“It was the child of a poor, friendless and destitute young widow, who died of consumption here about two weeks ago. Oh, I must tell you all about that poor woman and her child, and what an angel of mercy Miss Fronde was to them.”
Hanson assented, not because he was in the very least degree interested in the objects of Roma’s benevolence, but because in hearing them he should hear more of her.
“They occupied a room in the rear of this upper floor—one of the cheapest rooms in the building. There are no registers up as high as this. You see, sir. I have an open grate.”
“Well, it is pleasanter,” said Hanson.
“Yes, sir, but in those little rooms there were no such things; only little iron stoves, that mostly smoked, being so near the roof. Even for this poor room she could scarcely pay the rent, and only managed to do it by half starving herself, living on bread and tea. Fancy a young woman in consumption living in such a way as that!”
“Very sad,” said Hanson.
“I really do not know what would have become of her if Miss Fronde had not found her out. She took her out of that cold, smoky room, and brought her downstairs to her own luxurious apartments, and made her comfortable there. Miss Fronde had the finest suit of rooms in the building. And then she came to me to see if she could engage commodious rooms for the sick woman and child; but it was in the thick of the season, and there was not a vacant bed, not to say room, in the whole house; and I told her so, and advised her to send the young woman to the Providence Hospital and the child to the orphan asylum. And what do you think she answered me?”
“I am sure I don’t know. Something quixotic, no doubt.”
“She said—that angel did—‘The dying mother and her child are devotedly attached to each other. It would be cruel to separate them now, and it would probably hasten the death of the young woman. Besides, they both cling to me, as to their only friend, in a manner that is very pathetic.’”
“The instinct of self-preservation,” said Hanson curtly.