From the Improvement Era, May 1922 –

The Heart of the Little Old Lady

By Everett Spring

The jailor stepped into the superintendent’s office.

“It’s the little old lady,” said he. “Shall I let her into the cell where Mary Dubonnet is confined?”

The superintendent mused awhile.

“Well, yes, Jackson, I suppose you may; for I hardly think anybody could be rude to her.”

The man bowed and withdrew, and then the superintendent of the prison turned to his visitor, the Reverend Robert Briscoe, the great philanthropist, known everywhere for his good works, and said:

“It’s a little old lady who visits all the prisons, going among the prisoners and doing a great deal of good even to us. She has permission, somehow or other, to come here; and she really has made progress in her work.”

The minister smiled.

“How does she go about it?” he asked.

“Why, she always has a little basket with her, and what do you suppose is in it? Combs, and brushes, and perfume.”

“Perfume?”

“Yes. The old lady says that a woman is never so bad, but she may be made better by the present of a clean handkerchief nicely scented; and she really is not far wrong, if you could see how all the women treat her. There she goes with Jackson. See her?”

And the minister came to the door, but he only saw the back of the old lady as she went up the passage at the side of the jailor, who stopped at a cell, unlocked the door, threw it open, admitted his companion, and locked her in.

This is what the minister saw. But this what the little old lady experienced:

“What do you want?” asked the angry voice of the inmate of the cell.

“My dear, I’ve come to see you,” said the visitor.

“I don’t want you. Go somewhere else; I want to rest.”

“That’s right. Rest awhile. I’m in no hurry, and I’ll sit here and rest, too,” said the old lady.

Out of sheer amazement the prisoner turned and looked at the speaker. She saw the neat little figure, the pleasant old face with its kind eyes, and the little basket on her arm.

“Who are you?” she asked gruffly.

“Oh, I’m only the old woman who comes to see poor people. Who are you?”

“I’m Mary Dubonnet. What do you want with me?”

“First, I’ll call you Mary, because, maybe, there was some one you once liked who used to call you so.”

“Don’t try to convert me in that way,” was the angry reply. “Out with your Sunday school tracts, and go.”

“These are my Sunday school tracts, Mary,” was the mild reply. “A brush, and a comb; and see, here’s a new handkerchief, and they are all for you. Now, may I stay?”

“Oh, I don’t care; I don’t want the things. What is it to me if my hair is over my eyes, or if I’m an object to look at? Nobody would like to see me different. Do you know why I’m here? Well, they say I’m a thief.”

“They once said I was, too, Mary,” rejoined the old lady, quietly.

“You!” repeated the woman, looking at her.

“Yes, Mary, long, long ago. But I was as innocent as you are.”

“As I am? How do you know I’m innocent? Who’ll prove that I’m innocent? Where can I get a lawyer to plead for me?”

The old lady came up to her, put the hair from her wild face, held on to both her arms, and spoke sadly:

“You’ve been a pretty girl, Mary. You’ve been good, and loving, and true; but there have been those who have deceived you. Don’t you mind how harsh the world seems, for it is only harsh to those who make it so. I’ve found that out, but it took me a long while. Try to remember the old times, my dear; the old times when you were a happy, careless girl, and dearly loved by somebody.”

It was remarkable how the old voice and words affected the girl. Her head fell on the old lady’s breast, and she looked dreary enough, till all at once she sprang up, cast the old lady off, and stood defiantly confronting her.

“I am as I am,” she cried. “You come too late with all this. What do I care if you were called a thief? It can’t interest me.”

The visitor sat down on the bench, folded her hands across the basket, and was quiet; and the girl looked down at her from where she was standing by the grating, and saw that the old cheeks were wet with tears.

“What are you crying for?” she asked, mockingly.

“For you, Mary,” said the old lady, rising and going to her. My dear, I’m very old; and I’ve been amongst the poor people within these walls for many years, till they’ve got to quite like me; and some of them, when they left under happier circumstances, have cried while they shook hands with me, for they said mine was the only smile they had seen while they were here. But I can’t give you a smile, Mary, but only tears.”

