A thoughtless yes

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COPSRICHT DEPOSIT.

HELEN H. GARDENER

A

Contents

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H Splendid 3ni)ge of a Moman.

I

I

The old and somewhat cynical saying, that philosophers and reformers can bear the griefs and woes of other people with a heroism and resignation worthy of their creeds, would have fitted the case of Roland Barker only when shorn of the intentional sting of sarcasm. It is, nevertheless, true that even his nobly-gifted nature, his tender heart, and his alert brain sometimes failed to grasp the very pith and point of his own arguments.

He was a wealthy man whose sympathies were earnestly with the poor and unfortunate. He believed that he understood their sufferings, their ambitions, and their needs ; and his voice and pen were no more truly on the side of charity and brotherly kindness than was his purse.

It was no unusual thing for him to attend a meeting, address a club, or take part in a memorial service, where his was the only hand unused to toil, and where he alone bore all expense, and then — after dressing himself in the most approved and faultless manner — become the guest of honor at some fashionable entertainment. Indeed, he was a leader in fashion as well as in philosophy, and at once a hero in Avenue A and on Murray Hill.

On the evening of which I am about to tell you he had addressed a club of workingmen in their little dingy hall, taking as his subject “ Realities of Life.” He had sought to show them that poverty and toil are not, after all, the worst that can befall a man, and that the most acute misery dwells in palaces and is robed in purple.

He spoke with the feeling of one who had himself suffered — as, indeed, he had — from the unsympathetic associations of an uncongenial marriage. He portrayed, with deep feeling, the chill atmosphere of a loveless home, whose wealth and glitter and lustre could never thrill and enrapture the heart as might the loving hand-clasp in the bare, chill rooms where sympathy and affection were the companions of poverty.

I had admired his enthusiasm as he pictured the joy of sacrifice for the sake of those we love, and I had been deeply touched by his pathos — a pathos which I knew, alas, too well, sprang from a hungry heart — whether, as now, it beat beneath a simple coat of tweed or, as when hours later, it would still be the prisoner of its mighty longing, though clothed with elegance and seated at a banquet fit for princes.

The last words fell slowly from his lips, and his eyes were dimmed, as were the eyes of all about me. His voice, so full of feeling, had hardly ceased to throb when, far back in the little hall, arose a woman, thin and worn, and plainly clad, but showing traces of a beauty and refinement which had held their own and fought their way inch by inch in spite of poverty, anxiety, and tears. The chairman recognized her and asked her to the platform.

“No,” she said, in a low, tremulous tone which showed at once her feeling and her culture — “ no, I do not wish to take the platform; but since you ask for crititism of the kind speech we have just listened to, it has seemed to me that I might offer one, although I am a stranger to you all.”

Her voice trembled, and she held firmly to the back of a chair in front of her. The chairman signified his willingness to extend to her the privilege of the floor, and there was slight applause. She bowed and began again slowly:

“ I sometimes think that it is useless to ever try to make the suffering rich and the suffering poor understand each other. I do not question that the gentleman has tasted sorrow. All good men have. I do not question that his heart is warm and true and honest, and that he truly thinks what he has said ; but,” — and here her voice broke a little and her lip trembled — “ but he does not know what real suffering is. cannot. No rich man can.”

There was a movement of impatience in the room, and some one said, loud enough to be heard, “ If she thinks money can bring happiness she is badly left.”

There was a slight ripple of laughter at this, and even the serious face of Roland Barker grew almost merry for a moment. Then the woman went on, without appearing to have noticed the interruption:

“ I do not want to seem ungracious, and heaven knows, no one could mean more kindly what I say; but he has said that money is not needed to make us happy — only love ; and again he quotes that baseless old maxim, ‘ The love of money is the root of all evil.’ ” She paused, then went slowly on as if feeling her way and fearing to lose her hold upon herself : “ I know it is a sad and cruel world even to the more fortunate, if they have hearts to feel and brains to think. To the unloving or unloved there must be little worth; but they at least are spared the agony that sits where love and poverty have shaken hands with death” — her voice broke, and there was a painful silence in the room — “ where those who love are wrung and torn by all the thousand fears and apprehensions of ills that are to come to wife and child and friend. The day has passed when all this talk of poverty and love — that love makes want an easy thing to bear — the day has passed, I say, when sane men ought to think, or wise men speak, such cruel, false, and harmful words. He truly says that money without love cannot bring happiness; but that is only half the truth, for love with poverty can bring, does bring, the keenest agony that mortals ever bore.”

