The Old Homestead Part 4

"Great Heavens! this is terrible," cried Chester, gathering up the child in his arms.

Agitated beyond all self-control, he gave the bell-k.n.o.b a jerk that made the Mayor start from his seat with a violence that threw one of his well-trodden slippers half across the hearth-rug.

"Who is coming now?" muttered the great man, thrusting his foot into the truant slipper with a peevish jerk, for he had taken supper at the City Hall that evening, and after a temperance movement of that kind, the luxurious depth of his easy-chair was always inviting.

"Will that bell never have done? These gas-lights--I verily believe they entice beggars to the door; besides, that great Irish girl has lighted double the number I ordered," and, with a keen regard to the economy of his household, the Chief Magistrate of New York mounted a chair and turned off four of the six burners that had been lighted in the chandelier. Another sharp ring brought him to the carpet, and to the street-door again. There he found Chester with the little beggar girl in his arms, her eyes shut and her face pale as death, save where a faint violet color lay about the mouth.

"Sir, this child, you have driven her from your door--she is dying!"

said Chester, pa.s.sing with his burden into the hall and moving towards the drawing-room, from which the light of an anthracite fire glowed warm; and ruddily "she needs warmth. I believe in my soul she is starving!"

"Well, sir, why do you bring her here--who are you? Is there no station-house? I do not receive beggars in my drawing-room!" said the Mayor, following the policeman.

Chester, heedless of his remonstrance, strode across the carpet and laid the wretched child tenderly into the great crimson chair which "his honor" had just so reluctantly abandoned. Wheeling the chair close to the fire, he knelt on the rug and began to chafe those thin purple hands between his own.

"I could not take her anywhere else--she was dying with cold--a minute was life or death to her," said Chester, lifting his fine eyes to the sullen countenance of the Mayor, and speaking in a tone of apology.

The Mayor bent his eyes on that manly face, so warm and eloquent with benevolent feeling; then, just turned his glance over the deathly form of the child.

"You will oblige me by moving that bundle of rags from my chair!"

he said.

"But she is dying!" cried the policeman, trembling all over with generous indignation; "she may be dead now!"

"Very well, this is no place for a coroner's inquest," was the terse reply.

The policeman half started up, and in his indignation almost crushed one of the little hands that he had been chafing.

"Sir, this is inhuman--it is shameful."

"Do you know where you are?--whom you are speaking to?" said the great man, growing pale about the mouth, but subduing his pa.s.sion with wonderful firmness.

"Yes, I know well enough. This is your house, and you are the Mayor of New York!"

"And you--may I have the honor of knowing who it is that favors my poor dwelling, and with company like that!" said the Mayor, pointing to the child, while his upper lip contracted and the corners of his mouth drooped into a cold sneer.

"Yes, sir, you can know: I am a policeman of this ward, appointed by your predecessor--a just and good man; my name is John Chester.

Taking pity on this forlorn little creature, I followed her from a house whence she had crept out into the cold, hoping to be of some use; she came up here, and rang at your door. I heard what pa.s.sed between you. As a citizen, I should have been ashamed, had I unfortunately been among those who placed you in power; I must say it--your conduct to this poor starved thing, shocked me beyond utterance. I thank G.o.d that no vote of mine aided to lift you where you are."

"And so you are a policeman of this ward. Very well," said the Mayor; and the sneer upon his face died away while he began to pace the room, the soft fall of his slippers upon the carpet giving a cat-like stillness to his movements.

He felt that a man who could thus fearlessly speak out his just indignation, was not the kind of person to persecute openly. Besides, it was not in this man's nature to do anything openly. Like a mole, he burrowed out his plans under ground, and when forced to brave the daylight, always cunningly allowed some pliant tool to remove the earth that was unavoidably cast up in his pa.s.sage. His genius lay in that low cunning and prudent management, with which small men of little intellect and no heart sometimes deceive the world. He had long outlived all feelings sufficiently strong to render him impetuous, and was utterly devoid of that generous self-respect which prompts a man to repel an attack fearlessly and at once. In short, he was one of those who _lie still and wait_, like the crafty pointer dogs that creep along the gra.s.s, hunting out game for others to shoot down for them, and devouring the spoil with a keener relish than the n.o.ble hound that makes the forest ring as he plunges upon his prey.

