CHAPTER XXIV. 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, 223with 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?”

224“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 225little, 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.”

226“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.”

227“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.

228“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 229Mrs. 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.