Chapter 6

He opened his eyes and they rested upon the chair which Nancy had occupied one hour ago, which she had occupied so frequently during the past few months. She had been almost a daily visitor since he and Maggie had been living in these wretched lodgings in "Nancy's Alley," as it was called. Evidently, the old woman seemed to think the entire street was her personal property and that she was responsible for the welfare of all the dwellers thereon. Well, he guessed he had taught her not to come meddling in his affairs. He hoped he had anyway. Dying? The idea of such a thing; how dared she tell him he was dying when everyone else fed him with the hope that he would be better to-morrow, next week, next month. Ah! yes, but to-morrow never came; or rather, when it did come, it was no longer to-morrow with its promise of renewed health. It was to-day, with the same disappointment, the same pains, the same racking cough, which he had endured on so many other to-days that had come and gone before it.

Watching the chair she had so lately occupied, he could see once more the figure of Nancy, her bright eyes and cheery smile, and hear the nimble tongue which chattered so merrily or soothed so gently according to the needs of her listener. He could see the little, stooped figure in its ragged gown, the work-worn hands, the smooth, grey hair. He would miss her visits; yes, indeed, he would miss them sorely. But what right had she to go talking to him of death? Still, she was old, she had been kind to him, and he had driven her away in anger. He had called her a meddlesome busybody who went about poking and prying into other people's affairs and had ordered her to leave the house and never enter it again.

"Pokin' an' pryin' is it?" she had answered quietly as she made her way towards the door. He remembered now how difficult it had been for her to walk even on the level floor; what a task it must have been for her to climb those three long flights of stairs as she had been doing every day for these months past. "Pokin' an' pryin' is it? Maybe so, maybe so. But Nancy didn't mean it that way, no, lad, indeed she didn't. Nancy was thinkin' of her own boy lyin' at rest out yonder with the green grass growin' over him, her own boy that went the same way you're a goin' now. He'd be about the same age as you, too, an' there's the look on your face that I seen on his so often, the desperate, despairin' look that it breaks my heart to see. I figured that if you was my boy, I'd be glad for some one to tell you the truth an' try to bring you back to God before it's too late. I'd figured, too, that most likely you had a mother somewheres. She may be still on the earth prayin' for you an' longin' for you, same as I prayed an' longed for my Danny for so many years. She may be in heaven lookin' down on us now, but wherever she is she'll be glad to know that I tried to bring you back. It's for her sake that I'm doing this, for the sake of your poor mother wherever she may be."

His mother! What memories that name conjured up! His mother who had kissed and blessed him as she closed her eyes forever so many, many years ago. He was still looking at the chair which Nancy had occupied but he saw it not. He was a boy once more standing by his mother's bedside, her soft, white hand in his, and was promising her--ah! how many promises he had made holding that dear hand for the last time, and how readily he had broken those promises every one!

His mind wandered on and he saw himself a boy at school, a youth at college, a grown man filling a position of trust in a large business concern. In those days, wherever he might turn, there was one figure standing out before all others, one friend, tried and true. When boys at school this friend had saved his life; when young men at college, it was to this friend's continued help he owed any little success he may have attained. After leaving college, his position was secured through the kindly offices of this same friend whose desk was next his own in the office in which they were employed.

His gaze still rested on the vacant chair but he saw only a pretty little suburban cottage with flower garden and smooth green lawn and box-bordered gravel paths. Once upon a time that cottage was his, and the sweet-faced girl, who trod those paths so daintily, tripping to the gate to meet him on his return in the evening, was his wife. Upstairs in the nursery their children slept, two fair little girls with their mother's pretty eyes and dainty ways. All that had been his, once upon a time.

He still watched that vacant chair but he saw only the day they discovered the loss of that money which had disappeared so mysteriously from the firm's safe. Suspicion rested upon that one true friend of his, the friend to whom he owed all he was, all he had. There was not sufficient evidence to prove that he was the thief, but in the minds of his employers there was no doubt as to his guilt. The supposed delinquent was dismissed and the cloud of suspicion rested upon him wherever he went thereafter. Only two people had known the truth, the man now sitting by the stove in the tenement house kitchen and the friend who had suffered in silence rather than betray him. They had never met again, and not long after the robbery, the man now sitting by the stove had heard of his friend's death; the physicians said it was typhoid, but he knew better. Disappointment, anxiety, heartbreak, were the real causes of his friend's early taking off.

