“Just one year ago the husband and father had been brought to this then cheerful home, crushed almost out of the semblance of humanity, by the accidental falling of timbers carelessly piled by his fellow workman. ‘The firm should be held responsible,’ had been a frequent comment by those who knew of the occurrence; but the victim was buried, and soon the matter was forgotten by all except the bereaved family.
“Again it was a case of improvidence; of happy content. The husband and father had lavished his love and his earnings upon his wife and children. They had lived and enjoyed life, without thought of a ‘rainy day,’ and now they were destitute.
“The letter in the girl’s hand shows her a way out. She has but to give her hand in marriage to their landlord, upon every lineament of whose face is written ‘hard, hard.’ But he is rich, and if she would barter her youth and beauty for his hoary head and his money, he would to see to it that a good doctor should be at once provided for the mother and also that the wants of the little ones should be cared for. If no—they owed him six months rent, and on the morrow they would be forced to seek another roof to cover their heads and bodies from the wintry weather. And thus the cold, hard alternative was presented to this inexperienced girl, this rosebud just opening to the sunshine of life, with its dreams of love and happiness—the cold hard alternative of sacrificing herself in a loveless marriage or of seeing her sick mother and young sisters and brothers turned out into the pitiless storm. Stern poverty bade her smother her dream of conjugal bliss on the altar of duty to mother, sisters and brothers.
“Another picture: Again sickness in the abode of poverty. One beautiful sister bending over the dying form of another,—dying for want of care, want of medicine, want of food. A high fever is racking the prostrate form and the despairing sister knows that if the sufferer does not soon receive the needed relief she will be beyond its need. No work—and if she had work she could not leave the sick one, as there is no one else to care for her. Where to get the money to bring relief—aye, to save life!—is the question staring her in the face, awaiting answer.
“There is a way by which the money may be procured, and there is a pain in the look of the well sister that far exceeds that on the features of the unconscious sufferer. It marks every line of the fair face; it settles deep about the compressed lips.
“As the night shadows deepen she grasps a light wrap and throws it over her head. She bends, kisses the burning lips with her own icy ones and with a gasping sigh goes forth into the chill dark night. Not far does she go till she leans against a lamp post, as if for support. The wind blows her scanty skirts about her but she does not heed. The minutes pass by until a half hour has sped, when a man comes along, walking with a rapid step. He is buttoned up to his chin in a great fur-lined overcoat. As he nears her she holds out one cold, stiffening hand, as if asking for charity, but no sound passes her lips. He stops and looks at her. She sees he is young, but the look in his eye makes her flesh creep. She flings the covering from her head, showing a face of exquisite beauty. The act has caused all her wealth of glossy raven hair to fall over her shoulders.
“Ah! she was an exquisite tempting morsel, but what mattered it for her! She was but the child of poverty. When she returned to the bedside of the sick sister, an hour later, there was an unnatural light in the dark eye, a hectic flush on the otherwise pale face. But the trembling hands held gold; she could now procure the sorely needed help for the sufferer.
“And why is all this? Because of man-made laws; because of ‘tyranny of the dead;’ because of the dictates of society; because of the iron rules of state and church; because of helpless poverty in chains of submission to accursed monopoly.
CHAPTER VII.
“Now walk with me a few blocks onward. A different portion of the city is reached. Here are carriages filled with ladies dressed in velvets and furs. Their dainty persons adorned with flashing jewels. They throng the operas, concerts, reception rooms, while faultlessly attired swains hang upon their every word. Their life is one round of seeming pleasure. Daily and nightly emotions, aspirations, good and true and pure, are recklessly trodden under foot. Fair hands are sold while hearts are crushed. The highest bidder is sure to win the stake. They take the yellow gold their fair bodies have bought them and with it deck the casket whose contents are one mass of corruption. The smiling lips hide the starving aching heart.