There was a movement of dissent in the hall. She lifted her face a moment, contracted her lips, drew a long breath, and said:

“ I will explain. Without the love, poverty were light enough to bear. What does it matter for one’s self ? It is the love that gives the awful sting to want, and makes its cruel fingers grip the throat as never vise or grappling-hook took hold, and torture with a keener zest than fiends their victims ! Love and Poverty ! It is the combination that devils invented to make a hell on earth!

All eyes were fastened on her white face now, and she was rushing on, her words, hot and impassioned, striking firm on every point she made.

“ Let me give you a case. In a home where comfort is — or wealth — a mother sits, watching by night and day the awful hand of Death reach nearer, closer to her precious babe, and nothing that skill or science can suggest will stay the hand or heal the aching heart ; and yet there is comfort in the thought that all was done that love and wealth and skill could do, and that it was Nature’s way. But take from her the comfort of that thought. She watches with the same poor, breaking heart, but with the knowledge, now, to keep her company, that science might, ah ! could^ push back the end, could even cure her babe if but the means to pay for skill and change and wholesome food and air were hers. Is that no added pang? Is poverty no curse to her ? — a curse the deeper for her depth of love? The rich know naught of this. It gives to life its wildest agony, to love its deepest hurt.”

She paused. There was a slight stir as if some

The Lady of the Cluh.

one had thought to offer applause, and then the silence fell again, and she began anew, with shining eyes and cheeks aflame. She swayed a little as she spoke and clutched the chair as for support. Her voice grew hoarse, and trembled, and she fixed her gaze upon a vacant chair:

“ But let me tell you of another case. A stone’s throw from this hall, where pretty things are said week after week — and kindly meant, I know — of poverty and love — of the blessedness of these — there is a living illustration, worth more than all the theories ever spun, to tell you what ^ realities of life’ must be where love is great and poverty holds sway. Picture, with me, the torture and despair of a refined and cultured woman who watches hour by hour the long months through, and sees the creeping feet of mental wreck and physical decay, and knows the mortal need of care and calm for him who is the whole of life to her, and for the want of that which others waste and hold as dross he must work on and on, hastening each day the end he does not see, which shall deprive him of all of life except the power for ill. . . . She will be worse than widowed and alone, for ever by her side sits Want, for him, tearing at every chord of heart and soul — not for herself — but for that dearer one, wrecked in the prime of life and left a clod endowed only with strength for cruel wrong, whose hand would sheath a knife in her dear heart and laugh with maniac glee at his mad deeds. She saw the end. She knew long months ago what was to be, if he must

The Lady of the Cluh.

toil and strain his nerve and brain for need of that which goes from knave to knave, and hoards itself within cathedral walls, where wise men meet to teach the poor contentment with their lot ! She knew he must not know; the knowledge of the shadow must be kept from his dear brain until the very end, by smiles, and cheer, and merry jest from her. Who dare tell her that riches are a curse? and prate of ‘ dross’ and call on heaven to witness that its loss is only gain of joy and harbinger of higher, holier things ? Who dare call her as witness for the bliss of poverty with love?”

She slowly raised her hand and, with a quickdrawn breath, pressed it against her side, and with her eyes still fastened on the vacant chair, and tears upon her cheeks, falling unchecked upon her heaving bosom, she held each listener silent and intent on every word she spoke. The time allotted anyone was long since overrun; but no one thought of that, and she went on:

“‘With love!’ Ah, there is where the iron can burn and scar and open every wound afresh each day, make poverty a curse, a blight, a scourge, a vulture, iron-beaked, with claws of burning steel, that leave no nerve untouched, no drop of blood unshed.

“‘With love!’ ’Tis there the hand of Poverty can deal the deadliest blows, and show, as nowhere else on earth, the value of that slandered, hoarded thing called wealth.”

There blazed into her face a fierce, indignant light, her voice swelled out and struck upon the ear like fire-bells in the dead of night.