He still gazed at the empty chair but he saw only the series of misfortunes that had befallen him since the day his friend died. He had launched into business on his own account; the result was dire disaster. His home was burned in the dead of night; they barely escaped with their lives. Everything was gone; there was no insurance and ruin and despair confronted them. His children died suddenly of a malignant fever and the heartbroken mother had followed them to the grave within a few weeks. He was alone, all alone, and from that day to this had gone steadily downward until now he found himself in this dirty tenement depending for his daily bread upon the faded, ragged little woman who was now his wife. Poor Maggie, how she irritated him at times and yet she had been a good faithful wife to him. But for her, they would not have even this miserable apology for a home. Yes, even Maggie, with her watery eyes and thin, unkempt hair, Maggie, who scrubbed floors for a living and could not write so much as her own name nor read the simplest child's primer; even Maggie was far too good for the worn-out drunkard and gambler whom she tended so faithfully.

A light tap upon the door, but the man by the stove was too much occupied with those phantoms of the past to pay heed to it. The door opened quietly and a priest stepped into the room. The man's gaze shifted from the vacant chair to the black-robed figure standing by the door and looking at him in puzzled amazement. Phantoms of the past? Yes, indeed, and here was one more come to torment him and to mock at him. The two watched each other in silence for a moment. Then, the man crouching in his chair by the fire found voice at last:

"What brings you here, you, of all men? Have you come to taunt me, to upbraid me, to delight your eyes with the sight of my misery? Have you come to laugh at me in my downfall?"

"Nay, friend," returned the priest gently, "none of those things has brought me to you to-day. I come only on a mission of mercy, to bring you peace and pardon."

"But how did you find me; who sent you to me?" demanded the man by the fire.

"A little old woman, Nancy by name, told me there was one here sadly in need of the ministrations of a priest. I did not dream that I should find _you_."

"You know me then; you remember me?"

"I remember you perfectly and recognized you at once, though you have changed almost beyond recognition."

"You say you know me, but you do not, you do not. You may know _who_ I am, but you don't know _what_ I am. You don't know that I'm a thief. Yes, a thief, for it was I who took that money he was accused of stealing. Do you know that?"

"I know it," answered the priest calmly, "and still I say I bring you peace and pardon."

"Perhaps you know, too, that I am a murderer, for it was grief, heartbreak, which weakened him so that when disease attacked him he had not sufficient strength to combat the fever. Do you now that, you who talk to me so easily of peace and pardon?"

"I know that, too, and it is in his name that I offer you forgiveness for your sins."

"You know all then? He told you?"

"He told me in the delirium of fever. He never knew he told; he died thinking he carried the secret with him to the grave. He was faithful even unto death."

"Faithful even unto death. And you, his brother, come to me now and, knowing all, dare to hold out to me the hope of forgiveness and of peace?" and the man stared incredulously into the kind, pitying eyes bent upon him.

"I, his brother, offer you now forgiveness of all your sins and peace which surpasseth all understanding."

The sick man was seized with a violent fit of coughing and when it had passed, he lay back in his chair exhausted, with closed eyes and white, pain-drawn face. The priest, wishing to give him a moment to rest and recover his breath, walked to the window and looked out. In the field below more than a score of ragged men, women and children were scratching and digging among piles of ashes, eagerly searching for and gathering up the half-burned cinders; searching, too, in the forlorn hope of finding something of greater value that might have been thrown away by accident. The rain beat noisily on the window pane and the priest shivered as he looked at those scantily-clad little children, not one of whom could boast of shoes and stockings, and at the white heads and bent figures of old women on whose unprotected shoulders the rain fell so pitilessly. What mattered the inclemency of the weather to them? Winter would be here by and by; they must gather in all the fuel possible before it was upon them with its snow and sleet and icy blasts. In fact, even when winter came, many of these same little children and old women, even grown men who either could not find other work to do or did not care to seek it, many of these same people would be seen day after day scratching and digging in this same field of ashes.

The priest turned from the window with a sigh of pity for the miserable creatures below. His glance strayed over the untidy kitchen which bore all the marks of the most extreme poverty and he gave another sigh of pity for the man who had been brought so low in the last days of his life, the man whom he had known in the time of his success and prosperity.

He approached the chair beside the stove and the tired eyes opened slowly and looked at him. Unaccustomed tears filled those eyes and the hard voice softened marvelously.

"Nancy was right," that changed voice was saying. "I am dying. Father, you say you bring me forgiveness in his name, forgiveness for the great wrong I did him. In his name, I will accept the gift. Father, I will confess my sins to you and beg God's pardon for them."

Two hours later, when poor, tired Maggie, with aching arms and aching back, returned from her day's work, she was surprised at the gentleness with which he greeted her. Never had he been so kind before: she was more accustomed to harsh words and even curses than kindness from him. She set about preparing their evening meal and he actually ate what she put before him without even once finding fault with the food or with her. She could not understand it and felt vaguely alarmed.

