From the Improvement Era, December 1904 –
Bessie’s Trust
By Henry Nicol Adamson
I.
Glorious Christmas Eve! So the well-fed and well-clad pronounced it; but the poor shivered, and fastened their thin garments tighter around their ill-nourished bodies. Beneath the rays of the noontide sun, the snow-covered roofs of London city glistened and scintillated and thawed, only to be frozen again into myriad fantastically twisted icicles, ere it reached the ground. Night fell, and the great city presented itself in a still more bewitching phase. Crowds of happy, light-hearted folk promenaded the brilliantly illuminated streets, or gazed eagerly into the temptingly decorated shop windows.
In a small room in the Jew-haunted south side of the city lay a man of middle age, with a look of resigned sadness on his pale, worn face. A noble face it was, too. From the broad, high forehead fell back thick masses of hair, once raven-hued, but now plentifully sprinkled with snow. The lower portion of the face was almost concealed by a heavy growth of silky-black beard and mustache. A finely moulded nose, and a pair of soft, hazel eyes completed the outlines of a very striking face. Beside the bed on which he lay, bent a girl whose striking resemblance to the sick man proclaimed her his daughter. Anguish and despair were visible in her face and attitude.
“Poor father! poor father!” she murmured, scarcely above her breath, “I see you dying before my eyes for lack of warmth and nourishment, and I am powerless, powerless!”
Her long, thin fingers twined and clenched frantically. She cast a wild glance around the bare, fireless apartment, whose only visible furniture, besides the inevitable bunker and sink, consisted of a bed-chair, one kitchen chair, and a very small, rickety table. Sickness and poverty had claimed the rest. The girl’s black sailor hat and shabby jacket hung on a nail behind the door, and on these her eyes rested for a moment. Then she pressed her lips upon her father’s sunken cheek, and was turning hastily away when the man’s wasted arm stole from beneath the bed clothing and wound around her neck.
“My dearie, my dearie,” he whispered, drawing her face down upon his own, “you have been an angel of patience and goodness to me. I want for nothing. I am neither cold nor hungry, and you are both, Bessie. And, though it may seem like madness to say it or believe it, there is One above who knows and who will repay in his own good time and his own way. Trust”; him a little longer, pet. Lying here helpless upon this bed of sickness, I seem to feel His presence and protection as I never did in the days of strength and happiness. He has been my one unfailing, unchanging Friend. When the love of my life deserted me at fortune’s frown, he came nearer and closer. But I did not mean to speak harshly of her — your mother, Bessie; she was only twenty, a year younger than you — and — and the temptation was great. She went back to her home and luxury. I had only a cabin and poverty to offer her, and — and I did not blame her. She loved us, Bessie, but she thought she loved wealth more. She was mistaken. Some day his guiding hand will lead her back to us again.”
Bessie hid her face in the pillow, as she listened, and as the father’s tender voice broke in conclusion, and the long pent up tears burst in torrents from her eyes.
“Oh, it is hard; it is hard to think of him as a Friend— a Father,” she moaned bitterly. “All these weary winter months, he has abandoned us, forsaken us.”
“He never forsakes; he only tries.”
A wonderful, radiant tenderness shone from the depths of his sunken eyes, and the weak voice grew strong in its intense faith and earnestness. After a few moments’ solemn silence, Bessie raised her head, dried her hot, tear-stained eyes, and, drawing the scanty covering around him, kissed him reverently, and tenderly bade him try to sleep.
“Are you going out?” he asked anxiously.
“Only for a few moments, father. Do not fear for me; I will trust him a little longer.”
“Heaven bless you, my Bessie,” his pale lips whispered.
“Pray until I come back, my dear, patient saint,” she said, looking back, her hand upon the door.
