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

CHAPTER XV.
THE RICH MAN'S CHARITIES.
"Many a house is full where the mind is unfurnished and the heart is empty; and no hovel of mere penury ought ever to be so sad as that house.— Dewry.
It was near ten o'clock when Henry Aikin, in pursuance of his benevolent designs for Paulina, rung at Morris Finley's door, and told the servant, ​in reply to his saying Mr. Finley was dressing for a party, that he had pressing business, and must speak with him. The servant left Aikin in the entry, and, entering the drawing-room, pushed the door to after him, but not so close as to prevent Aikin hearing the following dialogue:—
"There's somebody, ma'am, in the entry, wants to speak with Mr. Finley."
"Why did not you tell him he was not at home?"
"Because he is, ma'am."
"Pshaw, Tom, you know he is going out immediately, and it's all the same thing. Do you know who it is?"
"No, ma'am."
"Is it a gentleman?"
"He speaks like one, ma'am."
"You certainly know, Tom—is he a gentleman, or only a man?"
"He is dressed like a man, ma'am."
"Tom, you must get over tormenting me this way: I've told you a hundred times the distinction." Tom smiled. He evidently had in his mind something like the old distinction of the poet, though he could not, or dared not, express it—
"Worth makes the man—the want of it, the fellow."
"Well, well," added Mrs. Finley, "show him in, and tell Mr. Finley."
Aikin entered with that air of blended modesty and independence that characterized him; certainly with no look of inferiority, for he felt none; and, as Mrs. Finley's eye fell on his fine countenance, hers relaxed, and she was in the dilemma, for a moment, of not knowing whether to class ​him with the somebodys or nobodys; but her glance descended to the plain and coarse garments of our friend in time to change a half-made courtesy to a salutation befitting an inferior. "Sit down," she said, waving her hand to the nearest chair.
Aikin took the offered seat, and awaited, with what patience he could, the forthcoming of the master of the splendid mansion, observing what was before him with a feeling, not of envy or covetousness, but with deep joy and thankfulness for the virtue and true happiness of his humble home. Miss Sabina Jane Finley, now a young lady of twelve years, after surveying Aikin from top to toe, said to her mother, in a suppressed but audible voice, "Gentleman!"
Mrs. Finley seemed to have what she, no doubt, thought a truly genteel unconsciousness of "the man's" presence. She was very richly dressed for a ball; but, as is a common case with poor human nature, she was transferring the fault of her faded and time-stricken face to her milliner. "I declare, Sabina Jane," she said, surveying herself in the mirror, "I never will get another cap of Thompson—these flowers are blue as the heavens."
"You selected them yourself, mamma."
"To be sure I did; but how could I tell how they would look in the evening?"
"Why don't you wear your new French cap, mamma?"
"Don't be a fool, child—have not I worn that twice already? Pull down that blonde over my shoulder—how it whoops! This is the second time Smetz has served me this way. This gown sets like fury. I never go out but I have some ​trial that spoils all my pleasure. Don't let me see you prink so, miss," turning to her daughter, and pulling from her head a dress cap, that she was trying on and arranging with all the airs and graces of a fine lady; "I have told you a thousand times, Sahina Jane," she continued, "not to be fond of dress!—Well, Tom, what is wanted now?"
"That French gentleman, ma'am, what teached Miss Sabina Jane, is to call early for his money; and if you'd please to give it to me to-night—"
"I can't attend to it to-night—tell him to call again."
"He has called again and again, ma'am; and he says his wife is sick—and he looks so distressed-like."
"I have not the money by me to-night, Tom."
"Shall I ask Mr. Finley for it, ma'am?"
"No, Tom."
The image of the unhappy foreigner haunted Tom's imagination; and, after lingering for a moment with the door in his hand, he said—"Maybe ma'am don't remember Mr. Finley gave out the money for Mr. Felix."
