An Angel in Disgui
Idleness, vice, and alcohol had done
their miserable work — and the dead
mother lay cold and still amid her
wretched children. She had fallenupon the threshold of her own door in
a drunken fit, and died in the
presence of her frightened little ones.
Death touches the spring of our
common humanity. This woman had
been despised, scoffed at, and angrily
denounced by nearly every m
an,
woman, and child in the village; but
now, as the fact of her death was
passed from lip to lip, in subdued
tones — pity took the place of anger,
and sorrow of denunciation.
Neighbors went hastily to the old
tumble-down hut, in which she had
secured little more than a place of
shelter from summer heat, and winter
cold: some with grave-clothes for a
decent interment of the body; and
some with food for the half-starving
children, three in number.
Of these, John, the oldest, a boy of
twelve, was a stout lad, able to earn
his living with any farmer. Kate,
between ten and eleven, was bright,
active girl, out of whom something
clever might be made, if in good
hands; but poor little Maggie, the
youngest, was hopelessly crippled.
Two years before, a fall from a
window had injured her spine, and
she had not been able to leave her
bed since, except when lifted in the
arms of her mother.
"What is to be done with the
children?" That was the chief question
now. The dead mother would go
underground, and be forever beyond
all care or concern of the villagers.
But the children must not be left to
starve. After considering the matter,
and talking it over with his wife,
farmer Jones said that he would take
John, and do well by him, now that
his mother was out of the way. Mrs.
Ellis, who had been looking out for a
girl, concluded that it would be
charitable in her to make choice of
Katy, even though she was too young
to be of much use for several years.
"I could do much better, I know," said
Mrs. Ellis; "but as no one seems
inclined to take her, I must act from a
sense of duty. I expect to have
trouble with the child, for she's an
undisciplined thing — used to having
her own way."
But no one said "I'll take Maggie."
Pitying glances were cast on her wan
and wasted form and thoughts were
troubled on her account. Mothers
brought cast-off garments and,
removing her soiled and ragged
clothes, dressed her in clean attire.
The sad eyes and patient face of the
little one touched many hearts, and
even knocked at them for entrance.
But none opened to take her in. Who
wanted a bed-ridden child?
"Take her to the poorhouse," said a
rough man, of whom the question,
"What's to be done with Maggie?" was
asked. "Nobody's going to be bothered
with her."
"The poorhouse is a sad place for a
sick and helpless child," answered
one.
"For your child or mine," said the
other, lightly speaking; "but for tis
brat — it will prove a blessed change,
she will be kept clean, have healthy
food, and be doctored — which is
more than can be said of her past
condition."
There was reason in that, but still it
didn't satisfy. The day following the
day of death, was made the day of
burial. A few neighbors were at the
miserable hovel, but none followed
dead cart as it bore the unhonored
remains to its pauper grave. Farmer
Jones, after the coffin was taken out,
placed John in his wagon and drove
away, satisfied that he had done his
part. Mrs. Ellis spoke to Kate with a
hurried air, "Bid your sister good by,"
and drew the tearful children apart
before scarcely their lips had touched
in a sobbing farewell. Hastily others
went out, some glancing at Maggie,
and some resolutely refraining from a
look, until all had gone. Maggie was
left alone! Just beyond the threshold,
Joe Thompson, the wheelwright,
paused, and said to the blacksmith's
wife, who was hastening off with the
rest —
"It's a cruel thing to leave her so."
"Then take her to the poorhouse —
she'll have to go there," answered the
blacksmith's wife, springing away,
and leaving Joe behind.
For a little while, the man stood with
a puzzled air; then he turned back,
and went into the hovel again. Maggie
with painful effort, had raised herself
to an upright position and was sitting
on the bed, straining her eyes upon
the door out of which all had just
departed. A vague terror had come
into her thin white face.
"O, Mr. Thompson!" she cried out,
catching her suspended breath, "don't
leave me here all alone!"
Though rough in exterior, Joe
Thompson, the wheelwright, had a
heart, and it was very tender in some
places. He liked children, and was
pleased to have them come to his
shop, where sleds and wagons were
made or mended for the village lads,
without a draft on their hoarded
sixpences.
"No, dear," he answered, in a kind
voice, going to the bed, and stooping
down over the child, "You shall not be
left here alone." Then he wrapped her
with the gentleness almost of a
woman, in the clean bed-clothes
which some neighbor had brought;
and, lifting her in his strong arms,
bore her out into the air and across
the field which lay between the hovel
and his home.
