University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
THE RICH MAN'S CHARITIES.

It was near ten o'clock when Henry Aikin, in
pursuance of his benevolent designs for Paulina,
rung at Morris Finley's door, and told the servant,

in reply to his saying Mr. Finley was dressing for
a party, that he had pressing business, and must
speak with him. The servant left Aikin in the
entry, and, entering the drawing-room, pushed the
door to after him, but not so close as to prevent
Aikin hearing the following dialogue:—

“There's somebody, ma'am, in the entry, wants
to speak with Mr. Finley.”

“Why did not you tell him he was not at home?”

“Because he is, ma'am.”

“Pshaw, Tom, you know he is going out immediately,
and it's all the same thing. Do you know
who it is?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Is it a gentleman?”

“He speaks like one, ma'am.”

“You certainly know, Tom—is he a gentleman,
or only a man?”

“He is dressed like a man, ma'am.”

“Tom, you must get over tormenting me this
way: I've told you a hundred times the distinction.”
Tom smiled. He evidently had in his
mind something like the old distinction of the
poet, though he could not, or dared not, express it—

“Worth makes the man—the want of it, the fellow.”

“Well, well,” added Mrs. Finley, “show him
in, and tell Mr. Finley.”

Aikin entered with that air of blended modesty
and independence that characterized him; certainly
with no look of inferiority, for he felt none;
and, as Mrs. Finley's eye fell on his fine countenance,
hers relaxed, and she was in the dilemma,
for a moment, of not knowing whether to class

him with the somebodys or nobodys; but her glance
descended to the plain and coarse garments of our
friend in time to change a half-made courtesy to a
salutation befitting an inferior. “Sit down,” she
said, waving her hand to the nearest chair.

Aikin took the offered seat, and awaited, with
what patience he could, the forthcoming of the
master of the splendid mansion, observing what
was before him with a feeling, not of envy or
covetousness, but with deep joy and thankfulness
for the virtue and true happiness of his humble
home. Miss Sabina Jane Finley, now a young
lady of twelve years, after surveying Aikin from
top to toe, said to her mother, in a suppressed but
audible voice, “Gentleman!”

Mrs. Finley seemed to have what she, no doubt,
thought a truly genteel unconsciousness of “the
man's” presence. She was very richly dressed
for a ball; but, as is a common case with poor
human nature, she was transferring the fault of her
faded and time-stricken face to her milliner. “I
declare, Sabina Jane,” she said, surveying herself
in the mirror, “I never will get another cap of
Thompson—these flowers are blue as the heavens.”

“You selected them yourself, mamma.”

“To be sure I did; but how could I tell how
they would look in the evening?”

“Why don't you wear your new French cap,
mamma?”

“Don't be a fool, child—have not I worn that
twice already? Pull down that blonde over my
shoulder—how it whoops! This is the second
time Smetz has served me this way. This gown
sets like fury. I never go out but I have some

trial that spoils all my pleasure. Don't let me see
you prink so, miss,” turning to her daughter, and
pulling from her head a dress cap, that she was
trying on and arranging with all the airs and
graces of a fine lady; “I have told you a thousand
times, Sabina Jane,” she continued, “not to be
fond of dress!—Well, Tom, what is wanted now?”

“That French gentleman, ma'am, what teached
Miss Sabina Jane, is to call early for his money;
and if you'd please to give it to me to-night—”

“I can't attend to it to-night—tell him to call
again.”

“He has called again and again, ma'am; and
he says his wife is sick—and he looks so distressed-like.”

“I have not the money by me to-night, Tom.”

“Shall I ask Mr. Finley for it, ma'am?”

“No, Tom.”

The image of the unhappy foreigner haunted
Tom's imagination; and, after lingering for a moment
with the door in his hand, he said—“Maybe
ma'am don't remember Mr. Finley gave out the
money for Mr. Felix.”

