Chapter II

The clock of St. Paul's was sounding eight. Buttoning my outside coat closely about me--for it was a cold, stormy night in November--I descended the steps of the Astor House to visit, in the upper part of the city, the blue-eyed young woman who is looking over my shoulder while I write this--it was nearly twenty years ago, reader, but she is young yet!

As I closed the outer door, a small voice at my elbow, in a tone broken by sobs, said:

'Sir--will you--please, sir--will you buy some ballads?'

'Ballads! a little fellow like you selling ballads at this time of night?'

'Yes, sir! I haven't sold only three all day, sir; do, please sir, _do_ buy some!' and as he stood under the one gas-burner which lit the hotel-porch, I saw that his eyes were red with weeping.

'Come inside, my little man; don't stand here in the cold. Who sends you out on such a night as this to sell ballads?'

'Nobody, sir; but mother is sick, and I _have_ to sell 'em! She's had nothing to eat all day, sir. Oh! do buy some--_do_ buy some, sir!'

'I will, my good boy; but tell me, have you no father?'

'No, sir, I never had any--and mother is sick, _very_ sick, sir; and she's nobody to do any thing for her but _me_--nobody but _me_, sir!' and he cried as if his very heart would break.

'Don't cry, my little boy, don't cry; I'll buy your ballads--all of them;' and I gave him two half-dollar pieces--all the silver I had.

'I haven't got so many as that, sir; I haven't got only twenty, and they're only a cent a piece, sir;' and with very evident reluctance, he tendered me back the money.

'Oh! never mind, my boy, keep the money and the ballads too.'

'O sir! thank you. Mother will be so glad, _so_ glad, sir!' and he turned to go, but his feelings overpowering him, he hid his little face in the big blanket-shawl which he wore, and sobbed louder and harder than before.

'Where does your mother live, my boy?'

'Round in Anthony street, sir; some good folks there give her a room, sir.'

'Did you say she was sick?'

'Yes, sir, very sick; the doctor says she can't live only a little while, sir.'

'And what will become of you, when she is dead?'

'I don't know, sir. Mother says God will take care of me, sir.'

'Come, my little fellow, don't cry any more; I'll go with you and see your mother.'

'Oh! thank you, sir; mother will be so glad to have you--so glad to thank you, sir;' and, looking up timidly an my face, he added: 'You'll _love_ mother, sir!'

I took his hand in mine, and we went out into the storm.

He was not more than six years old, and had a bright, intelligent, but pale and peaked face. He wore thin, patched trowsers, a small, ragged cap, and large, tattered boots, and over his shoulders was a worn woolen shawl. I could not see the remainder of his clothing, but I afterward discovered that a man's waistcoat was his only other garment.

As I have said, it was a bleak, stormy night. The rain, which had fallen all the day, froze as it fell, and the sharp, wintry wind swept down Broadway, sending an icy chill to my very bones, and making the little hand I held in mine tremble with cold. We passed several blocks in silence, when the child turned into a side-street.

'My little fellow,' I said, 'this is not Anthony street--that is further on.'

'I know it, sir; but I want to get mother some bread, sir. A good gentleman down here sells to me very cheap, sir.'

We crossed a couple of streets and stopped at a corner-grocery.

'Why, my little 'un,' said the large, red-faced man behind the counter, 'I didn't know what had become of ye! Why haven't ye bin here to-day?'

'I hadn't any money, sir,' replied the little boy.

'An' haven't ye had any bread to-day, sonny?'

'Mother hasn't had any, sir; a little bit was left last night, but she made _me_ eat that, sir.'

'D--n it, an' hasn't _she_ hed any all day! Ye mustn't do that agin, sonny; ye must come whether ye've money or no; times is hard, but, I swear, I kin give _ye_ a loaf any time.'

'I thank you, sir,' I said, advancing from the doorway where I had stood unobserved--'I will pay you;' and taking a roll of bills from my pocket, I gave him one. 'You know what they want--send it to them at once.'

The man stared at me a moment in amazement, then said:

'An' do ye know 'em, sir?'

'No, I'm just going there.'

'Well, do, sir; they're bad off; ye kin do real good there, no mistake.'

'I'll see,' I replied; and taking the bread in one hand and the little boy by the other, I started again for his mother's. I was always a rapid walker, but I had difficulty in keeping up with the little fellow as he trotted along at my side.

We soon stopped at the door of an old, weather-worn building, which I saw by the light of the street-lamp was of dingy brick, three stories high, and hermetically sealed by green board-shutters. It sat but one step above the ground, and a dim light which came through the low basement-windows, showed that even its cellar was occupied. My little guide rang the bell, and in a moment a panel of the door opened, and a shrill voice asked:

'Who's there?'

'It's only me, ma'am; please let me in.'

