# The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man/Chapter XIV

CHAPTER XIV.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE NOT "FORGOT."
Few things are more gratifying to a benevolent person than to know that a charity has proved effective; and to the Aikins, to whom charities were luxuries which their straitened circumstances forbade them often to indulge in, it was a happiness hardly to be estimated by those who have it in their power to give away every day. Little Juliet had appeared from the first a gentle-tempered, loving, and interesting child; but nothing could be more desultory than her habits, nor more discouraging than her condition. She had, as she said, been taught to read by her real mother; but, in her present protectress's various removings, her books had been lost, and her little learning forgotten, so that she could not form a letter, and she even read stumblingly.
She was, at first, a constant hinderance to the little Aikins, and a constant trial of their mother's inexhaustible patience. Her ear was caught by every passing sound in the street, and her eye by every occurrence in the apartment. But she was most grateful for the kindness extended to her, and most desirous to profit by it. Habits in children are, like young plants, of rapid growth, and in a few weeks Juliet's character underwent a ​transformation similar to that of her dress, where substantial, neat, warm, and lasting garments had been substituted for dirty finery.
Mrs. Aikin was not one of those selfish parents who make it a sort of duty to cast aside whatever can possibly interfere with the advancement of their own offspring. She was willing to take something from their abundant portion to give to this little orphan in the human family. She sometimes feared Juliet might exhaust Mr. Barlow's patience; but he seemed rather to pity her ignorance and carelessness than to be irritated by them. He was drawn to her by some resemblance in their fate. Both seemed dropped links from the chain of humanity; both to have been the objects of the intervention of Providence, and both to have been cast upon the same charity. In speaking of Juliet to Mrs. Aikin, Mr. Barlow adverted to the reasons for the interest he felt in the child; and "yet," he said, "this is not all; her look, when she suddenly turns her eye, or that imploring expression when she fears she has displeased me, put me so in mind of one that's gone: her voice, too, when she speaks low, Mistress Aikin, it makes my heart throb, and the perspiration stand in the hollow of my hand."
"You have not gained your strength yet," replied Mrs. Aikin, "and a little matter affects you."
"It is not a little matter, my good friend; I have thought there was a possibility—but that is foolish, and I will not talk about it. It will cost me much to part from her, as well as the rest of you; but now there is no reason I should encumber you any longer, for the old rule does not always hold good—'where ​good—'where there's room in the heart there's room in the house.'"
We have omitted to mention, that Aikin had obtained the place of assistant teacher in a classical school for Mr. Barlow.
"I know, sir," replied Susan, "that you can now get much more comfort elsewhere than we can give you; but a grief and loss it will be to us to part with you. I have been looking forward to your taking the little back room, for Juliet told me to-day—and, poor child, she was crying when she said it—that her mother was about to move."
"Juliet going too?" exclaimed the children, "that is too bad."
A bustling step in the entry was heard, and immediately after an imperative voice at Mrs. Smith's door, calling out—"Open the door—I say I must speak with you." The door opened, and Juliet's voice was heard in replu, but so low that not a word could be distinguished. The response was sufficiently audible—"Don't cry, child—I'm not going to hurt you, but I must speak with your mother. The house is not mine,'" continued the stranger, now evidently addressing Mrs. Smith; "and I have no authority to grant indulgences. You are behind-hand for the last three weeks, and if you don't pay Saturday, you must clear out—good day, ma'am."
An opportunity was now offered, as the landlord's agent repassed the door, to speak for the room for Mr. Barlow; but he and all the rest were absorbed in their interest for little Juliet, whose soft footsteps were soon heard on the stairs. Anne sprang to the door, and opening it, asked Juliet to come in.
​"She will not," said Anne, as Juliet went out at the street door; "she blushed as red as fire, and seemed to have something under her cloak—what can it mean?"
