head. “I know my weakness and
ignorance too well. I only recognize the truth that the primitive idea
of equal rights seems to have been utterly lost in this avaricious
world. But so long as I have voice I shall speak for it. The good such
speaking may do remains to be seen.”
Margaret went up to her rooms and opened her purse to see how much money
she had at her command. Of the money Dr. Ely had sent, but five dollars
remained. “If worst comes, and I cannot regain the furniture, this will
at least buy them something to eat, and I can loan them Gilbert’s bed
while he takes the lounge, until the way is opened for something better.
Now to find a lawyer in whose hands to put the case.”
Once on the street, Margaret realized that in all the great city she
knew no one to whom she might apply for advice. She wandered down toward
the business part of the city, intently scanning signs and inwardly
praying that she might be directed to some one who, with the profession
of lawyer, combined the outlawed sentiment of humanity. “J. Brown,
Attorney,” glittered in gilt letters before her, and up the two tall
flights of stairs she followed the beckoning sign. A gentle rap,
answered by a gruff “Come in!” and the room of J. Brown, Attorney,
opened to her view.
“Is Mr. Brown in?”
“I am he. What can I do for you, madam?”
“I desire advice on a matter of business.”
“Ah, be seated, please. You may state your case.”
Margaret lost no time in doing so, relating the pitiful story with such
succinct detail that the lawyer beamed at her with evident admiration.
“Very well stated, madam—very well, indeed. Are these people in any way
related to you?”
“They are entire strangers.”
“And you have taken up their case from pure charity?”
“From pure humanity, rather; as, indeed, I would that another should do
for me.”
“Very admirable of you, indeed; but you are doubtless aware that it
takes money even to champion the cause of humanity.”
“I am,” said Margaret briefly, though with sinking heart.
“Then you will readily see that I can give you no advice on this matter
without cash in hand.”
“How much does it require?”
“In consideration of circumstances, I’ll make it merely nominal. Say
five dollars!”
Margaret arose to her feet somewhat unsteadily. “I have but five dollars
in my purse, sir,” she explained, “and I shall need it to buy food for
the sick woman. I shall be compelled to look further.”
“As you like,” and J. Brown, Attorney, stiffly turned his back on
Margaret and returned only a slight acknowledgment of her faint
“Good-afternoon.” Somewhat depressed by this encounter, Margaret
wandered on and entered no less than six offices, to be met with very
nearly the same treatment in every case, and the identical result in
all. “The cause of humanity cannot be championed without money!”
These words seemed burned in on Margaret’s brain as she left the last of
these offices and stood irresolute and disheartened upon the sidewalk.
How could she take the story of failure back to that suffering woman?
How could she bear to tell her that the promised succor was only a
chimera of her own quixotic brain? “I’ll not do it,” she said
resolutely. “I’ll go tell that little sister of mine, and though I know
her purse is always low, perhaps her fertile brain may suggest what my
own stupefied one fails to apprehend.”
Margaret was coming up the area steps of the Mason mansion with her
purse reinforced by two dollars, the entire contents of Elsie’s
pocketbook, when she encountered Herbert Lynn just descending from his
buggy.
“Miss Murchison, I’m delighted to meet you once again,” he exclaimed as
with smiling face he advanced to greet her. There were tears on
Margaret’s cheeks and trembling on the heavily-fringed lids of the blue
eyes. “Pardon me,” he cried solicitously. “You are in trouble.” Margaret
hastily brushed the tears away as she answered:
“Only a little overwrought. I’ve been passing through some trying scenes
to-day.”
“You were going home? Let me take you there. Fortunately my buggy is
just at hand.”
“Thank you! I’m not going home at present. I have some purchases to
make, and I do not like to detain you.”
“I have ample leisure, and it will be a new sensation to be of some use.
I beg you to command my services.”
Margaret glanced up curiously at the eager, almost boyish, face.
“Perhaps if I were to tell you my errand you would not be so ready to
offer your services. It is not pleasant to one who cares for his own
peace of mind.”
Herbert laughed. “I shall insist now where before I begged. Perhaps my
own peace of mind will be all the dearer by contrast.”
“If you insist I accept gratefully; for the truth is, my self-reliance
is a good deal shaken.”
When they were seated in the buggy and driving leisurely along the
boulevard, Margaret said: “I am glad I have met you, for I have a story
to tell and advice to ask.” Without further prelude she detailed the
events of the day. Herbert listened attentively until the whole story
had been told, and then, with a new look of earnestness on his face, he
exclaimed emphatically:
“Miss Murchison, if there are brains enough in C——, this dastardly
outrage shall be probed to the bottom. It is enough to make a man’s
blood boil to think of the injuries inflicted on suffering women and
children by such overpowering greed. But,” he added, glancing at his
watch, “it is five o’clock and already past office hours. Nothing can be
done until to-morrow. If you will trust me with these papers, I will
make an early effort to-morrow to regain the furniture. In the mean
time, allow me to supply a bed and immediate necessaries for the
sufferers.”
“That will not be needed,” interposed Margaret. “I have a bed of
Gilbert’s which I can loan them——”
“And turn the poor fellow onto the floor!” interrupted Herbert. “That is
philanthropy gone mad, Miss Murchison. I shall insist upon supplying the
bed.”
“I am perfectly sane, Mr. Lynn,” laughed Margaret, “and contemplate
nothing worse than asking Gilbert to occupy a lounge.”
“We’ll forestall that by the purchase of a bed. Now that you’ve taken me
into partnership, you must not deny me my rights.”
“Not if you look upon it in that light,” said Margaret seriously. “Still
I should regret it, if it seemed a charity that was forced upon you.”
“You would rather inconvenience yourself than ask a favor of one whom
you knew to be perfectly able to grant it?”
“I should, if I thought the favor would be bestowed as a mere matter of
form, without the promptings of a generous spirit.”
“‘The gift without the giver is vain,’” quoted Herbert musingly. “You
can trust the spirit this time, Miss Murchison,” he added, with a half
smile. “It has lighted its torch at your altar.”
“Thank you,” replied Margaret gratefully, “but only for the time being,
I am sure. The embers are glowing on the home shrine.”
“Belief from such a source is most highly treasured,” commented Herbert
smilingly. “Now that you have complimented me so generously, perhaps you
will tell me what I must do to deserve it.”
“Buy the bedstead,” said Margaret dryly.
“To hear is to obey,” and putting whip to his horse, Herbert soon drew
up before a down-town furniture store, where bedstead and clothing were
purchased and dispatched on their way. A huge basket of provisions was
next procured and stowed away in the buggy, while Margaret carried a
smaller one of fruit.
“Let me carry these to your room,” said Herbert as they drew up before
Margaret’s home. “You are to be sole almoner, for I beg you not to let
my name appear in the transaction.”
“I shall be compelled to,” said Margaret, “if only as the mythical great
and good man of all such works of charity. I could not truthfully bear
the burden of so much generosity.”
“Paint me as glowingly as you please, if only you give me no local
habitation or name.”
“Your wish shall be respected. Will my presence be necessary to-morrow?”
“No, I can save you all further trouble. And now good-night, and thank
you for having given me a few genuinely happy hours.”