'What, _you_, Franky, out so late as this!' exclaimed the woman, undoing the chain which held the door. As she was about closing it she caught sight of me, and eyeing me for a moment, said: 'Walk in, sir.' As I complied with the invitation, she added, pointing to a room opening from the hall: 'Step in there, sir.'

'He's come to see mother, ma'am,' said the little boy.

'You can't see _her_, sir, she's sick, and don't see company any more.'

'I would see her for only a moment, madam.'

'But she can't see nobody now, sir.'

'Oh! mother would like to see him very much, ma'am; he's a very good gentleman, ma'am,' said the child, in a pleading, winning tone.

The real object of my visit seemed to break upon the woman, for, making a low courtesy, she said:

'Oh! she _will_ be glad to see you, sir; she's very bad off, very bad indeed;' and she at once led the way to the basement stairway.

The woman was about forty, with a round, full form, a red, bloated face, and eyes which looked as if they had not known a wink of sleep for years. She wore a dirty lace-cap, trimmed with gaudy colors, and a tawdry red and black dress, laid off in large squares like the map of Philadelphia. It was very low in the neck--remarkably so for the season--and disclosed a scorched, florid skin, and a rough, mountainous bosom.

The furnishings of the hall had a shabby-genteel look, till we reached the basement stairs, when every thing became bare, and dark, and dirty. The woman led the way down, and opened the door of a front-room--the only one on the floor, the rest of the space being open, and occupied as a cellar. This room had a forlorn, cheerless appearance. Its front wall was of the naked brick, through which the moisture had crept, dotting it every here and there with large water-stains and blotches of mold. Its other sides were of rough boards, placed upright, and partially covered with a dirty, ragged paper. The floor was of wide, unpainted plank. A huge chimney-stack protruded some three feet into the room, and in it was a hole which admitted the pipe of a rusty air-tight stove that gave out just enough heat to take the chill edge off the damp, heavy atmosphere. This stove, a small stand resting against the wall, a broken-backed chair, and a low, narrow bed covered with a ragged patch-work counterpane, were the only furniture of the apartment. And that room was the home of two human beings.

'How do you feel to-night, Fanny?' asked the woman, as she approached the low bed in the corner. There was a reply, but it was too faint for me to hear.

'Here, mamma,' said the little boy, taking me by the hand and leading me to the bedside, 'here's a good gentleman who's come to see you. He's _very_ good, mamma; he's given me a whole dollar, and got you lots of things at the store; oh! lots of things!' and the little fellow threw his arms around his mother's neck, and kissed her again and again in his joy.

The mother turned her eye upon me--such an eye! It seemed a black flame. And her face--so pale, so wan, so woe-begone, and yet so sweetly, strangely, beautiful--seemed that of some fallen angel, who, after long ages of torment, had been purified, and fitted again for heaven! And it was so. She had suffered all the woe, she had wept for all the sin, and then she stood white and pure before the everlasting gates which were opening to let her in!

She reached me her thin, weak hand, and in a low voice, said: 'I thank you, sir.'

'You are welcome, madam. You are very sick; it hurts you to speak?'

She nodded slightly, but said nothing. I turned to the woman who had admitted me, and in a very low tone said: 'I never saw a person die; is she not dying?'

'No, sir, I guess not. She's seemed so for a good many days.'

'Has she had a physician?'

'Not for nigh a month. A doctor come once or twice, but he said it wan't no use--he couldn't help her.'

'But she should have help at once. Have you any one you can send?'

'Oh! yes; I kin manage that. What doctor will you have?'

I wrote on a piece of paper the name of an acquaintance--a skillful and experienced physician, who lived not far off--and gave it to her.

'And can't you make her a cup of tea, and a little chicken-broth? She has had nothing all day.'

'Nothing all day! I'm sure I didn't know it! I'm poor, sir--you don't know how poor--but she shan't starve in my house.'

'I suppose she didn't like to speak of it; but get her something as soon as you can.'

'I will, sir; I'll fix her some tea and broth right off.'

'Well, do, as quick as possible. I'll pay you for your trouble.'

'I don't want any pay, sir,' she replied, as she turned and darted from the doorway as nimbly as if she had not been fat and forty.

She soon returned with the tea, and I gave it to the sick girl, a spoonful at a time, she being too weak to sit up. It was the first she had tasted for weeks, and it greatly revived her.

After a time, the doctor came. He felt her pulse, asked, her a few questions in a low voice, and then wrote some simple directions. When he had done that, he turned to me and said: 'Step outside for a moment; I want to speak with you.'

As we passed out, we met the woman going in with the broth.

'Please give it to her at once,' I said.

'Yes, sir, I will; but, gentlemen, don't stand here in the cold. Walk up into the parlor--the front-room.'

We did as she suggested, for the cellar-way had a damp, unhealthy air.