“Why do you bother me, then?” asked the girl, pettishly. “God knows I’ve had enough of tears; and yours, though meant in kindness, can do little good.”

But the old lady had been used to these ways for a long time, so she simply put down the articles she had brought with her, and was going away.

“Won’t you shake hands and be friendly?” she turned and asked, however.

The girl half laughing, put out her hand; but when she felt it stroked by the old lady she burst into tears and let it remain.

Then the old arms urged her to the little seat, forced her down, and rested her head on the motherly breast of the visitor. The girl at this burst into tears, crying as she had not cried for many a day. The old lady, still holding her hand, let her weep.

Jackson, the jailor, put his head in.

“Time’s up, ma’am,” he called. And then the old lady rose, and still holding the hand, said:

“Goodby, my dear. Expect me tomorrow at this time.”

With these words she went out, and the girl was alone.

Outside the gates the little old lady turned and nodded to the jailor.

“Pleasant day, Jackson, isn’t it?” she said. And the man smiled as he greeted her.

The quaint figure next took her way down the sunny streets, filled with the spring air, that bathed country and town alike, towards the business portion of the town, and entered a lawyer’s office.

“Good morning, Mrs. Richards,” said the lawyer. “Another case, Mrs. Richards?”

“Another case, Mr. Knight.”

“Murder, arson, theft, or what?”

“Theft, sir,” she said gravely.

“Acknowledged?”

“Denied.”

“Think the party’s innocent?”

“Yes.”

“Male or female?”

“Female,”

“Name?”

“Mary Dubonnet.”

“When does the case come on?”

“I’ll find out and tell you tomorrow all about it,” she replied. “And now I’ve prepared you, I’ll go. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Richards,” he replied, and handed her out.

Then she goes through the business portion of the street again, looked at and greeted with many a smile at her old-fashioned, kind-looking little figure, and so to her home.

The next day at the same hour she presents herself at the prison, is admitted, and goes to the superintendent’s room with a bunch of flowers.

“I’ve brought you some of these, sir, for you really are so very kind to me,” she said, separating the flowers.

He speaks to her, thanks her, and asks her whom the other flowers are for.

“Mary Dubonnet,” she replied.

Then the superintendent speaks.

“I was telling a gentleman yesterday about the wonders you do here, Mrs. Richards, and he himself is a philanthropist.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” she says. “I’m not that, indeed, but you are very kind to say so.”

She bows, and goes to the cell. This time the prisoner is almost glad to see her, though she is abashed. But the old lady puts her at her ease in a moment.

“Now, you must tell me every bit of your story,” she says, “and we’ll see what can be done.”

Little by little, the old lady draws out the weary recital, so stale in the annals of the court. She hears the tale of a downfall of a girl, beguiled from a good and loving home, deceived, and so on, for several years, till every vestige of the pure, innocent child is lost in the guilty woman who is now accused of theft by the miserable creatures with whom she has lived. Often broken by shame, often interrupted by the little old lady, at last the story is done. Then the girl says:

“I have told you this, but I don’t think it will help me at all.”

“Mary, I go from here to my lawyer’s. Do you know I keep a lawyer on purpose to defend my children?”

“Your children?”

“Yes. I call all within these walls my children. When a new one is borne here, heavy with sorrow and shame, and perhaps guilt, I go to that one. I ask the story of the sorrow, or shame, and if, like you, they are friendless, I go to my lawyer’s — a fine man my dear — and I lay the case before him. I say to him: you learned your profession in order to straighten out the tangles of society. Now, here’s a tangle at the extreme end of the pretty thread. Get it out, and show me it, smooth and straight. Rather poetical, isn’t it? But Mr. Knight isn’t at all poetical. Why, he’s been married four times; and there is not much poetry in a man when he has four graves in a row, and four white tombstones all reading the same — wife of Andrew Knight — is there? However, he’s a fine man. He laughed at me the first time I went to him, and he said I was wasting my income; but I stood up before him. Mr. Knight, I said. I’m an old woman; but years and years ago I had sorrow and shame, and there was no one to help me; so now that I have had some money left me by my aunt, I have made up my mind to spend it, to the very last penny, on those who are as wrongfully ac- cused, as I was then, and who are quite as friendless. My dear, the man actually jumped up and shook my hand, and I really thought he had an idea of making me an offer on the spot; but I suppose he thought that five tombstones would be a little too much. So he only told me I was admirable — yes, that’s it, admirable — and ever since then he has done just as I wish him to, and his charges are very reasonable, although he’s so high in his profession. So now I shall go to him from here. I shall tell him all that you have told me; and you’ll have someone to defend you after all.”