“‘The root of evil!’ — ‘poverty with love!’ Hypocrisy, in purple velvet robed, behind stained glass, with strains of music falling on its ears, with table spread in banquet-hall below, bethought itself to argue thus to those itself had robbed; while, thoughtless of its meaning and its birth, the echo of its lying, treacherous words comes from the pallid lips of many a wretch whose life has been a failure and an agony because of that which he himstlf extols. A lie once born contains a thousand lives, and holds at bay the struggling, feeble truth, if but that lie be fathered by a priest and mothered by a throne — as this one was ! ‘ The root of evil ’ is the spring of joy. Decry it those who will. And those who do not love, perchance, may laugh at all its need can mean; but to the loving, suffering poor bring no more cant, and cease to voice the hollow words of Ignorance and Hypocrisy. It is too cruel, and its deadly breath has long enough polluted sympathy and frozen up the springs of healthy thought, while sheathing venomed fangs in breaking hearts. Recast your heartless creeds ! Your theories for the poor are built on these.”

She sank back into her chair white and exhausted.

There was a wild burst of applause. A part of the audience, with that ear for sound and that lack of sense to be found in all such gatherings, had forgotten that it was not listening to a burst of elo-

The Lady of the Club.

quence which had been duly written out and committed to memory for the occasion.

But Roland Barker sprang to his feet, held both his hands up, to command silence, and said, in a scarcely audible voice, as he trembled from head to foot: “ Hush, hush ! She has told the truth ! She has told the awful truth ! I never saw it all before. Heaven help you to bear it. It seems to me I cannot !”

Several were pale and weeping. I turned to speak to the woman who had changed an evening’s entertainment into a tragic scene; but she had slipped out during the excitement. I took Barker’s arm and we walked towards the Avenue together. Neither of us spoke until we reached Madison Square. Here the poor fellow sank into a seat and pulled me down beside him.

“ Don’t talk to me about theories after that,” he said. “ Great God ! I am more dead than alive. I feel fifty years older than when I went to that little hall to teach those people how to live by my fine philosophy, and I truly thought that I had tasted sorrow and found the key to resignation. Ye gods !”

“ Perhaps you have,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” he replied, impatiently; “but suppose I had to face life day by day, hour by hour, as that woman pictured it — and she was a lady with as keen a sense of pain as I — what do you suppose my philosophy would do for me then ? Do you think I could endure it ? And I went there to teach those people how to suffer and be strong !”

“ Look here, Barker,” I said, “ you’d better go home now and go to bed. You are cold and tired, and this won’t help matters any.”

“ What will ?” he asked.

I made no reply. When we reached his door he asked again:

What will ?”

I shook my head and left him standing in the brilliant hall of his beautiful home, dazed and puzzled and alone.

II

The next time I met Roland Barker he grasped my hand and said excitedly: “ I have found that woman ! What she said is all true. My God ! what is to be done ? I feel like a strong man tied hand and foot, while devilish vultures feed on the flesh of living babes before my eyes !”

“Stop, Barker,” I said; “stop, and go away for a while, or you will go mad. What have you been doing? Look at your hands; they tremble like the hands of a palsied man; and your face; why. Barker, your face is haggard and set, and your hair is actually turning gray ! What in the name of all that’s holy have you been doing ?”

“ Nothing, absolutely nothing !” he exclaimed “ That is the trouble ! What can I do ? I tell you something is wrong, Gordon, something is desperately wrong in this world. Look at that pile of stone over there: millions of dollars are built into that. It is opened once each week, aired, cleaned, and put in order for a fashionable audience dressed in silk and broadcloth. They call it a church, but it is simply a popular club house, which, unlike other club houses, hasn’t the grace to pay its own taxes. They use that club house, let us say, three hours in all, each week, for what ? To listen to elaborate music and fine-spun theories about another world. They are asked to, and they give money to send these same theories to nations far away, who — to put it mildly — are quite as well off without them. Then that house is closed for a week, and those who sat there really believe that they have done what is right by their fellow-men ! Their natural consciences, their sense of right and justice, have been given an anaesthetic. ‘ The poor ye have with you always,’ they are taught to believe, is not only true, but right. I tell you, Gordon, it is all perfectly damnable, and it seems to me that I cannot bear it when I remember that woman.”

“ She is only one of a great many,” I suggested.

Roland Barker groaned: “My God! that is the trouble — so many that the thing seems hopeless. And to think that on every one of even these poor souls is laid another burden that that stone spire may go untaxed !”