The parlor was furnished in a showy, tawdry style, and a worn, ugly, flame-colored carpet covered its floor. A coal-fire was burning in the grate, and we sat down by it. As we did so, I heard loud voices, mingled with laughter and the clinking of glasses, in the adjoining room. Not appearing to notice the noises, the doctor asked:

'Who is this woman?'

'I don't know; I never saw her before. Is she dying?'

'No, not now. But she can't last long; a week, at the most.'

'She evidently has the consumption. That damp cellar has killed her; she should be got out of it.'

'The cellar hasn't done it; her very vitals are eaten up. She's been beyond cure for six months!'

'Is it possible? And such a woman!'

'Oh! I see such cases every day--women as fine-looking as she is.'

A ring came at the front-door, and in a moment I heard the woman coming up the basement stairs. I had risen when the doctor made the last remark, and was pacing up and down the room, deliberating on what should be done. The parlor-door was ajar, and as the woman admitted the new-comers, I caught a glimpse of them. They were three rough, hard-looking characters; and one, from his unsteady gait, I judged to be intoxicated. She seemed glad to see them, and led them into the room from whence the noises proceeded. In a moment the doctor rose to go, saying: 'I can do nothing more. But what do you intend to do here? I brought you out to ask you.'

'I don't know what _can_ be done. She ought not to be left to die there.'

'She'd prefer dying above-ground, no doubt; and if you relish fleecing, you'll get her an upper room--but she's got to die soon any way, and a day or two, more or less, down there, won't make any difference. Take my advice--don't throw your money away, and don't stay here too late; the house has a very hard name, and some of its rough customers would think nothing of throttling a spruce young fellow like you.'

'I thank you, doctor, but I think I'll run the risk--at least for a while,' and I laughed good-humoredly at the benevolent gentleman's caution.

'Well, if you lose your small change, don't charge it to me.' Saying this, he bade me 'good-night.'

He found the door locked, barred, and secured by the large chain, and he was obliged to summon the woman. When she had let him out, I asked her into the parlor.

'Who is this sick person?' I inquired.

'I don't know, sir. She never gave me no name but Fanny. I found her and her little boy on the door-step, one night, nigh a month ago. She was crying hard, and seemed very sick, and little Franky was a-trying to comfort her--he's a brave, noble little fellow, sir. She told me she'd been turned out of doors for not paying her rent, and was afeared she'd die in the street, though she didn't seem to care much about that, except for the boy--she took on terrible about him. She didn't know what _would_ become of him. I've to scrape very hard to get along, sir, for times is hard, and my rent is a thousand dollars; but I couldn't see her die there, so I took her in, and put a bed up in the basement, and let her have it. 'Twas all I could do; but, poor thing! she won't want even that long.'

'It was very good of you. How has she obtained food?'

'The little boy sells papers and ballads about the streets. The newsman round the corner trusts him for 'em, and he's managed to make twenty-five cents or more most every day.'

'Can't you give her another room? She should not die where she is.'

'I know she shouldn't, sir, but I hain't got another--all of 'em is taken up; and besides, sir,' and she hesitated a moment, 'the noise up here would disturb her.'

I had not thought of that; and expressing myself gratified with her kindness, I passed down again to the basement. The sick girl smiled as I opened the door, and held out her hand again to me. Taking it in mine, I asked:

'Do you feel better?'

'Much better,' she said, in a voice stronger than before. 'I have not felt so well for a long time. I owe it to you, sir! I am very grateful.'

'Don't speak of it, madam. Won't you have more of the broth?'

'No more, thank you. I won't trouble you any more, sir--I shan't trouble any one long;' and her eyes filled, and her voice quivered; 'but, O sir! my child! my little boy! What _will_ become of him when I'm gone?' and she burst into a hysterical fit of weeping.

'Don't weep so, madam. Calm yourself; such excitement will kill you. God will provide for your child. I will try to help him, madam.'

She looked at me with those deep, intense eyes. A new light seemed to come into them; it overspread her face, and lit up her thin, wan features with a strange glow.

'It must be so,' she said, 'else why were you led here? God must have sent you to me for that!'

'No doubt he did, madam. Let it comfort you to think so.'

'It does, oh! it does. And, O my Father!' and she looked up to Him as she spoke: 'I thank thee! Thy poor, sinful, dying child thanks thee; and, oh! bless _him_, forever bless him, for it!'

I turned away to hide the emotion I could not repress. A moment after, not seeing the little boy, I asked:

'Where is your son?'

'Here, sir.' And turning down the bed-clothing, she showed him sleeping quietly by her side, all unconscious of the misery and the sin around him, and of the mighty crisis through which his young life was passing.

Saying I would return on the following day, I shortly afterward bade her 'good-night,' and left the house.