and feeble voice, but she heard it through the passion of her talk, and, turning, saw on the threshold an old man, who stood trembling, hat in hand, and leaning against the side of the door for support. He had followed Mr. Vane home from the chapel to beg for alms, but had not been able to reach or make him hear or understand before the door was shut. He was going painfully away again, when it was flung open by the Signora.
She went to him with her hands outstretched. “Enter, in the name of the Lord,” she said joyfully, and led him to a chair. Kind as she was invariably to the poor, this one she looked on as almost a miraculous guest. He had come at the very moment when her heart was breaking to do some active good, as if her wish had called him, or as if the Lord she compassionated had taken his form to prove her.
Never was a beggar more welcomed, more tenderly questioned as to his needs. He was fed as, probably, he had never been fed before; for the Signora gave him of what had been prepared for her own table, and served him like an honored guest.
He was pleased, but did not seem to be either surprised or embarrassed. He ate and drank rather lightly, and, without being bidden, put in a leathern pocket he wore what was left of the food. There was no air of greediness in the act, but rather an intimation that no one would think of eating what he had left, and that what had been offered him must not be wasted. When Mr. Vane gave him some decent clothing in place of his faded rags, he was grateful, but by no means elated. How he looked was to him a matter of the smallest possible consequence. He could feel hunger,
thirst, and cold, but pride or vanity he knew not. His body, ugly, emaciated, and diseased, obtained from him no attention, except when it could obscure and torment his mind with its own torments. He never thought for it, but waited till it called. When the sisters gave him money, he looked at them earnestly, with his dim and watery eyes, and wished that the Madonna might ever accompany them. He did not predict for them riches or happiness, but only that gracious company. When the Signora bade him come to her every day for a loaf of bread and a glass of wine, he thanked her in the same way. Evidently he understood that what he was receiving was a heavenly charity, of which God was the motive and reward, and that he had, personally, nothing to do with it, except as he profited by it. But he had, indeed, more to do with it than he believed; for it was impossible that kind hearts should remain unmoved by the sight of such forlorn poverty and suffering.
They questioned him about his life and circumstances. He was quite alone. One son he had had, who went to some foreign country years before, and had never been heard of since. He supposed that he must have died on the passage or immediately on arriving; for Filippo had promised to write and send for him, or send him money, and nothing but death would have made him break his promise to his father. His wife had died more than ten years before; and he had no one left to care for him. Where was his home? they asked. Well, he slept in the lodgings provided by the city, because they did not allow people to sleep in the street. He used to sleep on one of the steps of the church of Ara Cœli and he
liked it better, for he could go off by himself. Still, the government gave them straw to sleep on, and that was something. It was rather cold on the steps, even in summer.
“But where do you go in the daytime?” they pursued, finding the idea of no house or home of any description a hard one to take in.
He went into churches sometimes; at others he sat on a house-step, and stood under the eaves if it rained. He was indeed able to say, “The birds of the air have their nests, and the foxes their holes,” but he had not where to lay his head.
“I cannot listen to any more,” the Signora said. “Do you know, my friends, what seems my duty to do? Well, I will tell you. At this moment it seems to me that I should send you all to a hotel, or to any place you can find, and fill half my rooms with little beds for poor men, and the other half with beds for poor women, and spend all my time and money in taking care of them. Gloves, and a bonnet, and all sorts of luxuries look to me like sins, in the light of this man’s story; and as to having more than one room for myself, it is monstrous. Either pack your trunks at once, or send this fascinating wretch off to sleep on the municipal straw.”