Again the door opened and a face peered in anxiously. It would look as if the owner of the face was fully prepared to slam the door and take to her heels at a second's notice. The man in the chair by the stove smiled faintly and called:

"Come in, Nancy; it's all right."

The little stooped figure sidled into the room but stood with her hand upon the door ready for flight at any moment. She could not trust her eyes and ears, she knew they must be deceiving her.

"Come in, Nancy," the man repeated. "Come in and sit down there in the chair you occupied this afternoon when you dared to tell me the truth that all others feared to tell. You're a brave little woman, Nancy, and, thanks to you, all is well with me at last. As he said, he brought me forgiveness for my sins and peace which surpasseth all understanding. Thanks to you, Nancy, thanks to you."

"Thanks to me is it, lad? Not a bit of it, not a bit of it. Thanks be to God!" ejaculated Nancy fervently.

"Thanks be to God!" whispered Maggie, as a tear rolled down her worn and faded cheek and splashed into the pan of water in which she was washing the supper dishes. "Thanks be to God for bringin' him back even at the eleventh hour!"

THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT.

Julie leaned against the door of the room from which she had just been summoned. Her black eyes flashed defiance into the eyes of the woman watching her in sorrowful silence.

"Why you come here?" she cried. "Why you not leave me alone? I not want to see you nor anyone. You no right to come here; you not my forewoman now. You dismiss me in disgrace a week ago, you and that superintendent in your factory over there. What you come for; to punish me some more?"

"My poor child," returned the other gently, "you must not hate me so. Believe me, I love you, Julie, and I've come here as your friend."

"You a friend to me; me, Julie Benoit who is sent away from the factory because I steal all that money! No, no, I know better than that, you no friend to me, you despise me. All the girls point their finger at me, for I steal that money. But I give it all back, do I not? And the superintendent he say it is my first offense and he will not send me to prison. Oh yes! he is very kind. Julie have give back the money, Julie is forgiven, but she is a thief and cannot work with honest people. She must go, and without a reference. No one could recommend a thief. Well, Julie does go, so why you not let her alone?"

"Julie, Julie, listen to me," cried the forewoman almost in despair. "Believe it or not as you please, I have come here to-day to help you if I can. I have come because there was something in your face, a look in your eyes, that day you left us that has haunted me ever since. I have come because I feared you were in trouble and were too proud to tell us so. Julie, for twenty years I have been forewoman of my department over there in the factory. Many, many girls have worked with me, new ones coming, old ones going all the time. Some have left for one reason, some for another, but never before has one gone from me in anger or disgrace. All my girls have loved me, Julie, and I loved them. Why was it I never could win you, win your trust and confidence. Was I not kind to you, child? I tried to be for I wanted your love and trust."

The flashing eyes and angry face of the girl softened a little as the woman continued:

"I know you are not a bad girl, Julie. I know that you never before stole anything. I have been thinking of you all this week and worrying about you, for it must have been some great trouble which induced you to take that money. Why did you take it, child? Won't you please tell me?"

"You ask me why I take it? Well, I will tell you. Do you know what is in that room just behind this very door I lean against? It is my mother. She will never move again, never speak to me again; she is dead. Yes, she died last night but I not tell no one. If I tell, they will take her away and bury her I not know where. I have no money to bury her myself. Pretty soon I will have to tell, then they bury her in a pauper's grave with other people poor like us. I not know where they put her; I never can go and kneel at her grave and whisper to her that I have not forgotten.

"You want to know why I steal that money? Well, a week ago poor mother she is so very sick. They tell me she cannot live many days; but I think if only I have money I can save her yet. I can have doctors to see her, big doctors who will go to sick people only for very much money. I can buy her food and medicine and perhaps send her away to some place where the sun will shine for her, where she can breathe God's pure air. Why even strong people can scarce live in a place like this where the sunshine never come, where it is cold and damp all the time. How can the poor little mother hope to grow well again in such a place, without good food, often without a fire, the air not fit for anyone to breathe. I think of it all the time. I lie awake at night and think of it, it is before me all day at my work. Money, money, if only I have a little money, I can save my mother yet. Then the chance come, the money is there before me. I look at it, I take it. That is all.

"You ask me why I steal that money. I steal it for her, my mother; to save her life. Yes, and for her, too, the blind grandmother, and for them," and she pointed to a very old woman sitting close to the stove and holding in her arms a whimpering child of four. At her side crouched two more children, somewhat older, huddled together in a ragged shawl. They wore neither shoes nor stockings and the small feet were blue with cold.