Now, Joe Thompson's wife, who
happened to be childless, was not a
woman of saintly temper, nor much
given to self-denial for others' good,
and Joe had well-grounded doubts
concerning the manner of greeting he
should receive on his arrival. Mrs.
Thompson saw him approaching from
the window, and with ruffling feathers
met him a few paces from the door,
as he opened the garden gate, and
came in. He bore a precious charge,
and he felt it to be so. As his arms
held the sick child to his bosom, a
sphere of tenderness went out from
her, and penetrated his feelings. A
bond had already corded itself around
them both, and love was springing
into life.
"What have you there?" sharply
questioned Mrs. Thompson.
Joe felt the child startle and shrink
against him. He did not reply, except
by a look that was pleading and
cautionary, that said, "Wait a moment
for explanations, and be gentle;" and,
passing in, carried Maggie to the
small chamber on the first floor, and
laid her on a bed. Then, stepping
back, he shut the door, and stood face
to face with his vinegar-tempered
wife in the passage-way outside.
"You haven't brought home that bed-
ridden brat!" Anger and astonishment
were in the tones of Mrs. Joe
Thompson; her face was in a flame.
"I think women's hearts are
sometimes very hard," said Joe.
Usually Joe Thompson got out of his
wife's way, or kept rigidly silent and
non-combative, when she fired up on
any subject; it was with some
surprise, therefore, that she now
encountered a firmly-set countenance
and a resolute pair of eyes.
"Women's hearts are not half so hard
as men's!"
Joe saw, by a quick intuition, that his
resolute bearing had impressed his
wife, so he answered quickly, and
with real indignation, "Be that as it
may, every woman at the funeral
turned her eyes steadily from the sick
child's face, and when the cart went
off with her dead mother, hurried
away, and left her alone in that old
hut, with the sun not an hour in the
sky."
"Where were John and Kate?" asked
Mrs. Thompson.
"Farmer Jones tossed John into his
wagon, and drove off. Katie went
home with Mrs. Ellis; but nobody
wanted the poor sick one. 'Send her
to the poorhouse!' was the cry."
"Why didn't you let her go, then. What
did you bring her here for?"
"She can't walk to the poorhouse,"
said Joe; "somebody's arms must
carry her, and mine are strong
enough for that task."
"Then why didn't you keep on? Why
did you stop here?" demanded the
wife.
"Because I'm not apt to go on fools'
errands. The Guardians must first be
seen, and a permit obtained."
There was no gainsaying this.
"When will you see the Guardians?"
was asked, with irrepressible
impatience.
"Tomorrow."
"Why put it off till tomorrow? Go at
once for the permit, and get the whole
thing off of your hands tonight."
"Jane," said the wheelwright, with an
impressiveness of tone that greatly
subdued his wife, "I read in the Bible
sometimes, and find much said about
little children. How the Savior
rebuked the disciples who would not
receive them; how he took them up in
his arms, and blessed them; and how
he said that 'whoever gave them even
a cup of cold water, should not go
unrewarded.' Now, it is a small thing
for us to keep this poor motherless
little one for a single night; to be kind
to her for a single night; to make her
life comfortable for a single night."
The voice of the strong, rough man
shook, and he turned his head away,
so that the moisture in his eyes might
not be seen. Mrs. Thompson did not
answer, but a soft feeling crept into
her heart.
"Look at her kindly, Jane; speak to
her kindly," said Joe. "Think of her
dead mother, and the loneliness, the
pain, the sorrow that must be on all
her coming life." The softness of his
heart, gave unusual eloquence to his
lips.
Mrs. Thompson did not reply, but
presently turned towards the little
chamber where her husband had
deposited Maggie; and, pushing open
the door, went quietly in. Joe did not
follow; he saw that, her state had
changed, and felt that it would be best
to leave her alone with the child. So
he went to his shop, which stood near
the house, and worked until dusky
evening released him from labor. A
light shining through the little
chamber windows was the first object
that attracted Joe's attention on
turning towards the house — it was a
good omen. The path led him by this
windows and, when opposite, he
could not help pausing to look in. It
was now dark enough outside to
screen him from observation.