True to his character and his system, the Mayor paused in his walk, and, bending over the child, said coldly, but still with some appearance of feeling--

"She seems to be getting better--probably it will be nothing serious!"

Chester looked up, and a smile illuminated his face. Always willing to look on the bright side of human nature, his generous heart smote him for having perhaps judged too harshly. The little hand which he was chafing began to warm with life; this relieved him of the terrible excitement which the moment before had rendered his words, if just, more than imprudent.

"Thank you, sir, she _is_ better," he said, with an expression of frank grat.i.tude beaming over every feature, "I think she will live now, so we will only trouble you a few minutes longer."

"My family are in bed--and these street beggars are so little to be relied upon," observed the Mayor, evidently wis.h.i.+ng to offer some excuse for his former harshness, without doing so directly; "but this seems a case of real distress."

Chester was subdued by this speech. More and more he regretted the excitement of his former language. He longed to make some reparation to a man who, after all, might be only prudent, not unfeeling.

"If," said he, looking at the child, whose features began to quiver in the glowing fire-light, "if I had a drop of wine now."

"Oh, we are temperance people here, you know," replied the Mayor, coldly.

"Or anything warm," persisted Chester, as the child opened her eyes with a famished look.

"You can get wine at the station-house. My girls are in bed."

"I am afraid she will have small hopes of help at the station-house.

The Common Council make no provision for medical aid where the sick or starving are brought in at night. It is a great omission, sir."

"The Common Council cannot do everything," replied the Mayor, becoming impatient, but still subduing himself.

"I know sir, but its first duty is to the poor."

"Oh, yes, no one denies that;" replied the Mayor, observing with satisfaction that Chester was preparing to remove the little intruder.

"You will not have a very long walk," he added. "The station-house is not more than eight or ten blocks off. She will be strong enough, I fancy, to get so far."

"Don't, don't take me there! I am not a thief!" murmured the child, and two great tears rolled over her cheek slowly, as if the fire-light had with difficulty thawed them out from her heart.

They were answered--G.o.d bless the policeman--they were answered by a whole gush of tears that sprang into his fine eyes, and sparkled there like so many diamonds.

"No," he said, taking off his overcoat, and wrapping it around the child, his hands and arms shaking with eager pity as he lifted her from the chair. "She shall go home with me for one night at least.

I will say to my wife, 'Here is a little hungry thing whom G.o.d has sent you from the street.' She will be welcome, sir. I am sure she will be as welcome as if I were to carry home a casket of gold in my bosom. Will you go home with me, little girl?"

The child turned her large eyes upon him; a smile of ineffable sweetness floated over her face, and drawing a deep breath, she said:

"Oh, yes, I will go!"

"You will excuse the trouble," said Chester, turning with his burden toward the Mayor as he went out, "the case seemed so urgent!"

"Oh, it is all excused," replied his honor, bowing stiffly as he walked towards the door, "but I shall remember--never doubt that!"

he muttered with a smile, in which all the inward duplicity of his nature shone out.

That instant a carriage drove up to the door, and after some bustle a lady entered, followed by a young lad, who paused a moment on the upper step and gave some orders to the coachman in a clear, cheerful voice, that seemed out of place in that house.

"Why don't you come in?" cried the lady, folding her rose-colored opera-cloak closely around her, "you fill the whole house with cold."

"In a moment--in a moment," cried the boy, breaking into a s.n.a.t.c.h of opera music as if haunted by some melody; "but pray send Tim out a gla.s.s of wine, or he will freeze on the box this Greenland night."

"Nonsense! come in!" cried the mother, entering the drawing-room and approaching the fire. Here she threw back her opera-cloak, revealing a rich brocade dress underneath, lighted up with jewels and covered as with a mist of fine lace! "he'll do well enough--come to the fire!"

she continued, holding out her hands in their snowy gloves for warmth.

The lady had not noticed Chester, who stood back in the hall, that she might pa.s.s. Applicants of all kinds were so common at her dwelling, even at late hours, that she seldom paused, even to regard a stranger. But the n.o.ble-looking lad was far more quick-sighted.

As he turned reluctantly to close the door, Chester advanced with the little girl in his arms, and would have pa.s.sed.