Chapter 24

EMMA�S FATHER.

Gilbert kept on his way with the little girl. After a short walk, she paused in front of a miserable tenement house on Pearl Street.

�This is where we live,� she said; �will you go upstairs, sir?�

�If you think I shall not be intruding on your father,� said Gilbert, with instinctive delicacy.

�He will be glad to see a kind face,� said Emma, simply.

�Then if you will lead the way, I will follow,� said our hero.

They clambered up three flights of stairs, and then Emma opened a door and ushered her companion into a small, barely furnished room. On a pallet on the floor was stretched a man of fifty, pale and emaciated, with eyes preternaturally bright; his face was turned towards the wall, and he did not see Gilbert.

�Is that you, Emma?� he asked.

�Yes, papa; how do you feel now?� asked the little girl.

�Much the same, my child; did you sell your flowers?�

�Yes, papa, and I have brought you a fresh roll. I have brought some one with me, too.�

Mr. Talbot turned his head, and looked at Gilbert, not without surprise.

�I hope you won�t look upon me as an intruder, sir,� said Gilbert; �your little girl told me you would not, or I would not have ventured to call.�

�I am glad to see you,� said the sick man, �though this is but a poor place to receive company in.�

�I understand your situation, sir,� said Gilbert; �you have been sick and unfortunate.�

�You are right; I was unfortunate first, and sick afterwards. Emma, will you give the young gentleman a chair?�

�Oh, don�t trouble yourself,� said Gilbert, taking a chair for himself.

Mr. Talbot proceeded: �Five years since, I removed to Chicago, with my little girl, in the hope that in that growing and prosperous Western city I might, at least, earn a comfortable living. I was not wholly without means,�I had about a thousand dollars,�but misfortune pursued me. I was once burnt out, lost my situation by the failure of the firm that employed me, and the end of it all was, that a year ago I found myself bankrupt. Then I decided to come to New York, hoping to succeed better here. I managed, while I was well, to earn a precarious living by copying for lawyers (I am a book-keeper by vocation) but, a month since, I was stricken down by a fever, from which I am only just recovering. How we have got along I can hardly tell you. When I became sick I had but a dollar in my pocket-book, yet we have continued to live. My little Emma,� he continued, looking proudly at the little girl, �has been a great help to me. She has managed to earn a little, and has attended upon me by night and by day. I don�t know what I could have done without her.�

�I ought to work for you now, papa,� said the child, simply; �all my life you have been working for me.�

�She is a perfect little woman, though only ten years old,� said the father. �Poor child! her life has been far from bright. I hope the future has some happier days in store for both of us.�

�Only get well, sir,� said Gilbert, cheerfully, �and the happier days will begin.�

�I hope so; but even in health I found it hard to get along.�

At this moment there was a knock at the door.

Emma went to the door, and opened it.

A short, stout, coarse-featured woman entered, and looked about her with the air of one who had come to engage in battle.

�Take a seat, Mrs. Flanders,� said the sick man.

�Much obliged to you, sir,� said the woman, not to be placated by this politeness; �but I can�t stop. I come on business. I suppose you know what it is.�

�I suppose it is the rent,� said Mr. Talbot, uneasily.

�Yes, it is the rent,� said Mrs. Flanders. �I hope you are ready to pay it.�

�How can you expect it, Mrs. Flanders? You know how long I have been sick and unable to earn anything.�

�That is not my fault, Mr. Talbot,� said the woman, sharply. �I�m a widow woman, and have to look out for myself. When I let you this room, I told you you must pay me prompt, for I had to pay prompt. Have you forgot that?�

�No, I have not forgotten it, and I am very sorry that circumstances have been so against me. Wait patiently, and I will pay you yet.�

�Wait patiently!� repeated the woman, angrily. �Haven�t I been waiting patiently for a month? To-morrow I have to pay my rent, and I must be paid what you owe me.�

�We have but a few cents in the house,� said Mr. Talbot. �How much have you got, Emma?�

�Four cents, papa.�

�Give them to Mrs. Flanders; it is all we have.�

�Four cents!� exclaimed the landlady, shrilly; �do you mean to insult me?�

�I don�t feel much like insulting anybody,� said Mr. Talbot, wearily.

�Once more, do you intend to pay me my rent or not?� demanded the virago.

�I can�t at present. In time��

�Stuff and nonsense!�then out you budge to-day. I can�t afford to keep you here for nothing.�

�O Mrs. Flanders,� pleaded Emma, in terror. �It will kill my father to go out, sick as he is. Let us stay here a little longer.�

�It won�t do,� said the woman; �I�m not so soft as that comes to. If you won�t pay the rent, you must budge.�

Gilbert had listened to this dialogue with mingled pain and indignation. It was his first practical acquaintance with poverty and the world�s inhumanity. He could remain silent no longer.

�How much is your bill, madam?� he asked.

�Rent for four weeks, at a dollar a week,�four dollars.�

�I will pay it,� said Gilbert, glad that the amount was not beyond his resources.

The little girl impulsively seized his hand and carried it to her lips.

�Oh, how kind you are!� she said.

�Are you sure it will not inconvenience you?� asked Mr. Talbot.

�Oh, no, sir.�

�Then I will accept the loan with thanks. You are a friend in need.�

The landlady took the money with avidity, for she had considered the debt a bad one.

�Thank you, young man,� she said; adding, in an apologetic tone, �You may think me hard, but I have to be. I have to live myself.�

Gilbert listened coldly, for he was disgusted with the woman�s coarse and brutal manners.

�And I hope you�ll get well soon, sir,� she said, turning to Mr. Talbot; but he did not answer her.

�It is the way of the world,� he remarked, after Mrs. Flanders had gone out. �Poverty has few friends.�

�When you are well, sir, I will mention you to a friend who may give you some work,� said Gilbert. �Meanwhile I will call again in a day or two.�

�You will always be welcome,� said Mr. Talbot, gratefully. �You have done me a great service.�

When Gilbert went out, he realized that his generosity might cause him inconvenience, for he had but a dollar remaining in his pocket-book, and was earning nothing.