Mrs. Aikin guessed what it meant; for, more than once, she had observed Juliet going out on secret expeditions; and once, when she had looked her full in the face, the poor child's downcast eye and burning cheek betrayed her secret to Mrs. Aikin. Truth is stamped with innocence on the soul; there they blend, or are effaced together. Now, Mrs. Aikin thought, she must no longer scruple to interfere; and, when Juliet returned, she went into the entry, and closing the door after her, said—
"What have you there, Juliet?"
"She told me not to tell, ma'am."
"You need not, my child, I know what it is." The fumes of the gin had already betrayed the secret. "Does she take this stuff every day, Juliet ?"
"No, Mrs. Aikin, not now, since she has such a fever and cough—she only takes it when she feels awfully. My own mother never took it, though she had dreadful feelings, too."
While Juliet spoke, she seemed in a flutter of impatience and timidity—all eye and ear—as if expecting a summons; or, what was still worse, fearing a suspicion of betraying the miserable woman's secret. In the meantime, Susan Aikin was considering what she had beat do. That Mrs. Smith's disease must be aggravated, and her death hastened, by the means she took for present relief, was certain; and Susan was not of a temper to fold her hands and say—"It is no business of ​mine"—when she could help a fellow-creature, it was her business.
"Leave the mug here, Juliet," she said, "and tell your mother I wish to speak with her."
"Oh, I dare not, Mrs. Aikin—she'll be so angry with me; she does not mind speaking, with other people, but she seems to hate to see any of your family. I'm sure I don't know what the reason is—there—I hear her—pray let me go!" and Juliet seized the mug, which Mrs. Aikin had set on the stair, and disappeared.
In a few moments Mrs. Aikin followed her and tapped at the door. Juliet opened it, and stood aghast, while Mrs. Aikin said—"Mrs. Smith, I know you are sick, and in trouble—let me come in, and see if something cannot be done for you."
The door, evidently at a sign from within, was closed in Mrs. Aikin's face; but, through the crevices, Mrs. Aikin heard a voice that seemed familiar to her, half scolding and half crying.
She again tapped at the door, and Juliet opened it a crack, and said, in a voice whose tremulous softness contrasted with the rudeness of her words—
"She says, ma'am, she won't be bothered."
"Well, Juliet, I'll go away now. She may feel differently by-and-by."
Mrs. Aikin's persevering kindness and forbearance touched the heart of the miserable woman; but the fumes of the liquor were mounting to her brain, and she drew the bed-clothes over her head and fell into a heavy sleep, from which she was awakened late in the evening by the stealthy entrance of a man, who brought her a note from her nominal husband. This threw her into violent ​hysterics, during which the man disappeared; and Juliet, who, wearied and hungry, had fallen asleep across the foot of the bed, awakened. She was terrified by Mrs. Smith's apparent unconsciousness and convulsive sobs, and she, obeying her first impulse, ran down to the Aikins. Harry and his wife, without any false scruples, went to Mrs. Smith's apartment, bidding Juliet to remain with Aunt Lottie. They found Mrs. Smith in hysterics, partly the effect of the gin, and partly of a sudden distress which had been communicated to. her by the open letter she held in her clinched hand. A filthy lace' cap stuck on the side of her head; her hair hung over her face; a tattered French cape and a soiled silk gown served to make more disgusting, but not to hide, the rags and dirt beneath them.
Our friends had scarcely seen the woman when they exchanged significant glances, for they both recognised in the wretched person before them, in spite of the dropsical cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and sharpened features, the playmate of their childhood—the beauty of their youthful days, Paulina Clark! Grieved and shocked were they: but they thought only of administering aid; and this being most judiciously done, Paulina soon after opened her eyes, and, recognising her old acquaintances, a new burst of emotion and a violent shrieking ensued.
No disease is so completely under the control of moral treatment as hysterics. Harry Aikin's ​energetic voice, and his wife's gentle, calm manner, soon subdued the spasm and restored their patient to a degree of rationality.
"Oh! I know you, Susan; and you, too, Harry Aikin!" she said.
"And we know you, Paulina," replied Susan; "and would be glad to do any thing we can for you."
