A Red Wallflower

'Perhaps not.'

'But, Pitt, what do you mean? and what is this you want to show her which she does not want to see?'

'She can tell you all about it afterwards, if she chooses.'

'Perhaps she will not choose to go with you on such a doubtful invitation.'

Betty, however, declared herself ready for anything. So she was, under such guidance.

They took a cab for a certain distance; then Pitt dismissed it, and they went forward on foot. It was a dull, hot day; clouds hanging low and threatening rain, but no rain falling as yet. Rain, if decided, to a good degree keeps down exhalations in the streets of a city, and so far is a help to the wayfarer who is at all particular about the air he breathes. No such beneficent influence was abroad to-day; and Betty's impressions were not altogether agreeable.

'What part of the city is this?' she asked.

'Not a bad part at all. In fact, we are near a very fashionable quarter. This particular street is a business thoroughfare, as you see.'

Betty was silent, and they went on a while; then turned sharp out of this thoroughfare into a narrow alley. It was hot and close and dank enough here to make Miss Frere shrink, though she would not betray it. But dead cats and decaying cabbage leaves, in a not very clean alley, where the sun rarely shines, and briefly then, with the thermometer well up, on a summer day, altogether make an atmosphere not suited to delicate senses. Pitt picked the way along the narrow passage, which at the end opened into a little court. This was somewhat cleaner than the alley; also it lay so that the sun sometimes visited it, though here too his visits could be but brief, for on the opposite side the court was shut in and overshadowed by the tall backs of great houses. They seemed, to Betty's fancy, to cast as much moral as physical shadow over the place. The houses in this court were small and dingy. If one looked straight up, there was a space of grey cloud visible; some days it would no doubt be a space of blue sky. No other thing even dimly suggesting refreshment or purity was within the range of vision. Pitt slowly paced along the row of houses.

'Who lives here?' Betty asked, partly to relieve the oppression that was creeping upon her.

'No householders, that I know of. People who live in one room, or perhaps in two rooms; therefore in every house there are a number of families. This is Martin's court. And here,' – he stopped before one of the doors, – 'in this house, in a room on the third floor – let me suppose a case' —

'Third floor? why, there are only two stories.'

'In the garret, then, – there lives an old woman, over seventy years old, all alone. She has been ill for a long time, and suffers a great deal of pain.'

'Who takes care of her?' Betty asked, wondering at the same time why

Pitt told her all this.

'She has no means to pay anybody to take care of her.'

'But how does she live?– if she cannot do anything for herself.'

'She can do nothing at all for herself. She has been dependent on the kindness of her neighbours. They are poor, too, and have their hands full; still, from time to time one and another would look in upon her, light a fire for her, and give her something to eat; that is, when they did not forget it.'

'And what if they did forget it?'

'Then she must wait till somebody remembered; wait perhaps days, to get her bed made; lie alone in her pain all day, except for those rare visits; and even have to hire a boy with a penny to bring her a pitcher of water; lie alone all night and wait in the morning till somebody could give her her breakfast.'

'Why do you tell me all this, Mr. Pitt?' said Betty, facing round on him.

'Ask me that by and by. Come a little farther. Here, in this next house but one, there is a man sick with rheumatism – in a fever; when I first saw him he was lying there shivering and in great pain, with no fire; and his daughter, a girl of perhaps a dozen years old, was trying to light a fire with a few splinters of sticks that she had picked up. That was last winter, in cold weather. They were poverty-stricken, since the man had been some time out of work.'

'Well?' said Betty. 'I must not repeat my question, but what is all this to me? I have no power to help them. Do you know these people yourself?'

'Yes, I know them. In the last house of the row there is another old woman I want to tell you of; and then we will go. She is not ill, nor disabled; she is only very old and quite alone. She is not unhappy either, for she is a true old Christian. But think of this: in the room which she occupies, which is half underground, there is just one hour in the day when a sunbeam can find entrance. For that hour she watches; and when the sky is not clouded, and it comes, she takes her Bible and holds it in the sunshine to read for that blessed hour. It is all she has in the twenty-four. The rest of the time she must only think of what she has read; the place is too dark for any more.'

'Do let us go!' said Betty; and she turned, and almost fled back to the alley, and through the alley back to the street. There they walked more moderately a space of some rods before she found breath and words. She faced round on her conductor again.

'Why do you take me to such a place, and tell me such things?'

'Will you let that question still rest a little while?' Almost as he spoke Pitt called another cab, and Betty and he were presently speeding on again, whither she knew not. It was a good time to talk, and she repeated her question.

'Instead of answering you, I would like to put a question on my side,' he returned. 'What do you think is duty, on the part of a servant of Christ, towards such cases?'

'Pray tell me, is there not some system of poor relief in this place?'

'Yes, there is the parish help. And sorrowful help it is! The parishes are often very large, the sufferers very many, the cases of fraud and trickery almost – perhaps quite – as numerous as those at least which come to the notice of the parish authorities. The parish authorities are but average men; is it wonderful if they are hard administrators? I can tell you, justice is bitterly hard, as she walks the streets here; and mercy's hand has grown rough with friction!'

Betty looked at the speaker, whose brow was knit and his eye darkened and flashing; she half laughed.

'You are eloquent,' she said. 'You ought to be representing the case on the floor of the House of Commons.'

'Well,' he said, coming down to an easier tone, 'the parish authorities are but men, as I said, and they grow suspicious, naturally; and in any case the relief they give is utterly insufficient. A shilling a week, or two shillings a week, – what would they do for the people I have been telling you of? And it is hard dealing with the parish authorities. I know it, for here and there at least I have followed Job's example; "the cause I knew not, I searched out." One must do that, or one runs the risk of being taken in, and throwing money away upon rogues which ought to go to help honest people.'

'But that takes time?'

'Yes.'

'A great deal of time, if it is to be done often.'

'Yes.'

'Mr. Pitt, if you follow out that sort of business, it would leave you time for nothing else.'

'What better can I do with my time?'

'Just suppose everybody did the like!'

'Suppose they did.'

'What would be the state of things?'

'I should say, the world would be in a better state of health; and that elephant we once spoke of would not shake his head quite so often.'

'But you are not the elephant, as I pointed out, if I remember; the world does not rest on your head.'

'Part of it does. Go on and answer my question. What ought I to do for these people of whom I have told you?'

'But you cannot reach everybody. You can reach only a few.'

'Yes. For those few, what ought I to do?'

'I daresay you know of other cases, that you have not said anything about, equally miserable?'

'More miserable, I assure you,' said Pitt, looking at her. 'What then? Answer my question, like a good woman.'

'I am not a good woman.'