8. CHAPTER VIII.
A CHARITABLE LADY.
If a drunkard in a sober fit is the dullest of mortals,
an enthusiast in a reason-fit is not the most lively.
And this, without prejudice to his greatly improved
understanding; for, if his elation was the height of his
madness, his despondency is but the extreme of his sanity.
Something thus now, to all appearance, with the
man in gray. Society his stimulus, loneliness was his
lethargy. Loneliness, like the sea-breeze, blowing off
from a thousand leagues of blankness, he did not find,
as veteran solitaires do, if anything, too bracing. In
short, left to himself, with none to charm forth his
latent lymphatic, he insensibly resumes his original air,
a quiescent one, blended of sad humility and demureness.
Ere long he goes laggingly into the ladies' saloon, as
in spiritless quest of somebody; but, after some disappointed
glances about him, seats himself upon a sofa
with an air of melancholy exhaustion and depression.
At the sofa's further end sits a plump and pleasant
person, whose aspect seems to hint that, if she have any
weak point, it must be anything rather than her excellent
heart. From her twilight dress, neither dawn nor
dark, apparently she is a widow just breaking the chrysalis
of her mourning. A small gilt testament is in her
hand, which she has just been reading. Half-relinquished,
she holds the book in reverie, her finger inserted at
the xiii. of 1st Corinthians, to which chapter possibly
her attention might have recently been turned, by witnessing
the scene of the monitory mute and his slate.
The sacred page no longer meets her eye; but, as at
evening, when for a time the western hills shine on
though the sun be set, her thoughtful face retains its
tenderness though the teacher is forgotten.
Meantime, the expression of the stranger is such as
ere long to attract her glance. But no responsive one.
Presently, in her somewhat inquisitive survey, her
volume drops. It is restored. No encroaching politeness
in the act, but kindness, unadorned. The eyes of
the lady sparkle. Evidently, she is not now unprepossessed.
Soon, bending over, in a low, sad tone, full of
deference, the stranger breathes, “Madam, pardon my
freedom, but there is something in that face which
strangely draws me. May I ask, are you a sister of the
Church?”
“Why—really—you—”
In concern for her embarrassment, he hastens to relieve
it, but, without seeming so to do. “It is very
solitary for a brother here,” eyeing the showy ladies
brocaded in the background, “I find none to mingle
souls with. It may be wrong—I know it is—but I cannot
force myself to be easy with the people of the world.
I prefer the company, however silent, of a brother or
sister in good standing. By the way, madam, may I ask
if you have confidence?”
“Really, sir—why, sir—really—I—”
“Could you put confidence in me for instance?”
“Really, sir—as much—I mean, as one may wisely
put in a—a—stranger, an entire stranger, I had almost
said,” rejoined the lady, hardly yet at ease in her affability,
drawing aside a little in body, while at the same
time her heart might have been drawn as far the other
way. A natural struggle between charity and prudence.
“Entire stranger!” with a sigh. “Ah, who would
be a stranger? In vain, I wander; no one will have
confidence in me.”
“You interest me,” said the good lady, in mild surprise.
“Can I any way befriend you?”
“No one can befriend me, who has not confidence.”
“But I—I have—at least to that degree—I mean
that—”
“Nay, nay, you have none—none at all. Pardon, I
see it. No confidence. Fool, fond fool that I am to
seek it!”
“You are unjust, sir,” rejoins the good lady with
heightened interest; “but it may be that something
untoward in your experiences has unduly biased you.
Not that I would cast reflections. Believe me, I—yes,
yes—I may say—that—that—”
“That you have confidence? Prove it. Let me have
twenty dollars.”
“Twenty dollars!”
“There, I told you, madam, you had no confidence.”
The lady was, in an extraordinary way, touched. She
sat in a sort of restless torment, knowing not which way
to turn. She began twenty different sentences, and left
off at the first syllable of each. At last, in desperation,
she hurried out, “Tell me, sir, for what you want the
twenty dollars?”
“And did I not—” then glancing at her half-mourning,
“for the widow and the fatherless. I am traveling
agent of the Widow and Orphan Asylum, recently
founded among the Seminoles.”
“And why did you not tell me your object before?”
As not a little relieved. “Poor souls—Indians, too—
those cruelly-used Indians. Here, here; how could I
hesitate. I am so sorry it is no more.”
“Grieve not for that, madam,” rising and folding up
the bank-notes. “This is an inconsiderable sum, I admit,
but,” taking out his pencil and book, “though I
here but register the amount, there is another register,
where is set down the motive. Good-bye; you have
confidence. Yea, you can say to me as the apostle said
to the Corinthians, `I rejoice that I have confidence in
you in all things.'”
