Part 32 (1/2)
”Well, some twenty-five years, I suppose. You have a short way of turning a corner. Was I talking anything about the West?”
”No. Twenty-five years. This city has changed some in that time, and you have got behind the times. You don't know as much as this little girl about this matter. Ask her.”
”How is it little girl--what did you tell me was your name?”
”Stella, sir, Stella May.”
”Well then Stella, what is to hinder this Mrs. Morgan from coming away if she wishes?”
”Because she is in debt, sir.”
”Debt, sir, debt! do private citizens imprison their fellows for debt?
Are women compelled to live in houses of prost.i.tution in this city, a city where the Bible is read and gospel preached, against their will?
Preposterous, I will not believe it.”
”Nevertheless it is gospel truth, as much as the Bible itself. The keepers of such houses sometimes inveigle innocent young girls into their dens, board and clothe them, and get them in debt, and in fact make them slaves, as sure as those who are bought and sold in southern cities. They cannot leave unless they leave naked, with the mark of their owner branded, not upon the surface of their bodies, but burnt into the inmost recesses of the mind.
”Sometimes those who go there voluntarily, repent afterwards most bitterly, most gladly would leave, but the door is closed against them, they are shut out of the world by the mark upon them, and shut in by their creditor mistress, or kept in such a state of intoxication that they have no time to redeem themselves from their life of slavery.
”From this little girl's account I venture to say that this woman is some one of the thousands of poor seamstresses, who st.i.tch and starve in this city, who perhaps in very despair after a long struggle to live with a drunken husband, has been tempted into one of these places, and is now repenting grievously, and would gladly get away, but has not the means to do so; for she lacks a small sum to pay her greedy landlady some iniquitous charge, and a few dollars and some friend to a.s.sist her in her immediate necessities. Thus she will live a short life of excitement, and go friendless and unwept to an early grave.”
”She shall not. She shall not. I have money, useless, idle, more than I shall ever want, and I have no friends. I will be her friend, I will rescue her, and she shall be mine.”
Stella, the little pedler, had stood as though transfixed, during all this time, drinking in every word, until she found that her friend, poor Mrs. Morgan, would have some one to care for her, some one to love her as she loved her, one who had money, ”more money than he wanted,” to a.s.sist her, and then she grew as enthusiastic as Mr. Lovetree. She caught him by the hand, and as the tears ran down her cheeks, tears of joy, blessed tears, that drop like honey upon the lips, sending sweetness through every channel of sensation in the whole system, she said, ”Will you, will you give her money to get out of that place? Will you go and see her? Will you love her? Oh I am so happy! I must run home and tell my mother, and that will make her happy too. Now I am so glad I told you all about it.”
”And you will do it,” said she, looking up in his face so earnestly, ”yes, I know you will, you don't look like one of those kind of folks who say one thing and mean another.”
Yes he would do it, I knew that; naturally enthusiastic, though not easily carried away by sudden flaws of side winds, when he once said, ”I will do it,” it was half done.
”Now I will run home and tell mother, for I want her to be as happy as me. Good night.”
”Stop, stop a moment, you have not told us where the poor lady is that you wish us to go and see, nor what her name is.”
”Oh dear, I forgot that. Yes I told you, Mrs. Morgan, but you want her whole name; well that is such a pretty name; I love pretty names; have you a card, I will write it for you.”
”What, can you write?”
”Oh yes, sir, before we got so poor, I used to go to school. I would like to go now, but I have no time. You ought to see my mother write; she can write so pretty.”
I saw what was working in the benevolent old gentleman's face, while Stella was writing. He had heard her say, ”I would like to go to school now,” and he was resolving in his mind, ”Why not? Why should I not send her there? I have none of my own to send.” It was a good resolve.
”There, that is it. 'Mrs. Athalia Morgan, at Mrs. Laylor's in H----n street.' I don't recollect the number, but you can find it easy enough; mother says it does seem as though the evil one always stood ready to lead folks to such houses. But you had better inquire for Lucy Smith.
They don't know her by any other name there. Shall I go now? Good night.
I am so anxious to tell mother.”
”Athalia!--Athalia!” said my friend, as he spelt over the name on the card. ”Athalia! oh, pshaw! that is nonsense, yet it might be--why not? I say, my little girl, you knew her before she was married. What was her name then?”
”And what is that, 'why not,' and what about that name? The little girl is well on her way home, by this time, if she kept on at the speed she went down stairs. Her earnestness makes me begin to feel a good deal interested in that woman.”
”Nothing, only a thought, a mere pa.s.sing thought, and yet I cannot shake it off. It is rather an unusual name. I had a brother--yes, I had a brother, whether I have or not now, I cannot tell; yet he was not exactly a brother either, though we called the same woman mother, and the same man father, and whether he is living now or not I cannot say, but think not. He did very badly, drank up all his property, and took the usual course, and I suppose he is dead, and his wife too, and then his children are orphans, and why not this be one of them; it is the same name. Athalia--it is not a common name; if it had been I should not remember it, for I never saw her but once, then a little girl not as big as this one just here. I wish she had not run away so soon, before I could ask her a single question. What shall I do now?”