It was met on the threshold by influences that drove it back into the desolate street. The warm, light house and the peace and luxury of his own room soothed his mental sense of something wrong. And when he descended to the parlour, he was instantly encompassed by soft warmth, by firelight and gaslight, by all the visible signs and audible sounds of sincere pleasure in his advent. Mr. Lanhearne had a new periodical to discuss, and Ada, though unusually grave, lifted her still face with the smile of welcome on it.
She had, however, an evident anxiety, and Mr. Lanhearne probably divined its origin, for after dinner was over he said: “Ada, I saw your little missionary here, late. Is there anything very wrong?”
“I was just going to tell you, father. Mr. Tresham may listen also, it can do him no harm. Mrs. Dodge came to tell me of a most distressing case. She was visiting an old patient in a large tenement, and the woman told her to call at the room directly above her. As she went away she did so. It was only four o’clock then, but in that place quite dark. When she reached the door she heard a voice praying––heard a voice thanking God amid sobs and tears––oh, father, what for? For the death of her baby! Crying out in a passion of gratitude because it was released from hunger and cold and suffering!”
Mr. Lanhearne covered his face, and Roland 260 looked at Ada with his large eyes troubled and misty. The girl was speechless for a moment or two, and Roland watched her sympathetic face and saw tears drop upon her clasped hands. Then she resumed: “Mrs. Dodge entered softly. The mother was sitting on a chair with her dead baby across her knees. There was no fire, no candle in the room, but the light from an oil-lamp in a near window fell upon the white faces of the mother and her dead child. There is no need to tell you that Mrs. Dodge quickly made a fire, cooked the poor famished creature a meal, and then prepared the dead child for its burial. But she says the mother is distracted because she cannot buy it a grave and a coffin. I have promised to do that; you will help me, father? I know you will.”
“To be sure I will, Ada. To be sure, my dear one! I will help gladly. Has the poor, sorrowful woman no husband to comfort her in this extremity?”
“She says he is dead. Her history is a little out of the common. She is an English woman and was a public singer. The name she is known by is Mademoiselle Denasia––but that, of course, is not her real name.”
A quick, sharp cry broke from Roland’s lips. He was grey as ashes. He trembled visibly and stood up, though his emotion compelled him instantly to reseat himself. He was on the point of losing consciousness. Mr. Lanhearne and Ada looked at him with anxiety, and Mr. Lanhearne went to his side.
“I am better,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I knew––I knew this poor woman! I told you I was 261 once on the road with a company. She was in it. Her husband was a brute––a mean, selfish, cowardly brute––he ought to be dead. I should like to help her––to see her––what is the street? the number? Excuse me––I was shocked!”
“I see, Mr. Tresham,” answered Ada, kindly. She had some ivory tablets by her side, and she looked at them and said, “It is a very long way––One Hundred and Seventieth Street––here is the address. I shall be glad if you can do anything to help. I am sure she is worthy––she has had good parents and been taught to pray.”
“My dear Ada,” said Mr. Lanhearne, “sorrow forces men and women down upon their knees; even dumb beasts in their extremity cry unto God, and He heareth them. And as for being worthy of help––if worthiness were the condition, which of us durst pray for consolation in the hour of our trouble? God has a nobler scale. He sends his rain upon the just and the unjust, and He never yet asked a suppliant, ‘Whose son art thou?’”