One day I took counsel with the three of them, and we formed a committee of ways and means. To the elder one I said: "What are you going to do to bring a little grist to this mill?" In a sweetly simple manner, and rubbing his hands, he said: "Oh, I read while Charles paints." To the younger one I said: "What are you going to do to help the finances?" "Oh," he said, "I'll write some texts of Scripture on cardboard, and you can sell them for me." It was a quaint sight to see this band of brothers go marketing, to buy their bits of meat, vegetables, etc. I have watched them, too, at their culinary preparations, and noticed that the artist himself washed the plates and dishes, and handled and cooked the food.
Their rooms are now larger, and in much better order. The paintings left by their father are more visible, for the dust and dirt have been removed. They are still living together, and the artist, without any blue ribbon on his coat, is still working away, when he can secure orders. They are quaint specimens of humanity, but I think much of them, for they are kind-hearted and gentle to each other; there are no heart-burnings and bickerings; poverty has not soured their dispositions, and if times are sometimes hard, they make the best of things, and hope that God will give them better days.
None the less, my artist friend has to bear the brunt of it, and when he sells a picture he is more than willing to share his means with his helpless brothers.
One picture I have of his conveys a striking lesson. It is founded upon the old story of the Prodigal Son. A tall, gaunt, weary man, with his sandals worn out, his staff by his side, and his gourd empty, sits upon a piece of rock upon the hill-side looking down into the valley, where he sees his father's house. He is debating within himself whether or not he shall attempt to travel that last mile and reach his old home. The old home looks inviting and the gardens pleasant, and he feels impelled to go thither. Beside him is a huge cactus, and in a tree at the back of him are two vultures waiting to pick his bones.
The failure of a popular financial scheme is often accompanied by disastrous consequences to refined and elderly people.
I have met many who, being ruined by the collapse of such investments, were compelled to resort to that forlorn hope of distressed middle-aged women—some branch of sewing-machine work done at home.
The struggles they make in order to secure the pretence of an existence are often heroic, and their endeavours to maintain an appearance of respectability and comfort are great, almost passing belief.
In the great world of London life and suffering no figures stand out quite so vividly as they do, for no other class of individuals exhibit quite the same qualities of endurance and pathetic heroism.
On arriving home one Saturday I found two women, a mother and her daughter, awaiting me, evidently in great distress. I had known them for some years, and their struggles and difficulties were familiar to me. The husband of the elder woman lay in their little home paralyzed and ill. For years the girl and her mother had supported him and maintained themselves by making children's costumes.
He had been an accountant for many years with an old-established firm, and had saved money, which he invested in the Liberator. Just when the smash came their troubles were intensified by the death of his old employer, and the consequent loss of his employment. A paralytic stroke came upon him, and though he recovered somewhat, he became utterly unfit for any kind of work. They received a little assistance from the Liberator Relief Fund, and while this lasted mother and daughter gave three months' service each, and were taught the children's costume trade. A catastrophe had now overtaken them, hence their visit to me. They had worked incessantly all the week in the hope of finishing some work and getting it to the factory before twelve on Saturday. Friday night found them behindhand. At two o'clock on Saturday morning mother and daughter lay down on their beds without removing their clothes. At five they rose again, and sat down to their machines.