“Barker,” I said, laying my hand on his arm.

“tell me what has forced all this upon you with such a terrible weight just now.”

“ Not here, not now,” he said. “ I have written it down just as she told it to me — you know I learned stenography when I began taking an interest in public meetings. Well, I’ve just been copying those notes out. They are in my pocket,” he said, laying his hand on his breast. “ They seem to burn my very soul. I would not dare to trust myself to read them to you here. Come home with me.”

When we were seated in his magnificent library, he glanced about him, and with a wave of his hand said, with infinite satire: “You will notice the striking appropriateness of the surroundings and the subject.”

“No doubt,” I said. “I have often noticed that before, especially the last time I heard a sermon preached to three of the Vanderbilts, two Astors, five other millionaires, and about sixty more consistent Christians, all of whom were wealthy. The subject was Christ’s advice to the rich young man, * Sell all thou hast and give to the poor.’ But never mind; go on; the day has passed when deed and creed are supposed to hold the slightest relation to each other; and what is a $20,000 salary for if not to buy sufficient ability to explain it all sweetly away and administer, at the same time, an anaesthetic to the natural consciences of men?”

I settled myself in a large Turkish chair on one side of the splendidly carved table; he stood on the other side sorting a manuscript. Presently he

The Lady of the Club.

began reading it. “‘When I married Frank Melville he was strong and grand and brave; a truer man never lived. He had been educated for the law. His practice was small, but we were able to live very well on what he made, and the prospect for the future was bright. We loved each other — but, ah ! there are no words to tell that. We worshipped each other as only two who have been happily mated can ever understand. We lived up to his salary. Perhaps you will say that that was not wise. We thought it was. A good appearance, a fairly good appearance at least, was all that we could make, and to hold his own in his profession, this was necessary. You know how that is. A shabby-looking man soon loses his hold on paying clients. Of course he would not dress well and allow me to be ill-clad. He — he loved me. We were never able to lay by anything; but we were young and strong and hopeful — and we loved each other.’ ” Barker’s voice trembled. He looked at me a moment and then said very low: “If you could have seen her poor, tired, beautiful eyes when she said that.”

“ I can imagine how she looked,” I said. “ She had a face one remembers.”

After a little he went on: “We had both been brought up to live well. Our friends were people of culture, and we — it will sound strange to you for me to say that our love and devotion were the admiration and talk of all of them.

“ ‘ By-and-by I was taken ill. My husband could

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not bear to think of me as at home alone, suffering. He stayed with me a great deal. I did not know that he was neglecting his business; I think he did not realize it then; he thought he could make it all up; he was strong and — he loved me. At last the doctors told him that I should die if he did not take me away; I ought to have an ocean voyage. It almost killed him that he could not give me that. We had not the money. He took me away a little while where I could breathe the salt air, and the good it did me made his heart only the sadder when he saw that it was true that all I needed was an ocean voyage. The climate of his home was slowly killing me. We bore it as long as we dared, and I got so weak that he almost went mad. Then we moved here, where my health was good. But it was a terrible task to get business; there were so many others like him, all fighting, as if for life, for money enough to live on from day to day. The strain was too much for him, and just as he began to gain a footing he fell ill, and — and if we had had money enough for him to take a rest then, and have proper care, good doctors, and be relieved from immediate anxiety, he would have gotten well, with my care — I loved him so ! But as it was — ’ Shall I show you the end ?” Barker stopped, he was trembling violently, his eyes were full of tears. I waited. Presently he said, huskily: “Shall I tell you, Gordon, what I saw? I have not gotten over it yet. She laid her finger on her lips and motioned me to follow. The room where we had been was poor and

The Lady of the Club.

bare. She took a key from her bosom, opened a door, and went in. I followed. Sitting in the only comfortable chair — which had been handsome once — was a magnificent-looking man, so far as mere physical proportions can make one that.

“ ‘ Darling,’ she said tenderly, as if talking to a little child. ‘ Darling, I have brought you a present. Are you glad?’

“ She handed him a withered rose that I had carelessly dropped as I went in.

“ He arose, bowed to me when she presented me, waved me to his chair, took the ffower, looked at her with infinite love, and said: ‘ To-morrow, little wife; wait till to-morrow.’