Maggie lay, a little raised on the
pillow with the lamp shining fully
upon her face. Mrs. Thompson was
sitting by the bed, talking to the child;
but her back was towards the window,
so that her countenance was not
seen. From Maggie's face, therefore,
Joe must read the character of their
fellowship. He saw that her eyes
were intently fixed upon his wife; that
now and then a few words came, as
if in answers from her lips; that her
expression was sad and tender; but
he saw nothing of bitterness or pain.
A deep-drawn breath was followed by
one of relief, as a weight lifted itself
from his heart.
On entering, Joe did not go
immediately to the little chamber. His
heavy tread about the kitchen brought
his wife somewhat hurriedly from the
room where she had been with
Maggie. Joe thought it best not to
refer to the child, nor to manifest any
concern in regard to her.
"How soon will supper be ready?" he
asked.
"Right soon," answered Mrs.
Thompson, beginning to bustle about.
There was no sharpness in her voice.
After washing from his hands and
face the dust and soil of work, Joe
left the kitchen, and went to the little
bedroom. A pair of large bright eyes
looked up at him from the snowy bed
— looked at him tenderly, gratefully,
pleadingly. How his heart swelled in
his bosom! With what a quicker
motion came the heart-beats! Joe sat
down, and now, for the first time,
examining the thin little thing
carefully under the lamp light, saw
that it was an attractive face, and full
of a childish sweetness, which
suffering had not been able to
obliterate.
"Your name is Maggie?" he said, as
he sat down and took her soft little
hand in his.
"Yes, sir." Her voice struck a chord
that quivered in a low strain of music.
"Have you been sick long?"
"Yes, sir." What a sweet patience was
in her tone!
"Has the doctor been to see you?"
"He used to come."
"But not lately?"
"No, sir."
"Have you any pain?"
"Sometimes, but not now."
"When did you have pain?"
"This morning my side ached, and my
back hurt when you carried me."
"It hurts you to be lifted or moved
about?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your side doesn't ache now?"
"No, sir."
"Does it ache a great deal?"
"Yes, sir; but it hasn't ached any
since I've been on this nice soft bed."
"The soft bed feels good."
"O, yes, sir — so good!" What a
satisfaction, mingled with gratitude,
was in her voice!
"Supper is ready," said Mrs.
Thompson, looking into the room a
little while afterwards.
Joe glanced from his wife's face to
that of Maggie; she understood him,
and answered —
"She can wait until we are done; then
I will bring her something to eat."
There was an effort at indifference on
the part of Mrs. Thompson, but her
husband had seen her through the
window, and understood that the
coldness was assumed. Joe waited,
after sitting down to the table, for his
wife to introduce the subject
uppermost in both of their thoughts;
but she kept silent on that theme, for
many minutes, and he maintained a
like reserve. At last she said, abruptly
—
"What are you going to do with that
child?"
"I thought you understood me, that
she was to go to the poorhouse,"
replied Joe, as if surprised at her
question.
Mrs. Thompson looked rather
strangely at her husband for some
moments, and then dropped her eyes.
The subject was not again referred to
during the meal. At its close, Mrs.
Thompson toasted a slice of bread,
and softened it with milk and butter;
adding to this a cup of tea, she took
them into Maggie, and held the small
tray, on which she had placed them,
while the hungry child ate with every
sign of pleasure.
"Is it good?" asked Mrs. Thompson,
seeing with what a keen relish the
food was taken.
The child paused with the cup in her
hand, and answered with a look of
gratitude that awoke to new life, old
human feelings which had been
slumbering in her heart for many
years.
"We'll keep her a day or two longer;
she is so weak and helpless," said
Mrs. Thompson, in answer to her
husband's remark, at breakfast-time
on the next morning, that he must step
down and see the Guardians of the
Poor about Maggie.
"She'll be so much in your way," said
Joe.
"I shall not mind that for a day or
two. Poor thing!"
Joe did not see the Guardians of the
Poor on that day, on the next, nor on
the day following. In fact, he never
saw them at all on Maggie's account,
for in less than a week Mrs.
Thompson would as soon have
thought of taking up her own abode in
the almshouse — as sending Maggie
there.
What light and blessing did that sick
and helpless child bring to the home
of Joe Thompson, the poor
wheelwright! It had been dark, and
cold, and miserable there for a long
time — just because his wife had
nothing to love and care for out of
herself, and so became sour, irritable,
ill-tempered, and self-afflicting — in
the desolation of her woman's nature.
Now the sweetness of that sick child,
looking ever to her in love, patience,
and gratitude, was as honey to her
soul, and she carried her in her heart
as well as in her arms, a precious
charge.