Then the girl’s trembling lips said:

“May God bless you.”

Again the old lady went tirelessly down the corridor, stopping every now and then to ask about a prisoner, tapping at the wicket of a cell to say something to the inmate, and so off she goes to her lawyer.

Prison discipline has attracted much attention of late years from society, so that philanthropists have sprung up at every corner. There are lengthy and erudite articles written, and then printed in papers and magazines; there are meetings for and against any change in the mode of carrying on incarceration for crime; and the prisoners have the benefit of seeing many strangers who come to look into things, while the things themselves go on as usual.

The Reverend Robert Briscoe, the best of his kind, was noted for the interest which he took in the management of prisoners. He talked with the prisoners as a man to man, as a good man to women.

That same day he also goes the rounds of the prison; he also was admitted to the cells where those awaiting trial are confined. He sees and speaks to many, and at last he comes to the cell of Mary Dubonnet. He has it opened for him; but a fearful cry meets him as he enters, and the woman crouches in the corner, hiding her face in her hands.

He touched her pityingly on the shoulder, but she writhes away from him. He says kind words to her, but she cries aloud for him to leave her, and the jailer thinks its best; so the minister, sighing, goes out.

That night, they said, the girl sobbed for hours; that she beat against the iron of her cell, screaming that she must be taken away from there. So, when the little old lady comes the next morning, the superintendent tells her how unruly her new protege has been, and advises her to be careful; that these women are not to be trusted.

With a sorrowful face the little old lady heard him, but goes to the cell. There she sees the girl, white and weak, lying down.

“Mary, are you ill? she asks.

“Oh, no-no!” she bursts out crying; “but take me away — take me away!”

“There, there! Only a little longer, for Mr. Knight thinks he can clear you, Mary; and your story proves your innocence, and he is busy hunting up evidence.”

“But I cannot stay here; I shall die,” moaned the girl.

The old lady kneels down beside her.

“Tell me what has made this change in you since yesterday,” she says, “for I left you calm and hopeful.”

The girl only moaned and did not speak.

“Has anything happened?”

No answer.

“Has anyone been here to alarm you?”

“Oh, yes-yes! You know I told you, in the poor story of my life that I had a pure, good home once. You can imagine that, in such a case, I should change my name after I had left it.”

“Then you are not Mary Dubonnet?”

“No. And my father is a minister, and he was here yesterday; and I shall die! I shall die! for he spoke to me kindly, not knowing who I was. He spoke to me and touched me, when, if he knew all, he would have spurned and cursed me!”

And in a paroxysm of grief she flung up her hands.

The old lady, still kneeling beside her looked at her long and fixedly.

“Did your father turn you from home?” she asked.

“Oh, no-no! He sought me out, but I hid away from him, and when he was nearly finding me one cold winter’s night, rather than meet him I fled through the streets in terror. I fled through the blinding snow to the churchyard, and hid myself behind my mother’s gravestone. I did — I did — for I knew, of all places in the world, they would not seek me there.”

“Poor child! Poor child!” whispered the old lady, but had no other words to say. She could see the wild grief of the girl, and her repulsion for the sinfulness which she had lived in all these years. She could see that, when the awfulness of her guilt had burst on Mary, when she was new to it, she fled from the kind father who sought her, not because she feared his anger but his forgiveness; and stricken with terror, even then at the magnitude of her fall, the old feeling had come to her now, when she was no longer young, and when years of downfall could not obliterate the terrible whiteness of her father’s forgiving heart.

There, in the narrow prison cell, the little old lady listened to the girl — listened to the self-accusations to the words of revengeful memory, that came now from the glorious heights down to the depths of despair — listened to, and saw a new phase in the life that she had undertaken to make better.