Twisting a worn, faded muffler around her head and neck, and making a hasty parcel of the shabby hat and jacket, Bessie Ray hurried out. locking the door behind her. As may be surmised, her destination was the pawnbroker’s. She fled rather than walked along the slippery, dirty Welton street. Isaac Moore added to the trade of pawnbroker that of jeweler, and many a costly unredeemed pledge was exposed for sale in his none-too-clean plate glass window. The girl was past the glaring patch of gaslit pavement, in a flash, and up the squalid close in which was the entrance to the pawnbroking department. A tall, square-shouldered gentleman, between thirty and forty, who had been peering through the grime on the glass at a pretty bracelet, was turning away as she passed him. He bestowed but a casual glance upon her, yet it was enough to tell him that the scantily-clad girl was one out of the common. The half frightened, half defiant light in the dark eyes, the pale, pinched cheeks, and, above all, the tell-tale bundle, told that she was acquainted with poverty in its bitterest form. His keen, grey eye took in all, as he turned back to the window and bestowed a more critical scrutiny upon the ornament that had attracted him at first. A sudden “Oh!” and a frantic clutch at the skirt of his coat, made him swing quickly round; a girl was lying at his feet upon the pavement.
“The ice,” he said, stopping to lift her to her feet. “You are not hurt, I hope.”
She raised her face, and he recognized the girl who had passed him a few minutes before- “Not hurt, thank you; but — but—“ the words choked in her throat, and she eagerly scanned the ground about where she had fallen. She opened her clenched left hand; it held just one halfpenny. A couple of grinning, half -naked boys, scampering up the street with backward glances, told her too plainly the fate of the missing coppers. “0 my God! my God!” burst from her lips in a moan of intense agony.
“Have you lost anything?” asked the man, respectfully.
“Lost anything?” she repeated. “I have lost everything,”
with a sudden, dull calm stealing into her voice and manner. Her loss seemed indeed to have turned her to stone. The shawl had fallen from her head, and now curled round the base of a near lamp post. But she seemed not to miss its warmth or disguise.
“Could I help you?” asked the gentleman, with an awkward diffidence, handing her the shawl.
“No,” she said coldly, “I want no help. He has forsaken us; I will trust Him no longer.”
“Who has deceived you?”
“God,” she answered, meeting his eyes blankly, and turning from him.
“Stay,” he said, laying his hand upon her arm; “where are you going?”
“Home,” she answered, shaking off his hand, and darting away from him like a frightened bird.
For a moment he watched the flying form, then, without hesitating, he turned up the dimly-lighted close. A hand-sign pointed out the way to the pledge department. “A girl has been here five minutes ago,” he said to the sleek, round-headed Jew, who answered to the name of Solomon Moore. He was a young man with a not unkind face, yet he was more disliked than his father Isaac.
“Yes,” said Solomon, interrogatively, rubbing his hands.
“A girl with a shawl tied round her head?”
The Jew nodded.
“Who is she?” said the gentleman. “I want her name and address.”
“This is not a directory, nor yet a private detective office,” said the young Jew ironically.
“But I tell you I must have it,” said the stranger quietly.
“What concern is it of yours?” he asked after a little thought, bending forward and looking his questioner keenly in the face.
“She is starving,” cried he impatiently, “starving.”
Once more the round black head nodded.
“Then give me her address, or her father’s, or — — “
“She is a good girl — a lady, if you will.”
“I know,” said the other, “that is why I want to help her.”
“Have you often helped people so?” asked the Jew in his cold, even voice.
“Why, hang it, man, it is Christmas Eve, and — and,” he stopped in confusion, while a deeper bronze seemed to have crept into, his face.
A slow smile played around the Jew’s lips. “Well,” he said, slowly repeating unconsciously the ominous words of long ago “I wash my hands out of the affair. The girl’s name is Bessie Ray. She and her father, Edwin Ray, who is ill, live around in 164 Cumber street, opposite the church. He was once a rich man. He failed. His wife left him, and went to live with her friends. That is all I know about them. Good night!”
The stranger was gone. Beneath a lamp, opposite the church, he paused and wrote a few words on the leaf of his pocket book. Then tearing it out, he rolled within it four sovereigns ($20).
A loud, imperative knocking at the door roused Bessie Ray from the semi-stupor into which hunger and despair had helped to sink her. She rose shiveringly to her feet, and groped her way blindly towards the door. “It is no one, father,” she said, closing and locking the door again. Then the little white packet caught her eye. Mechanically she picked it up. A stifled exclamation of mingled fear and astonishment burst from her lips.
