BERTHA GILLETTE.
There was a great deal of sickness that summer in Dartmoor, and much
suffering among the poor. Sara, having little or no money to spare, felt
she could only give herself, and thus set apart her Saturday afternoons
(upon which she was now free from museum work) to visit the sick
whenever she was needed, the circle to which she belonged having
systematized this charity that it might not fall too heavily upon any
one.
Molly sometimes went with her, and the two bright faces brought comfort
to many forlorn hearts.
It was an intensely warm day, the first week in July, when a card
bearing the silver cross reached her.
"Bad case in third ward. A young girl in the Trask tenement-house, cor.
G and Tenth streets. Can you go? Get whatever you need at Reed's, and
ask for Bertha Gillette, third floor."
She turned to Molly.
"Is it to-day you have an engagement with the dressmaker?"
"Yes, at three; why?"
Sara read the card, adding,--
"I suppose I'll have to go alone, then. If I should be kept till dark,
be sure and have Morton come after me."
"What makes you go, Sara? It's fairly scorching outside!"
"I know, but I must, you see. 'A young girl.' Poor thing! She may have
no friends, and be suffering for care. Yes, I must go. I'll wear my
thinnest muslin, and take the large umbrella."
She was soon off, stepping briskly in spite of the heat. The air was
scintillating under the almost vertical rays of the sun, whose intensity
was merciless, and scarcely a leaf stirred; even the birds were drowsy,
and kept in shelter, while every house was closed and barricaded against
the heat as against an invading army.
For a time Sara had the shade of the great trees lining the sidewalks
for protection; but as she left these wide avenues for the alleys of
poverty, there was nothing but her umbrella between her and the
scorching luminary, while mingled with the intensified heat were the
dust and odors arising from unsprinkled and garbage-strewn streets.
She felt faint before she reached the tenement-house, and only the
consciousness that she must not give way to illness in this neighborhood
gave her strength to proceed.
Once inside, she dropped down on the lowest step of the stairway,
regardless of dust, until she had recovered somewhat, then wearily
climbed the steps. Half-way up she met a rough-looking man, who scowled
at her, but said nothing; and she hurried by him, glad to see he kept on
his way without looking back.
Reaching the third floor finally, she saw a rather pretty little girl
standing in one of the many open doors, and asked which led to Miss
Bertha Gillette's room.
"She ain't got no room," said the child shrilly; "she's in old Mis'
Pierce's room, down thar," pointing to a closed door; "that's whar they
took her when they brung her in. There wan't no room anywheres else."
"Oh! Was she taken ill on the street?"
The child nodded.
"Got a sunstroke, I guess," and Sara hurried on to the designated door.
She knocked lightly, then opened it and entered. It was a bare little
room, with one window, but decently clean, and the sash was entirely
removed, being replaced by a mosquito-netting tacked to the frame, so
the air was not foul. On the old bed in the corner lay the young girl,
white and still, and beside her sat an elderly woman with a kind,
weather-beaten visage, who looked up inquiringly.
"I am Sara Olmstead, a King's daughter," touching the cross on her
breast; "can I do anything for you?"
"I'm glad you've come," said the woman; "I've did what I could, but I've
got to go to my work now. I'm meat cook in a restaurant, and I must git
there by four; it's 'most that now; can you stay?"
"Yes," said Sara. "Please tell me all about her, the symptoms, and so
on. Was it a sunstroke?"
"Might be--set down, Miss, you look tuckered out yourself," handing the
one splint-bottomed rocker. "I don't know much more'n you. They picked
her up down on the corner this morning and brought her into the hall,--
thought 'twas a fit, I guess. I come in while they was all tearin'
around like a passel of geese, and when they didn't seem any place for
her lower down, told 'em they might bring her to my room. I'm about the
only one that rooms alone, I guess."
"And hasn't she spoken at all?"
"Yes, she come to and told us her name, but that's about all. She grew
flighty pretty soon; and now she either lies still and breathes hard,
like you see her now, or mutters suthin', I can't make out what. If you
need any help, Mis' Maloney's a good, kind woman, three doors to the
left; she'll come in a minute, 'less the old man's drunk and she has to
stay to watch the children; and here's her medicines. I got the health
doctor right away, Dr. Browne. Was it him sent you?"