The keeper came to warn the little old lady that it was time for her to go; but she motioned him away, and he left, and told the superintendent.

“Let her remain,” said that official, “for another half hour.”

And when that half hour was up, the little old lady walked quietly out, wiping her eyes.

“Jackson,” she said to the keeper, “you are very kind to me, so you’ll excuse me for giving you extra trouble. How are your wife and children, Jackson?”

And Jackson, good-natured, instantly answered her, and thought her, as usual, a fine old woman.

And she — she walked into the superintendent’s office.

“Mrs. Richards, what can I do for you?” he asked.

“Sir, will you be good enough to look in the book where you register the names of prisoners, and tell me something?”

“Certainly, ma’am. What year?”

“Look for 1870. That’s long before your time. December 24th, the day before Christmas.”

Reaching down a dusty volume, he goes over its index, finds the page, reads several names, and at last says:

“Helen Sanford — theft. Sentenced to two years. Afterwards proved innocent and liberated after being confined six months.”

“That’s it!” she says. “Let me see it. Helen Sanford, 1870. That’s a long time ago, sir.”

“Yes, indeed. She must be an old woman now, if she’s living.”

“Yes; she must be an old woman now.”

“Anything else, Mrs. Richards?”

“Eh? Oh, dear, no! Thank you, sir. I forgot myself — I was thinking. Ah, yes! There is something else, and import- ant, too. Mary Dubonnet is to be tried tomorrow. May I come here a little early, so that I can make her look neat and tidy? You know I think she’s innocent, and I should like her to impress the jury favorably.”

“Oh, yes, you can come early,” he said, smiling.

Early the next morning, accordingly, she was at the prison, and when Mary came out, she was by her side, her arm in the girl’s.

“Mary,” she said, “I shan’t be able to get very near you, but look straight across the court, and you’ll be sure to see me. And after it’s all over I’ll be with you. Goodby till then!”

“But they may not find me innocent.”

“Pshaw, child! Mr. Knight is to be trusted, and he says they will acquit you.”

The little old lady gained the spectator’s seats, and looked around. There was Mary Dubonnet, cowed and frightened, but neat and womanly; and there was the redoubtable Knight, talking to her with a confident air.

At last the trial of Mary Dubonnet for larceny was called, and then the little old lady watched intently. She saw the jury, and devoured them with her looks. One of them seemed tired, and she vowed that man was a cross husband. She looked at her lawyer, and was satisfied, till an array of witnesses, low-looking people enough, stood up and swore to the girl’s guilt; and the main witness — the woman with whom Mary Dubonnet had lodged — in the most shameless manner swore to falsehoods, till the little old lady was beside herself with indignation, and fear for her lawyer’s powers.

But that learned man flurried the principal witness; he asked her such out-of-the-way questions; he confused her, angered her, proved her tale to be quite the opposite to the way she had told it, and then he called witnesses for the defense, argued long and noisily, but acutely; gained the attention of the court, roused the jury by a joke or two, and at last Mary Dubonnet was declared innocent, and had swooned, with her head leaning on the railing of the dock.

“Remove that woman?” said the judge.

And somebody cried, “There’s two of her!”

For the little old lady had, somehow or other, during the confusion, forced herself in among the attorneys, and was over
in the dock holding the unconscious girl by the waist.

Both her and her charge were led into a back room; and while she held a glass of water to Mary Dubonnet’s lips, she shook Mr. Knight by the hand.

Then she took the girl’s arm in hers.

“Come,” she said.

“Where?” asked the girl. “I have no place to go to.”

“No place to go to? You’re to come to my house at once.”

Tears were falling from the girl’s eyes, and weak as a child, they led her forth.

Had anyone looked in at the window of the little old lady’s home that night, they would have seen this:

The girl, proved guiltless only that morning, lay in the bed, not sleeping, but sadly weary, utterly changed from yesterday — weak and despondent, but sad and repentant — and they would have seen the little old lady, her bonnet on, stoop down and kiss the girl’s lips.