The sick man started up in bed. “What is it, Bessie ? What is it?” There was terror in his weak voice.
“O father, you were right; God has not forsaken us. See what he has sent!” She placed before him the sovereigns, and the leaf which held them. There were only four words written upon the paper, but they were significant — “Still trust, Bessie Ray.”
“Let us thank the Father of the poor,” said the solemn voice of Edwin Ray.
II.
“Come, Waters, take off these slippers; I want you to take a drive with me in your professional capacity. Hurry up. I’m serious.”
George Waters, M. D., carefully surveyed his visitor — who
was none other than he who had acted the part of providence in Welton street that same evening — from between half-closed, sleepy, blue eyes. “Upon my word, Hilton,” he said at length, “you’re a puzzle. What do you want with me in my professional capacity, as you eloquently phrase it? Have you been impersonating Santa Claus this Christmas Eve, or what?”
Hilton cut him short with — “If you don’t or won’t come, I must find another; there’s no time to lose.”
“All right,” returned Waters, half-way up the stairs; “I’ll be with you in a trice.” And he was as good as his word. At the door, a cab was waiting.
“You see, I counted upon your good nature,” said Hilton, following his friend into the conveyance; 164 Cumber street, south side.” With a jerk, the cab started. Waters looked his curiosity, which his friend soon satisfied.
“Ray, Edwin Ray,” mused the doctor aloud. “The name seems familiar. Ha! I have it. Don’t you remember the burning down of the great Dorset carpet weaving concern, something like ten years ago? No; you were abroad at the time, I think. Well, this Edwin Ray, I believe, is the very man who was the head, heart and soul of the thing, and the owner, too — worse luck for him, as it happened. He had risen from the ranks, as the soldiers say. He married the Honorable Blanche something or other, and she showed her blue blood by leaving him in the lurch and fleeing in the wake of his wealth. Ah, what’s this?” as the cab drew up
quickly.
“Lady hurt, sir,” explained the cab man.
In a moment Waters was elbowing his way through the gaping crowd that surrounded the prostrate lady. “Let me pass, please; I’m a doctor.”
“Here’s the doctor! here’s Dr. Waters,” passed from mouth to mouth, and the satisfied crowd dispersed, leaving the doctor alone with the lady, and the policeman who had assisted her to rise. It was more shock than hurt, he soon discovered, and the lady, who seemed of middle age, thanked both graciously and sweetly.
“Can I be any assistance to you, madam?” asked the doctor.
She hesitated, then said: “I am looking for a — a — friend, who used to live about here,” she answered, nervously. “But it is years since I — since I — have seen him. But I am detaining you ; you are going to visit a patient?” looking at the waiting cab and the impatient Hilton.
“Yes; but if you would not mind driving with us, as far as Cumber street, and if you would furnish us with some particulars of the friend you are in search of, we might be able to aid you.”
“Thank you,” she said, “you are very kind to a complete stranger. My name is Ray — Mrs. Ray; I used to live in London, long ago.
Waters’ iron nerve was unshakable; thus, though the simple name sounded like a clap of thunder in his ears, he merely bowed. “This lady,” he said, advancing to Hilton, and fixing on him a warning look, “this lady, Mrs. Ray, will drive with us as far as Cumber street. She wishes to discover a friend, and I promised we would help her.”
Hilton held the door open for her, and clutched Waters’ arm, whispering: “Can it be?” and in answer received a nod of assent.
With something like a sigh, Mrs. Ray leaned back in a corner of the cab, and closed her eyes. A casual observation from the gentlemen alone broke the almost ominous silence. At length, to the relief of Hilton and the doctor, the cab stopped at their destination.
“My patient is here, madam. Will you wait here until we return, or” — “I will wait,” she said.
“Well, Hilton, what do you think of this romance in real life?” said Waters, as they passed up the close.
“Oh, don’t ask me what I think. If it is as you imagine, how in the name of heaven are we to act?”
“Don’t ask me. I never was in a more delicate business in my life. Suppose we must trust to accident to”— “Or to God,” interposed Hilton, reverently.
