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.”