“And now, Mary, I’m going out for a little while,” she said, “and I’ll lock you in. The last time you’ll ever be locked in in this world — eh? Yes, now smile and go to sleep, and I’ll return soon.”

And they would have seen her lower the gas, and come out of the house and go rapidly up the street. They would have seen her stand before the door of the house where the Reverend Robert Briscoe lived and ring the bell and go in.

Then she passes into the pleasantly lit library, where the minister is sitting. He rises as she advances and says:

“Good evening, madam. Do you wish to see me?”

The little old lady, weak for once in her life, holds on to the back of a chair, and looking at him strangely does not say a word.

Mr. Briscoe repeats his question; and then the little old lady abruptly goes to him, falls in front of him on her knees, raises her face towards him and cries out:

“Oh! don’t you know me? Don’t you know me? Have all these years made such a change in me? Look closer — look closer and past these wrinkles and the signs of toil, see me as I was so long ago.”

He starts from her.

“Do you come from the grave, Helen Sanford?”

“No, not from the grave!” she cries, still kneeling, “but from the dead past. I am the woman who went from you years ago, accused of crime, but innocent as you know I was. I am the woman who was to have married you, but that my disgrace turned you from me. Oh! believe me that I do not come here to tell you this on my own account — believe me that I have buried those old times — believe me that I never meant to act in this way tonight; but the sight of you, after all these years strangely moved me. But I came for a better purpose than to speak of myself.”

He went to her.

“Whatever you came for, Helen, your place is not on the ground. You have raised me up to the position I occupy. The knowledge of your disgrace, though it veiled you, made me aspire to be a good man — to go everywhere where temptation was strong — for at that time I thought you guilty. I, a poor boy at a store, knowing you, a poor girl also employed there, learning to love you for all the little goodnesses, the kindnesses you ever did me, hear that you are accused of theft by our employers. Crazed and wild I would willingly share your disgrace, and impulsively lie — swear that I helped you to steal — thereby not only accusing myself but making you guilty, though you may be innocent. But my frenzied talk is not believed, and I see you dragged away from me. I am ill for a long time, and recovered to be told that you had been convicted. Weak and changed, I know what a terrible crime you are accused of; how weak I am to afford you any help; that you will never see me again, for I know your spirit so well, and that it will not bear disgrace. So I go away to another city — study, and become a minister of the gospel — all through you; for in those times you were so much to me!”

And he stood there old and shaken.

“Yes, I know,” she spoke, “and I thought of everything; so we must put all that time out of our lives, Robert, for I am an old woman, you are an old man, and we have now to live only for the good we can do to others. I came from Mary Dubonnet, the girl whom you tried to see in prison ; you must recollect her.”

“What! Are you the little old woman who was with her so much?” he asked quickly.

“I am the little old woman,” she replied, “and Mary Dubonnet was declared innocent this morning.”

“And through you, I know,” he said gently, “for I have heard as much.”

“No; through Mr. Knight,” she said.

“And you came here to see me about this, Helen? It is kind, and I would do anything in the world for the poor girl. Has she no friends?”

“What friends could a girl have who has been in prison?” she asked.

“You answer me cruelly, Helen,” he replied sadly.

“Not cruelly and not quite truthfully; for I am her friend.”

“That is a good answer.”

“And if you are willing to help me, you will come to my house where she is staying.”

“Did you take her to your house?”

“Would you have me take her to yours?”

Then, noticing that he looked strangely at her, she added:

“Forgive me.” I forget that I am talking to you. I forget that I am Helen Sanford for I am better known as the little old lady.”

“Are you married?”

“You should have known me better than to ask that.”

“You are not?”

“No. Now if you will come with me, get ready; for I am so excited — so nervous and weak — that I don’t know how I shall get through this trying day and night.”

He put on his hat and gloves and, giving her his arm, they went out.

What may have been her thoughts as she once more paced the streets, with her hand resting on his arm, his old, well-known presence shielding her, no one knew ; but neither of them spoke — neither noticed that the other was quiet — and so they came to her house.

She ushered him into the homely little sitting room, then took off her bonnet, and he looked about him.