The kindness of Susan's tone brought a flood of tears from Paulina. This seemed to relieve her; and she said, in her natural voice—
"But you don't know, you don't know—" her utterance was choked.
"We don't know," said Susan, "but we can guess."
"And can you speak so kindly to me?"
"There is no reason we should not be kind to you; kindness is what you want, and we have to give, so it may be a comfort to us both."
"Oh! indeed, I do want it," said Paulina, recurring to her present and pressing troubles. "See here, Harry Aikin," she added, picking up the note she had dropped; "do you advise me what to do; this comes from my hus—" She hesitated: she felt this was no time for deception, and she added, "from him I called my husband."
Aikin read the note, which was as follows:—
"I am blown, and must make a voyage up the river to Lockport—save yourself—the police dogs are on the scent—look to the black trunks
"You must tell me the truth, Paulina, or I can be of no service to you. How long have you lived with this man?"
"Six months."
​"How long have you known him?"
"The same time, Harry Aikin," she replied, without raising her eyes; for, with the companions of her innocent days, came the feeling of shame.
"Do you know what he is taken up for?"
"I don't; but I guess for passing counterfeit bills."
"Have you been, concerned with him? Answer truly, Paulina."
"Well—he has given me money to spend, and told me to ask no questions, and he would tell me no lies. I never knew a true note from a falser one."
"Did you not believe you were passing counterfeit money?"
"I did not know that I was, and that is the most I can say, Harry Aikin; but, as true as I live, I have pawned my ear-rings and my finger-rings rather than offer this money, and I did not use it till I had nothing more the pawnbrokers would take; that is the truth, Harry. I have not long to live, I am sure I have not. Take pity on me, Harry Aikin, and save me item finishing my wretched life in the state prison! Susan! Susan! beg him! Oh! think of old times in Essex!"
"Be sure, be sure, Paulina, Harry will do all he can for you."
"Yes, that I will; no time must be lost: stay with her, Susan, till I return."
"You ain't going to inform against me!" said the miserable woman, springing after him; but, before he could reply, she shrunk back, self-condemned, and burst into tears.
"It's so long," she said, "since I have had any ​thing to do with anybody I could believe in! I am a poor creature, Susan! I can remember the time when I felt above you; and now it seems too much for you to speak to such as me!"
It seemed a great relief to her to confess her faults; to retrace the past, and, looking through the dark way she had trodden, to catch now and then a glimpse of her early days. With a sprinkling of kind words from Susan, she went on as follows:—
"Oh, Susan Aikin, you that have an honest husband, and good children, and are content to be poor, you don't know the feelings of the fallen. Don't you think it's some excuse for me that I had such a poor bringing up? The first I can remember was my mother talking about my pretty eyes, and so on, and curling my hair; and the main thing was to get me handsome outside-things; how I used to despise your clothes and Lottie's; it was all, all of a piece. Mother said she could not afford to send me to the subscription-school; but, when that dancing-school was set up in Essex, I was sent to that. Do you remember I begged Uncle Phil to let you go, but he would not hear to it: he said 'you danced about your work, and you danced to school, and that was the dancing for poor folks.'"
"Father was right," said Susan, with a smile at the characteristic reply she had forgotten.
"Yes, he was indeed right. Uncle Phil was always reckoned simple-minded; but I have known all sorts of people, and I can tell you, Susan, that those who set their minds to do the right thing, be they ever so simple, go straight ahead—while ​your bright folks slump on the right hand and on the left. But where was I—oh, looking back—a dreary prospect! I grew up a poor, ignorant, thoughtless, vain thing—but, Susan, I was not hard-hearted; even then, had I got into good hands—had I married a solid man, and had children to take care of, I should have been, not such a wife and mother as you are, but I might have been a decent woman—and that was what I had secret cravings to be, even when I had a carriage at my command, and elegant rooms and furniture."
"Poor Paulina!"