As they waited at the door for admittance, each occupied with the difficulty of the matter before him, a soft voice spoke close beside them — “Do not think me rude, please, but might I see your patient? I am rich, and, until I find my — my friend, — alone. Perhaps, I could” — an expressive glance around the squalor of the place, revealed by the peep of gas, aptly concluded the sentence. Before either man could reply to her entreaty, the door
was opened by Bessie Ray.
Waters stepped forward, remarking: “I am a doctor; your father is ill; a friend sent me.”
Bessie stared at him in utter bewilderment. “Come in,” she said at length.
The two men entered. The lady hesitated, then followed after them, keeping in the shadow. The poor, bare room had improved wonderfully, within the hour. A glowing fire was in the grate, and instead of the sickly candle, a small lamp shed a soft, mellow radiance, concealing, mercifully, the bareness of the apartment.
Edwin Ray was sleeping. Very gently the doctor lifted the thin, long-fingered hand, that lay outside the coverlet. A slight rustle of silken garments, made him turn with something like a frown upon his face.
Mrs. Ray was on her knees, on the bare floor. For a moment, the doctor gazed upon her. “You have found your friend?” he said, gently laying his hand upon her shoulder.
“I have found my husband!” she answered, taking in hers the wasted hand the doctor still held.
At her soft touch, the sleeping man opened his eyes. “Bessie, Bessie!” the pale lips murmured, with long pent-up tenderness.
At the sound of her name, Bessie hastened from the corner to which she had retired.
“Not you,” said Hilton, “not you,” drawing her gently away and pointing meaningly towards the bed. “You understand, do you not?”
“Yes,” she said simply; “it is my mother,” and she returned to her shadowed corner, with something like a pang of jealousy at her heart.
“Come away, Hilton,” – said Waters, taking his friend’s arm; “we can be of no further use meantime. We will come again, tomorrow. Good night, and a happy Christmas.”
“Good night,” said Hilton. But there was no audible reply.
“Edwin, Edwin!” breathed the kneeling woman. “Am I worthy of your forgiveness?”
“Forgiveness; yes, if you want it; but my heart held nothing holds nothing but love for you, Bessie, my dear, dear wife. I have been waiting all these years for you. I knew you would come.” His fingers closed upon hers and drew her towards him.
She struggled to her feet, and leaned over him with pitying and remorseful eyes, blinded with tears. “Edwin, I am not worthy; I do not deserve your forgiveness.”
“But the tender eyes gazing up into hers looked only undying love. With a sob, she laid her face against his, and in that moment the lips of husband and wife met for the first time in ten years. When she raised her head again, her husband was asleep.
“Bessie,” she called softly, “Bessie.”
“I am here, mother,” her daughter answered, coming forward.
Mother and daughter gazed at each other for one painful minute. “He forgave me,” said the elder woman, pleadingly, “will not you?”
“Mother,” she said, casting all her pride aside, “you will not leave him again. We have been waiting for you so long.”
“Never; never, darling; never, never. Will you not kiss me, Bessie? I will spend my life in trying to atone for my sinful folly.”
* * * * * *
It was Christmas once again. A small party was assembled in a pretty drawing-room, in Fitzroy Square, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Ray; their daughter, Bessie; Frank Hilton, and Dr. Waters and his pretty young wife. Mrs. Ray had just risen from the piano, and was crossing to her husband’s side. Her delicate face, in its frame of snow-white hair, was lovely in its expressive tenderness.
“Bessie,” said Frank Hilton, as he helped her in search of some music, “I love you.” A smile rippled over her face, and trembled about the corners of her mouth. “I love you,” he repeated, as she did not answer. “Did you know?” he asked, looking into her face.
“I believe I did,” she answered softly, returning his gaze.
“And can you say the same?” he asked, eagerly.
“Would you wish me to say it?” was her coy response.
“Bessie, I have known you just a year, and I have loved you; all that time,” he said, his voice husky with emotion.
“Foolish fellow, you could have been better employed.”
“But your answer, Bessie?”
“My answer to what?” playfully.
“Will you be my wife?”
“Yes,” she said, giving him her hand.