Mrs. Finley did remember well that she had received
the money, and had spent it that very afternoon
for a most tempting piece of French embroidery—“a
love of a pocket handkerchief,” that
cost only thirty dollars!—the price of poor Monsieur
Felix's labour for two quarters, with an indolent
and neglected child. “Shut the door, Tom,”
she said; “I can't be bothered about this money
now; tell Mr. Felix to call after breakfast.” Tom
despaired and withdrew. “How impertinent Tom

is getting,” added Mrs. Finley; “but this is the
way of all the servants in this country.”

The housemaid now entered, and announced
that Miss Rosa (a three-year old girl) had been
throwing up the custard, and pie, and raisins, and
so on, that she ate at dinner.

“Dear me! poor thing!” exclaimed the mother,
“what a weak stomach she has! Does Nancy
want me to come up and see her?”

“Nancy is out, ma'am.”

“Out yet? I don't know how she could think
of going out at all, when she told me at tea-time
that Rosa was feverish. I thought there was one
faithful servant in the world, but now I give up.”
Mrs. Finley went to look after her child, while Aikin
was making his own mental comments on the
reasonableness of a parent, who expected more
fidelity from a hireling for paltry wages, than she
practised herself, with all the stimulants of the
responsibilities and happiness of a mother. Fortunately,
for he had become very impatient, he was
not left long to ponder on this inconsistency. Finley
came in, dressed and perfumed for the party.
“Ah, Harry Aikin,” he said, after a momentary
surprise, “is it you—how are you?”

“Well, thank you, Morris.”

“What impudence,” thought Miss Sabina Jane,
“for that man to call my papa Morris!”

“I have some private business with you,” added
Aikin, glancing at the young lady.

“Sabina Jane,” said Finley, “tell your mamma
the carriage is waiting—these fellows charge so
abominably for waiting.” This last remark was
evidently a hint to Aikin to be brief.

But Aikin wanted no such spur. He communicated
concisely Paulina's condition and wants;
and, knowing that Finley's conscience was of the
sluggish order, he tried to rouse it by recalling
vividly to his remembrance the past—the days of
Paulina's innocence and beauty, and Finley's devotion
to her. But Finley slurred it over like a
long-forgotten dream, that would not afford the
slightest basis for a claim upon his charity.

“She is in a shocking condition, to be sure,
Aikin,” he said; “but, then, I make it an invariable
rule never to give but to those that I know to
be worthy.”

“There is much to be done for our fellow-creatures,
Finley, besides giving gifts to the worthy.”

“Oh, I know that; and I subscribe liberally to
several of our institutions.”

“But will you do nothing towards encouraging
this poor, homeless, friendless creature to repentance
and reformation?”

“Pshaw! Aikin, they never reform.”

“If that is true, a part of the sin must lie at our
doors, who afford them no helps. But there is no
time to discuss this: Paulina, I fear, will not be
able to prove her sincerity. She has, it seems to
me, but little while to live; if I can save her from
the police, I shall try hard to keep her where she
is, that her little remnant of life may be spent with
her old friends, who will care for her body and
soul.”

“Oh, well, if you really think she is going to
make a die of it, I am willing to give you something
for her.”

Finley took out his pocketbook, and after, as

Aikin could not but suspect, looking for a smaller
sum, he gave him a five-dollar note, with the air
of one who is conferring an astounding obligation.
Aikin expressed neither surprise nor gratitude;
but, quietly putting up the note, he said, “You
know, Finley, money is not the most important
thing I had to ask. I want you to go to the police-office
with me. You are a great merchant,
and your name is well known in the city; I am
nobody, and it may be necessary for me to get my
statement endorsed. Come, it is not five minutes'
walk for you.”

“Why, bless you, man, don't you see I'm going
out! there's my wife coming down stairs now.”

“Let her go in the carriage—you can follow
her.”

“Oh! that's impossible—she would not go alone
into a party for the world.”

“Can she not wait till your return?”

“No; it is not reasonable to ask it—it's late
now—and—and—”

“Good night; I have wasted my time here,”
said Aikin, cutting short Finley's excuses, and
leaving him trying to silence his conscience by
dwelling on the five dollars he had given—by fretting
at the deused folly of going out when people
were tired and wanted to go to bed—and by joining
in his wife's vituperation against Nancy and all
her tribe.