"I presume he reported the case to our circle, and they sent me word.
You said a spoonful every half hour?"
"Yes; and if she gets so't she really senses things, she might want
suthin' to eat. You'll find tea and bread in this cupboard, see? and I
bile the water on this oil stove."
Sarah nodded wearily; she was feeling a strange lassitude from which it
was difficult to rouse herself. The woman noticed her pallor.
"You don't look strong yourself, Miss, and I hate to leave you, but I
guess there won't be much to do. If we don't have a big run at the
restaurant,--and we won't, it's so hot--I'll git back by seven sure; and
don't mind calling on Mis' Maloney, she's as clever as the day is long.
Well, good-by to you," and she was gone.
Sarah looked about her with some curiosity, noting the bare edges of the
floor around the faded strip of cheap carpeting in the centre, the
little stand with a white towel over the top, upon which was a lamp and
a Bible,--she was glad to see the Bible--the woodcuts from illustrated
journals tacked to the walls, and the one straggling geranium in a tin
can on the window sill, then examined more closely the girl on the bed.
She was extremely pale, and there were blue shadows about her nose and
temples; but the brows were delicately pencilled, the lashes lying
against the colorless cheek, thick and long, while the hair, of a brown
so light as to be almost yellow, curled naturally around her forehead.
"She is really pretty," thought Sara, "but how thin and blue. And what
mere claws her hands are!" looking at the one clutching a corner of the
sheet. "Poor girl! I don't believe she is much older than I, but she
looks as if she had suffered enough for an old woman. Ah! she's
speaking."
The lips were moving, but at first no sound came from them; then she
caught one word, "mother," and then a tear rolled from the closed eyes
over the white cheeks.
Sara gently wiped it away, thinking pitifully, "Where can her mother
be?" and while the thought was impressed upon her face in a look of
tenderness and pity, the eyes of the young girl opened wide and gazed
into her own.
"Who are--you?" she asked faintly. "An angel?"
Sara smiled.
"No, only a girl like yourself."
"Then I am--not dead?"
"No, indeed: you have been ill, but are better now. Here is something
for you to take," placing a spoon to her lips.
The invalid swallowed the liquid docilely, never taking her large hazel
eyes from Sara's face.
"Who are you? Where am I?" she asked again.
"I am Sara Olmstead, a King's daughter, come to stay with you this
afternoon; and you are in a good woman's room, who is now gone to her
work."
The eyes closed again, and an expression of pain or regret passed over
the face.
"Do you suffer?" asked Sara gently.
The head was shaken slightly.
"Not in body, but I'm almost sorry it wasn't true."
"What, Bertha?"
"My first thought, that it was all over, and you were the angel
appointed to waken me in the other world."
The tone, weak almost to whispering, was infinitely sad, and Sarah
thrilled with sympathy. That one so young should long for death seemed
incredible to her hardy nature. But nothing more was said till,
bethinking herself, Sara asked,--
"Could you eat anything now?"
The eyes opened quickly.
"Yes," she said eagerly, "yes."
Sara hurried to light the little stove and make the tea, managing also
to brown a slice of bread over the flame. She looked for milk and
butter, but found none.
"There is only sugar for your tea," she began.
"Never mind," said the eager voice again, "let me have it. Oh, how good
it smells!"
Sara brought the plain little repast to the bedside, and, rising to her
elbow, the young girl partook with an eagerness that was pitiful.
"Poor thing!" thought Sara, "I do believe she was starved!" then aloud,
"If you can hold the cup, I'll make you some more toast; shall I?"
"Yes, please!" in a stronger voice, "I never tasted anything so good!"
While she was eating the second piece, Sara took a pencil and small
notebook from her satin bag and scribbling a line, stepped hastily down
the hall to the third door. It was opened by the same little girl who
had first directed her.
"Is this Mrs. Maloney's room?" asked Sara.
"Yes'm."
"And you are her little girl?"
"Yes'm."
"Could I get you to do an errand for me?"
"Mebbe."
"It's to take this paper to Reed's store on G Street, and bring home the
things the clerk will give you. If you will I'll give you an orange when
you come back."