Mrs. Finley did remember well that she had received the money, and had spent it that very afternoon for a most tempting piece of French embroidery—"a love of a pocket handkerchief," that cost only thirty dollars!—the price of poor Monsieur Felix's labour for two quarters, with an indolent and neglected child. "Shut the door, Tom," she said; "I can't be bothered about this money now; tell Mr. Felix to call after breakfast." Tom despaired and withdrew. "How impertinent Tom ​is getting," added Mrs. Finley; "but this is the way of all the servants in this country."
The housemaid now entered; and announced that Miss Rosa (a three-year old girl) had been throwing up the custard, and pie, and raisins, and so on, that she ate at dinner.
"Dear me! poor thing!" exclaimed the mother, "what a weak stomach she has! Does Nancy want me to come up and see her?"
"Nancy is out, ma'am."
"Out yet? don't know how she could think of going out at all, when she told me at tea-time that Rosa was feverish. I thought there was one faithful servant in the world, but now I give up." Mrs. Finley went to look after her child, while Aikin was making his own mental comments on the reasonableness of a parent, who expected more fidelity from a hireling for paltry wages, than she practised herself, with all the stimulants of the responsibilities and happiness of a mother. Fortunately, for he had become very impatient, he was not left long to ponder on this inconsistency. Finley came in, dressed and perfumed for the party. "Ah, Harry Aikin," he said, after a momentary surprise, "is it you—how are you?"
"Well, thank you, Morris."
"What impudence," thought Miss Sabina Jane, "for that man to call my papa Morris!"
"I have some private business with you," added Aikin, glancing at the young lady.
"Sabina Jane," said Finley, "tell your mamma the carriage is waiting—these fellows charge so abominably for waiting." This last remark was evidently a hint to Aikin to be brief.
​But Aikin wanted no such spur. He communicated concisely Paulina's condition and wants; and, knowing that Finley's conscience was of the sluggish order, he tried to rouse it by recalling vividly to his remembrance the past—the days of Paulina's innocence and beauty, and Finley's devotion to her. But Finley slurred it over like a long-forgotten dream, that would not afford the slightest basis for a claim upon his charity.
"She is in a shocking condition, to be sure, Aikin," he said; "but, then, I make it an invariable rule never to give but to those that I know to be worthy."
"There is much to be done for our fellow-creatures, Finley, besides giving gifts to the worthy."
"Oh, I know that; and I subscribe liberally to several of our institutions."
"But will you do nothing towards encouraging this poor, homeless, friendless creature to repentance and reformation?"
"Pshaw! Aikin, they never reform."
"If that is true, a part of the sin must lie at our doors, who afford them no helps. But there is no time to discuss this: Paulina, I fear, will not be able to prove her sincerity. She has, it seems to me, but little while to live; if I can save her from the police, I shall try hard to keep her where she is, that her little remnant of life may be spent with her old friends, who will care for her body and soul."
"Oh, wel, if you really think she is going to make a die of it, I am willing to give you something for her."
Finley took out his pocketbook, and after, as ​Aikin could not but suspect, looking for a smaller sum, he gave him a five-dollar note, with the air of one who is conferring an astounding obligation. Aikin expressed neither surprise nor gratitude; but, quietly putting up the note, he said, "You know, Finley, money is not the most important thing I had to ask. I want you to go to the police-office with me. You are a great merchant, and your name is well known in the city; I am nobody, and it may be necessary for me to get my statement endorsed. Come, it is not five minutes' walk for you."
"Why, bless you, man, don't you see I'm going out! there's my wife coming down stairs now."
"Let her go in the carriage—you can follow her."
"Oh! that's impossible—she would not go alone into a party for the world."
"Can she not wait till your return?"
"No; it is not' reasonable to ask it—it's late now—and—and—"
"Good night; I have wasted my time here," said Aibin, cutting short Finley's excuses, and leaving him trying to silence his conscience by dwelling on the five dollars he had given—by fretting at the deused folly of going out when people were tired and wanted to go to bed—and by joining in his wife's vituperation against Nancy and all her tribe.