“ Then he sat down, evidently unconscious of my presence, and gazed steadily at her for a moment, seeming to forget all else and to struggle with some thought that constantly eluded him. She patted his hand as if he were a child, smiling through her heart-break all the while, kissed him, and motioned me to precede her from the room.

“ When she came out she locked the door carefully behind her, sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed as if her heart would break. After a while she said: ‘ A little money would have saved, him and now it is too late, too late. Sometimes he is violent, sometimes like that. The doctors say the end is not far off, and that any moment he may kill me, and afterwards awake to know it ! It is all the result of poverty with love!' she said. Then, passionately: ^ If I

The Lady of the Club.

did not love him so I could bear it, but I cannot^ 1 cannot / And how will he bear it if he ever harms me — and I not there to help him ?’ ”

Barker stepped to the window to hide his emotion. Presently he said, in a voice that trembled: “ If she did not love him so she could let him go to some — asylum; but she knows the end is sure, and not far off, and that the gleams of light he has are when he sees her face. She has parted with everything that made life attractive to keep food and warmth for him. She is simply existing now from day to day — one constant agony of soul and sense — waiting for the end. She allowed me to take a doctor to see him; I would have come for you, but you were out of town. He only confirmed what others had told her a year ago. He advised her to have him put in a safe place before he did some violence; but she refused, and made us promise not to interfere. She said he would be able to harm no one but her, if he became violent at the last, and she was ready for that. It was easier far to live that way and wait for that each day than to have him taken away where he would be unhappy and perhaps ill-treated. He needed her care and love beside him every hour, and she — she needed nothing.”

Here Barker flung himself into a chair and let his head fall on his folded arms on the table.

“ That is the way love makes poverty easy to bear,” he said, bitterly, after a time, and his trembling hands clinched tight together.

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49 ^

Did you give her any money ?” I asked.

He groaned. “ Yes, yes, I — that is, I left some on the table under her sewing. She isn’t the kind of woman one can offer charity. She — ”

“ No,” I said, “ she isn’t, and beside, for the pain that tortures her it is too late now for money to help. Only it may relieve her somewhat to feel sure that she can get what he needs to eat and wear and to keep him warm and allow her to be free from the necessity of outside work. I am glad you left the money. But — but — Barker, do you think she will use it, coming that way and from a stranger ?”

He looked up forlornly. “ No, I don’t,” he said;

and yet she may. I will hope so; but if she does, what then ? The terrible question will still remain just where it was. That is no way to solve it; we can’t bail out the ocean with a thimble. And what an infamous imposition all this talk is of ‘ resignation ’ to such as she; for her terrible calm, as she talked to me, had no hint of resignation in it. She is simply, calmly, quietly desperate now — and she is one of many.” He groaned aloud.

“Will you take me there the next time you go?” I asked.

“ She said I must not come back; she could not be an object of curiosity — nor allow him to be. She said that she allowed me to come this time because on the night we first saw her she had stepped into that little hall to keep herself from freezing in her thin clothes as she was making her way home.

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and she saw that I was earnest in what I said, and she stayed to listen — ” his voice broke again.

J ust then the drapery was drawn back, and his wife, superbly robed, swept in, bringing a bevy of girls.

“ Oh, Mr. Barker,” said one, gayly, “ you don’t know what you missed to-night by deserting our theatre party; it was all so real— love in rags, you know, and all that sort of thing; only I really don’t like to see quite so much attention paid to the ‘ Suffering poor,’ with a big S, and the lower classes generally. I think the stage can do far better than that, don’t you ? But it is the new fad, I suppose, and after all I fancy it doesn’t do much harm, only as it makes that sort of people more insufferably obtrusive about putting their ill-clad, bad-smelling woes before the rest of us. What a beautiful vase this is, Mrs. Barker ! May I take it to the light ?”

Certainly, my dear,” laughed Mrs. Barker; “ and I agree with you, as usual. I think it is an exquisite vase — and that the stage is becoming demoralized. It is pandering to the low taste for representations of low life. I confess I don’t like it. That sort of people do not have the feelings to be hurt — the fine sensibilities and emotions attributed to them. Those grow up in refined and delicate surroundings. That is what I often tell Roland when he insists upon making himself unhappy over some new ‘ case ’ of destitution. I tell him to send them five dollars by mail and not to worry himself, and I won’t allow him to worry me with his Christie-street emotions.”