The child's eyes brightened.
"I'll go," she said. "Ma's down-stairs, and I'm minding the baby, but
I'll call her."
"Thank you," said Sara, and ran back to her charge.
She was glad to see that the pale face on the pillow did not look so
deathly now, and the blue shadows had nearly disappeared. She even
smiled with some brightness, and her grateful eyes followed Sara about
the room. A breeze had arisen, and was blowing refreshingly through the
window, and the latter gladly seated herself where she could catch it
all.
"You look better," she remarked, as she returned the sick girl's smile;
"tell me, Bertha, was it from hunger that you fainted? I am your friend
and want to help you."
"Yes, it was. I haven't eaten since--what day is this?"
"Saturday; it is now about five o'clock."
"Then it was yesterday morning. I had a piece of bread about as large as
my palm."
"And nothing since?"
"Not a crumb."
Sara shuddered.
"Poor, poor girl! How did you come to such want?" tears of pity filling
her sweet eyes.
Bertha gazed at her wonderingly.
"How did you know me?" she asked. "What makes you care?"
"I know your name because you gave it when you first came out of your
faint, and how could I help caring? You are pretty near my own age, I
think."
"I'm twenty-two."
"Then you are a little the older. Bertha, have you a mother?"
She shook her head sadly.
"No, I haven't anybody; it would have been better, I say. What can a
girl do all alone in this great, wicked world?"
"Tell me about it, Bertha; perhaps I can help you."
No one could resist that tone; and Bertha, after one long look into the
sympathetic face, drew a sigh and began.
"We were always poor, but not to real want. Father had a small farm, and
we lived off from it till he died. Then it all went for debts and
funeral expenses, and we took what little was left, mother and I, and
came here. We managed to live while she was alive. She took in sewing,
and I worked in Ball's factory, and we were as cosey as could be in our
one room; but last winter she died."
Her eyes filled with tears, and she stopped a moment, then went on.
"The factory turned off a third of its hands in May, and I with them.
I've tried everything since, but I'm not strong enough for many kinds of
work. If I could only stand housework I could find plenty to do, but the
heavy part is too much for me; twice I've broken down, lost my place,
and had to use all the wages I'd saved up for doctor's bills. A second
girl's work I could do, but it's difficult to get into those
aristocratic houses, unless you have friends and recommends, especially
in summer, when so many are closed while the families are away.
"I've done shop-work, and indeed a little of everything; but for a week
I haven't had a thing, and I was reduced to my last crumb. I knew, if I
couldn't pay for my room to-night, I'd be turned into the street, so for
two days I've walked and walked, hunting for work, till I actually
dropped, as you see. There's one thing, though," with sudden fire, "I've
kept straight! If I had been really dead, as I for a moment thought, I
would not have been afraid to meet my mother. But it's been a hard
struggle! Do you wonder I was sorry when I found you weren't a real
angel, and heaven was still far away?"
Sara, her eyes filled with tears, was about to answer, when Nora Maloney
appeared at the door with her bundles.
"I've got 'em, mum!" she cried, and at sight of her bright face both
girls smiled again.
"That's my good girl!" was Sara's approving comment; "and here, didn't I
promise you something?"
"Yes'm," her eyes snapping, "an orange."
Sara opened a package, and took out two.
"What will you do with this, if I'll give it to you?" pointing to the
extra one.
"I'll hide 'em both till pa gets away, an' then I'll divvy up with Nan
and Jack, and Ma and baby," was the ready answer.
Sara handed over the two yellow globes.
"That's right! I'm glad you're such a generous little girl, and I am
much obliged to you for doing the errand. Good-by."
"Good-by'm; thankee mum!" was Nora's hearty answer, as she hurried home
to show her treasures, before it should be necessary to hide them from
the father whom drink had transformed into a brute; to be avoided if
possible, and if not, to be fed and cajoled, then, if still implacable,
fled from in terror as from any other ferocious, untamable beast.
Sara took from the bundles oranges, grapes, biscuit, and sliced ham, the
sick girl watching her, meanwhile, with eyes that grew brighter every
moment.
