“If any man said to me to-night, ‘You’re stripped of what you possess; you’re a pauper,’ I would commit suicide,” said Dr. Camperdown.
“Why would you do that?” asked the woman gently.
“Because they’re badly used; that is, the paupers.”
“I should make a distinction between paupers and poor people,” returned Stargarde. “A pauper is a person dependent upon charity. A poor person, or one who is not as well off with regard to this world’s goods as his neighbors, should be one of the happiest and most independent of mortals. When I am coming home these winter evenings I love to look in our Pavilion windows. What could be more cheerful than the neat little kitchen, the small supper table, the blazing fire with the wife and children waiting around it for the father’s return? Those people have no carking care, no worry as to keeping up appearances, no elbowing each other in the mad rush for social distinction. Of course they have worries; they would not be human if they had not; but their very simplicity of life tends to lessen those worries.”
“But they’re neglected, they’re neglected,” said Camperdown irritably. “Look at the children of the rich. Suppose the parent leaves them; a trained servant takes charge. The poor woman goes out; she can’t take her children. Who’s to look after them?”
“A neighbor, an elder child.”
“A neighbor,” repeated Camperdown, in what would have been accents of scorn, had he not remembered he was talking to the woman he so much loved and respected; “a neighbor; and suppose the neighbor a worse rascal than yourself? Leave the respectable poor and take the vicious and criminal classes. Wild beasts look after their own; but suppose the beast is out and the young alone. Who steps in as tender nurse?”
“The city should be a tender nurse to the children of the poor,” responded Stargarde sadly. “There should be public playgrounds and playrooms with trusty women in attendance. What a load of anxiety would be taken from the minds of poor parents who are obliged to go out and work by the day, leaving their children often to doubtful companionship. I have known,” in a low voice, “a humble woman who scrubbed floors and who was not permitted to take her little girl with her. All day long she was racked by anxiety as to whether that child was in good company. She could not lock her up, she could not trust her with any one, for she was in an evil neighborhood.”
“What became of the child?” asked Camperdown, a red and angry light in his eye.
“She is one of the worst girls in the streets of Montreal.”