"Oh, you poor child," exclaimed the forewoman, her eyes filling with tears. "Why did you not tell me a week ago instead of taking that money, for one wrong can never right another; why did you not tell me? We might not have been able to save your mother, but we could have helped you. Even after you took the money, if you had told me all, something might have been done for you. I wish you had told me, Julie, I wish you had told me."

The shocked grief of the woman's face and voice had their effect upon the girl, and it was in a much more gentle tone that she continued:

"You can see for yourself how it is with us now, but we are not always like this. If you care to listen and will sit down, I tell you all about it.

"No, indeed, we are not always like this. I can remember when father is alive how happy we all are. He is a mason, good and steady, and he work for us all the time. We live in a pretty little flat, it is bright and clean and mother keep it so and make everything look nice for us. She sing and she laugh and she look so pretty in those days. I go to school and Marie also, dear Marie who died one year ago. Antoine, too, he go to school with Marie and me. Lorraine there, she too little; she stay at home with mother and with grandmother.

"Well, we are all so happy until one day father is brought home to us. He is dead, killed at his work by a falling derrick. That same day poor little Baptiste, him there on grandmother's lap, he come into this cruel world. Mother is sick, so very sick for a long time after. It is weeks and weeks before she can walk around again. By the time she does, the little money she had saved is all gone; there is not a cent in the house and the landlord puts us out into the street.

"I am only twelve at the time but I go to work in a factory--not your factory, but one away off the other side of the river. I have to walk long, long distance in the cold, dark morning, and walk back again at night, but I am happy for I earn money to help at home. Mother she go to work too, in a great steam laundry where she stand all day at a big machine. She very thin and pale, and so tired at night she can hardly walk home. But she, too, is content; for she have work to do and work means money to buy food for the little ones and for the blind grandmother.

"We get along pretty well for almost three years. Then, just a year ago, the factory I work for shuts down. Times are hard, there is no more work for us, we must go. We do go. We try first one place, then another, to find work. It is the same story everywhere, times are hard and there is no work for us.

"Then mother gets that dreadful cold. The laundry where she works is always so very hot. She come out at night into the cold air; her coat is thin for she cannot buy a warm one and she get a dreadful chill one night as she comes home. She cough all the time after that. It shake her nearly all to pieces; but she still go to her work till one day she fall beside her machine. They bring her home and we put her into bed and she never leave it again.

"What to do then we know not. One, two, three days pass; at last there is a day when grandmother and I eat nothing. We give the last scraps of bread to the children and spend the last two pennies on milk for mother. There is nothing left for us. We not sleep that night; we sit by the empty stove and we think all night. Grandmother is praying all the time; she is, oh so good, that grandmother. She pray and she pray, and she tell me God is kind and good, He will show us a way. Me, I am not good like that. I say to her God cannot be kind and merciful, or he would not treat us so. What have we done that He punish us like that? She say to me:

"'Hush, child, hush; you very bad, very wicked. God is good and kind and loving. He not try us any more than we can bear; He send us help soon if we trust in Him.'

"Next morning is cold, very cold; we have no fire and no food. I have been everywhere to look for work and find nothing. But I put on my hat to go out and try once more. Grandmother ask me what I do. I tell her I go again to look for work. She say: 'No, child, you stay here with your mother to-day; it is my turn now.'

"She is old; she is blind and I fear to have her go out alone, but she is firm and will go. She take her stick and she go out. She come back later with bread for the children and a little money to buy coal. I not ask her where she get it; I know. She beg it on the street. Every day she go out like that, and when she bring back food and money she not say one word and I not ask her where she get it; I know.

"She keeps us from starving for a few weeks and then, at last, I find work in your factory. For a time, I am almost happy again, for now grandmother need beg no more; my pay will keep us in food and fire. Even mother seems better for a little while, and I think perhaps she will get well and we will all be happy once again. But mother is soon very, very sick, and I see her dying day by day and can do nothing to help her.

"Then, that day last week, a party of ladies come to visit the factory. The wife of the superintendent is with them. She very handsome, very rich; she beautifully dressed. She stop near my table to take off her coat, the room is warm and the fur coat heavy. She lay her purse down on my table while she remove the garment; one of the ladies call to her and she go away, leaving the purse behind her on my table.

"Mother is very sick that morning; she not sleep all night, but cough, cough, cough. There is the purse before me. No one is looking; I pick it up and open it. It is filled with money, the money that may save my mother's life. That lady will never miss it. I slip the purse inside my dress and go on with my work. I can hardly keep from screaming with joy I am so happy to think I have the money which is going to save my mother's life. The ladies go away and I feel that I am safe; she has forget about her purse. I want to rush away at once, but I must stay at my work so no one will suspect.