"Now we'll have supper together," said Sara, arranging them neatly on
the little stand; "for I'm getting hungry too, and while we're eating,
we'll talk things over. That tea and toast will do for first course, try
this bunch of grapes and the sandwich I am fixing for the second."
Bertha took them with a delighted air.
"Oh, how good! We used to have grapes at home; and father always cured
his own hams. I was never really hungry in my life till nowadays. We've
always been poor, and sometimes I didn't have any best dress, but there
was never any lack of food. Do you know"--solemnly--"it's an awful thing
to get so hungry? I could have stolen--murdered almost--for food, only I
didn't dare touch anything for fear of jail. All my ideas of right and
wrong were confused, and for the time I was more of a wild beast than
any thing else--oh, it was dreadful!"
Sara gently touched the thin hand.
"Poor girl!" she murmured, "I know something of it too!" then aloud,
"Bertha, how would the place of a companion suit you?"
"A companion?"
"Yes, to an invalid lady. I know of a Mrs. Searle who needs one. She is
rich, and ought to pay well; but she would want somebody who could read
intelligibly--and I suspect it would require infinite patience to put up
with her whims."
"I haven't a bad temper," said Bertha simply; "and I used to read aloud
to mother while she was sewing--we both of us liked books. How I wish
she would try me!"
"Perhaps she will; at any rate, you shall be looked after in some way. I
am poor, myself, but I'm sure our circle will see that you find work. Do
you know what the 'King's Daughters' are?"
"I've heard of them, but you're the first I ever met. If they're all
like you, the Lord must be proud to own them."
The sincere, almost childish, tone in which these words were said
divested them of any irreverence. Sara merely smiled, as she told Bertha
some of their aims and practices; and when Mrs. Pierce returned, she was
astonished to see her patient sitting up in bed, with almost a flush on
her cheeks, and a glad light in her eyes.
"Lawful suz!" she cried in the doorway, "what have you done to her?"
"Fed her," laughed Sara; "and I have been helping her to take my
prescriptions, you see. Won't you join us?"
"Well, I'm beat! Thank you--guess I will. Was that all't ailded her--
jest hunger?"
"That's all," answered Bertha for herself, "and quite enough too!"
Then she repeated something of her story, thanking the good woman
heartily for her kindness. It was decided she should stay till Monday
with Mrs. Pierce, who seemed anxious to befriend the girl, though so
poor herself; and Sara finally left them, still planning most amicably,
in order to reach home before darkness should necessitate Morton's
coming after her.
"How much cooler it seems!" she thought, as she stepped into the street,
glancing up at the sky, which was partially overcast with purplish-black
clouds; "I wish, now, I had brought a wrap."
She hurried on; but the storm moved more rapidly than she, and just as
she turned into the avenue she felt the splash of a large raindrop in
her face. She attempted to raise her umbrella, but a sudden squall of
wind nearly wrenched it from her grasp, and, becoming convinced it would
be impossible to hold it against the now shrieking blast, she made no
more effort to raise it, but ran on--the rain falling more heavily every
moment.
By the time she sprang up the steps into the shelter of the veranda, she
was thoroughly drenched. Morton met her there, just about to go in
search of her, with a waterproof and overshoes, and cried,--
"Why, Sara, how wet you are!"
"Yes," she shivered, "I'm drenched," and hurried on and up to her room
without more words.
By the time she was disrobed, however, that same sensation, as of utter
weariness, came over her, and she concluded to retire for the night,
telling Molly--who soon came up--that she was tired and thought she had
better get some rest.
"I've been to supper," she added; "and Molly, tell Morton when he goes
to the store, to-night, that I'd like him to do an errand at Mrs.
Searle's for me, on the way. Just hand me a sheet of paper and a pen,
dear."
"Won't it do in the morning, Sara? You look so tired!"
"No, to-morrow's Sunday, you know, and this is something that must be
attended to before anything happens."
She took the writing materials from Molly, and wrote the explanation and
request in regard to Bertha, then folding it with a listless gesture,
handed it to her sister.
"Don't let him forget--it's important," she said wearily. "Molly, I'm
_so_ cold, can't I have another blanket?"
Molly brought it and ran down with the note.
"Don't stay late, Morton," she urged in a worried tone; "if Sara ever
was sick, I should say she was going to be now."