“Where is the girl? You told me she was here,” he said.

“She is upstairs in my bed,” she answered.

“In your bed?”

“Yes,” she said; and then asking him to be seated, she took a chair in front of him, held up her hand and continued: “Robert, I want you to tell me of your married life. Had you a happy one?”

“Yes. Thank God, a happy one!” he said.

“And your wife left you a child?”

“How do you know that,” he asked, startled.

“You must answer me, Robert. I have a purpose.”

“I will answer you. She did.”

“You have not seen her for a long time?”

“God help her.” You do know my story, Helen, and it is not like you to grieve me so. You know that my poor girl was betrayed; that I hunted everywhere for her; that I was willing and yearning to take her back, to lead her erring footsteps into newer paths, to love her for never having known the care of a mother, for my wife died when our child was a baby; and, oh, I believe that child to be dead!”

“No, you must not believe that, Robert,” said the little old lady.

“What! You know she is alive? Tell me!”

“First tell me, if you should find her, would you still show her tenderness and love, and more than usual, for she has been without them so long?”

“God knows I would!”

“Would you say no words of old times, of her guilt, her sorrow, and her shame; no word that should ever make her think that you remembered the time that you could not find her?”

“Do you know my calling, Helen? Can you ask me that, while my eyes are wet with tears of loving compassion?”

She wiped her own eyes and went on : “Would you take her away from here to a place where she is unknown, and where she may never be known but as a good, pure woman?”

“Oh, I will, for I sail in a week as a missionary, and she shall accompany me.”

“Then, Robert Briscoe, Mary Dubonnet is your daughter.”

“Helen!” he cried, and pressed his hand to his head.

She went to him and spoke slowly: “Robert, she told me this one day in her cell. She told me that you had come to her in the prison; that you spoke to her, touched her kindly; but that she shrank from you, and you did not see her face.”

“Take me to her,” he said calmly.

“Not in that way,” she said, “not in that way. You must go to her as I love to think Christ went to the Magdalen.”

“How?”

“With tears in your eyes so that she may see them, and know that they wash out everything but love and trust and pity.”

Then he took her hand.

“Helen, God bless you.” You teach me in the lovely ways of true womanhood.” And she looked at him and motioned him to follow her.

Up the little stairs they went into the dim chamber, and there on the bed lay the daughter. He tottered across the room, and kneeling beside the bed, put his arms around her. She awoke and saw the little old lady.

“Where am I?” she asked, frightened.

“With those who love you,” answered the pleasant voice.

She started up crying: “‘Who is this man?”

“Your father,” said the little old lady, and she heard a glad, startled cry; she saw the poor deluded girl in the clasp of her father, and she fell on her knees and raised her hands above her head, crying out: “Oh, Father in heaven! Oh, Father in heaven! Our lives are not in vain!”

As she spoke, the first streak of the morning light struggled in at the window.

Then, when it was later in the day, and the father and daughter were still there, she put breakfast things out for them, put on her bonnet, and when they looked at her questioningly, she said:

“I am going to the prison, to my children. They must not think I have neglected them,” and took up her little basket and went out.

A week later she stood on board the ship that took the minister and his daughter away. The girl hung around her neck, blessing and kissing her, and when the father said a “Farewell!” to her, he added:

“I have so much to remember, Helen, and will hope to meet you again when all is over.”

“Yes,” she said gently, “Robert, all will be well someday. You are going many miles away; take care of Mary — love her, teach her about her mother in heaven, and sometimes pray for me.”

“Helen, my life has been one prayer for you. And now where do you go?”

She pointed in the direction of the prison.

The whistle blew, the bell rang, and she stood on the wharf watching the stately ship sail far, far away; and she saw the minister holding his daughter with one arm, and waving the other towards her; and the daughter, weeping, pointed up to heaven. And with her hands clasped over her little basket her quaint figure lonely among the many there, the watcher fol- lowed with her eyes the foam the ship made in going away, and someone suddenly asked:

“Who was that woman sobbing so hard?”

And another added:

“It is the little old lady of the prison,” and watched her as she went up the street; for the ship was out of sight.