"Yes, Susan, most to be pitied then; for then I was most blinded to all good; I can see it now, even from these depths. You know mother married a rich old man, what we thought rich, and we moved to New-York; I had always lots of young men after me; I lived at the theatre, and the public balls, and such places, and cared for nothing but dress and flattery. Morris Finley courted me—I always liked him—and if I had married him then—but there's no use in looking back; I wonder if his conscience would be easy if he could see me the poor ruined wretch I am now. Hark!—what noise is that?"
"It's only my children and Juliet, playing."
"Poor Juliet!—do you think Harry will get me clear, Susan ?"
"I hope so; but had you not better compose yourself,—and try to get a little sleep?"
"Sleep! I cannot. If you knew what a relief it is to me to unburden my heart—to have a good person willing to sit down by me as you do. As I was saying, when my stepfather died, and we had ​nothing left, and Morris Finley felt he was going ahead in the world, he left me. We went to Essex, and then came back to New-York; mother set up the milliner's business—temptation was on every side; and no wonder that such a poor weak creature as I fell. There was nothing to bind me to virtue. My mother, poor soul, died; and her death set me to thinking; and then, if a hand had been stretched out to me in kindness, it would have saved me; but the good set their faces against the bad—they do, Susan—I mean common good folks. You cannot tell what it is to have the eye of your fellow-creature look on you with scorn, or turned from you as if you were too vile to look upon: I have felt this, and I went from bad to worse."
"Why did not you come to us, Paulina? We would have done what we could for you."
"I was afraid to, Susan; I did not suppose there was anybody on earth good enough to pity me, because I was wicked; and, for that, most needed their pity."
"Then, Paulina, you must have concluded there were no true followers of Him who came to seek and save those that were lost?"
"Maybe I have my own evil courses, in part, to thank for such thoughts, Susan; but, then, is it not strange that human creatures don't make more allowance for one another? They say sick folks feel for sick folks. Sin is the worst of sickness, and are there any quite free from it?"
"You are right, Paulina; the strong should uphold the weak—the well should look after the sick."
​"That's what I mean, Susan, and I believe you are so very good you practise it; but it is not strange I dreaded to see your face; and all that Juliet told me of you and your children, bringing up to be a blessing and honour to the land, made me more and more ashamed of myself. Thank God, I never had a child. I do love Juliet—you see I am not fit to take care of her—but I did not always tyrannise over her—not when—"
"Not when you were yourself, Paulina." Paulina nodded assent: she had not courage in words to confess her intemperance. "Juliet was true to you," continued Susan; "she seems grateful for your kindness to her."
"Does she—does Juliet feel grateful to me?"
"She does, Paulina; and that ought to be a comfort to you."
"It is—it is; thank God, there is one creature on earth the better for my having lived! My life! Oh God, forgive me!—poor Juliet—when I am gone, Susan, you will see to her, won't you?"
"I will do the best I can."
"Thank you, Susan; then I shall die easy as to her. I have done but little, though I never quite lost sight of my promise to her poor dying mother."
"Who was her mother, Paulina?"
"No one that you ever heard of. She called her name Maria Brown. I never saw her till she was near her death. The night before she died I sat behind her, and held her up while she wrote a few lines, and, taking a miniature from her neck, sealed them up together. She was so weak she fainted then, and when she came to she said she ​would direct the packet the next day, and tell me what to do with it. I slept by her; but, dear me! I had taken some hot gin-and-water—for I was troubled with a cold stomach—and I slept sound and late, and when I waked she was dead and cold. Poor little Juliet! I never shall forget how she lay with her arms round her mother's neck till they sent a coffin from the almshouse; it seemed as if the child were glued there."
"Did you not open the packet, Paulina?"
"Yes; but no names were mentioned. Her letter was to her father, but it was only signed with initials."
"Were they M. B.?" eagerly asked Susan, as a faint hope dawned upon her.
"M. B.—B.—no, I am pretty sure it was not B.: it might have been B. L.; I think it was L."
"You have preserved the packet?"
"I did, carefully; but in our last move it was stolen or lost!"