UP TWO FLIGHTS OF STAIRS.
By Paul Cobden
With both elbows on the table, and running both hands nervously up and down through his hair, sat Mr. John Claverhouse. Suddenly there was a gentle tap at his office door; but he did not hear it. How could he? He was buried in himself, trying to solve a problem, while he twitched his hair as if to straighten out the thoughts that thronged his brain. “He’s in there; I know he is,” said a little, funny-looking old woman; “and I’m going to make him answer this knock.” With this, she applied her knuckles vigorously to the door, and in an instant came the response,— “Oh! oh! Whoever you are, do come in; and don’t stand there, battering my door down!” Aunt Prilly (for it was no other than the woman known all over town as Aunt Prilly) walked in. Mr. Claverhouse asked her to be seated, and even pushed a chair toward her; but Aunt Prilly, who had the keenest pair of little brown eyes in her head that ever a woman had, perceived at once that Mr. Claverhouse was not in his best mood, which she thought was very unfortunate, for she had come on a begging errand; “and a begging errand,” she said to herself, “stands no chance at all when a man isn’t in his best mood.” Down she dropped into the offered chair—a little, weird old woman; but she had a heart large enough for two such women, and in all kinds of weather she was out on some errand for the poor. “This is what I call an easy-chair, Mr. John,” she said, as she leaned back, with a smile. But she searched his face in vain for a responsive look. “A beautiful day, Mr. John,” she added. “The sun has been shining the whole blessed time. Hasn’t gone under a cloud for a minute.” “Sun! sun been shining!” answered Mr. Claverhouse, making no effort to be pleasant, while he could not conceal that he was very much out of humor. “Who knew that the sun had been shining? A poor fellow like me can’t see the sun such days as these. Banks breaking! Stock companies going up so high you can’t see ’em! All kinds of investments coming to nothing! I tell you what it is, Aunt Prilly, if things go on much longer as they have lately, the door of the alms-house will open some day, and Mr. John Claverhouse will walk in.” “Thank you, Mr. John, for letting me know that my time for getting hold of some of that money of yours is short,” replied Aunt Prilly, shaking her funny little head, and winking her funny little brown eyes. “I’m glad I happened in this afternoon, to catch it while it’s flying. I want all I can get of it for my poor people in Water street. How much would you like to give me, Mr. John?” “My good woman!” exclaimed Mr. John, in a short, twitching voice, “don’t ask me for anything now. Never did see such times. The bottom is falling out of everything. You don’t know how much money I’ve lost lately. Why, if there isn’t a turn in my affairs pretty soon, I’m a ruined man. I’m sorry, Aunt Prilly; but I haven’t a cent for you to-day,—not a cent.” “Ah! now, Mr. John,” said Aunt Prilly, lowering her voice to a very tender tone, “I want you to lay up treasure in Heaven; and you can’t do it if you turn your back on the Lord’s poor. They are his poor, Mr. John—his poor; and I want you to help them along in this world, so that when the Lord of the poor comes in the clouds of Heaven, he will say to you, ‘My beloved John, inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me.’ And it will be a happy day for you, Mr. John, when the Lord blesses you for blessing his poor. You used to be a generous little fellow,” continued Aunt Prilly. “I remember exactly how you looked, running round the streets, giving away everything you had to any poor body that needed it. But when you grew up you made money. Ah! Mr. John, you made money; and money don’t always open the heart wide, the Lord knows.” Mr. John Claverhouse was a money-grinder; and the world said truly when it said that he was “a hard-fisted man.” But the tender voice of a tender woman was always a little disturbing to him, and Aunt Prilly’s voice was specially tender that bright, sunny spring afternoon. “What a bother these women are, sometimes,” he thought to himself. “They do so stir up a man.” But, determined to shake off Aunt Prilly for that time if never again, he came down severely upon what he called her “pets.” “You make too much of these people, Aunt Prilly,” he said. “You pet and coddle them, and teach them to live on charity, when they ought to do more to help themselves. You know as well as I do that they are a miserable crew. Water street is the worst street in town. You can’t find any worthy poor there; but you spend on them all the money you can get.” “If you won’t give me any money,” answered Aunt Prilly, quietly, “will you do something else for me, Mr. John?” “Yes, yes; anything to please you,—anything but money. What is it?” “Will you go out to-night, in the moonlight (you have no wife nor children to keep you at home), and go through Water street, and up two flights of stairs, where the poorest of the poor live, and—” “Yes, yes; I will,” interrupted Mr. John. “I like to air my brain at night, after working it all day over my money troubles. And I’ll take a run up the two flights of stairs. And I’ll do something more for you, Aunt Prilly,” added Mr. Claverhouse, now actually smiling, and trying to make himself agreeable. “If I find a saint,—one genuine saint, such as you talk about, up those two flights of stairs, I’ll pull your bell before I go to sleep, and empty my wallet into your lap. As sure as my name is John Claverhouse, I will.” “Give me your hand on that,” exclaimed Aunt Prilly, rising from her chair, and stepping up to Mr. John. Mr. Claverhouse extended his hand, but with a knowing smile, as he said,— “You needn’t talk to me about your worthy poor on Water street. Not a saint will I find there.” “Well, good-bye for to-day, Mr. John. I’ll leave it for you to decide whether there’s a saint in Water street or not.” Aunt Prilly was gone; and Mr. John Claverhouse was left alone, to meditate on the uncertainty of riches and to deplore the fact that they take wings, and fly away. His riches had not yet flown; but their wings seemed spread, just ready for flight, and Mr. John Claverhouse was a very anxious man. But evening found him hurrying along in the direction of Water street; and as he turned into the street, the dim lights shone out here and there into the gutters, and all the air seemed foul, not only with bad odors, but with oaths and curses. “There’s nothing that looks as if there were a saint anywhere around here,” thought Mr. Claverhouse; “but I’ll keep my word, and take a run up two flights of stairs. There’s no knowing, though, what I’ll get into. Bad place this! bad place! What! what! Music in here, as sure as I’m alive.” As he said this, John Claverhouse was standing by the first door, at the top of the second flight of stairs, with his hand bent, ready to knock; but he did not knock. He stopped, and held his breath to listen to the music inside:— “There is no name so sweet on earth,
No name so sweet as Jesus.” “A saint up here, I’m afraid! A saint at the top of this shaky, wretched staircase!” said John Claverhouse to himself. Again there came to his ears,— “There is no name so sweet on earth,
No name so sweet as Jesus.” “I must go in! I must go in!” he said nervously. He tapped; and, hearing a faint, soft answer, “Come,” he walked in. A face bearing the marks of severe suffering, and yet serene, looked smilingly up at him from a poor old bedstead,—as poor and old as the rest of the scanty furniture. “How do you do, ma’am?” he asked, rather abruptly; for he was not used to visiting the poor. “More comfortable than usual, sir. Thank you, kind stranger, for coming to see me. I am alone nearly all of the time. Poverty, you know, attracts few friends. Please take a chair near the fire. A very poor fire it is for so raw and chilly an evening; but it is a fire.” For the first time in his life, John Claverhouse felt embarrassed in the presence of poverty. “Why, she’s a lady; and I’m afraid she’s a saint!” he said to himself, as he drew a chair to her bedside, and sat down. “Do tell me, ma’am, how you came here,” he said. “Well, sir, I suppose I must say that poverty brought me here,” replied the woman; “but, as I am a King’s child, I dislike very much to talk about poverty.” “What! what! You a King’s child, and yet living in Water street, up two flights of stairs, and with such people around you?” “Yes, sir,” answered the invalid, with a smile. “I am a King’s child. The King of Heaven is my Father, and, you know, he giveth his angels charge concerning us; and, with angels ever around me, I am always in pleasant company. I know I am what the world calls very poor; but, really, I cannot make myself feel that I am very poor; for every day my Father, the King, says to me, ‘All things are yours,’ and I tell him every day that he sees just how it is with me. And oh! sir, I get such sweet answers. He says that he will never leave nor forsake me, and he tells me to ‘consider the lilies, how they grow.’ He takes all the care of me, sir, and I don’t borrow any trouble. Even in this world he is going to do more abundantly than I can ask or think, and up yonder there’s a mansion waiting for me. I often look out of my window and up into the sky, on a beautiful night like this, and say to myself, ‘It’s up there! It’s up there!’” “How can you knit stockings, ma’am, with those poor fingers of yours, so bent with the rheumatism?” asked Mr. Claverhouse, as he noticed a little stocking on needles lying by her pillow. “Oh! I am knitting a pair of stockings for a sick child on the next floor—a crying baby, whose little feet are always bare. I saved the money from two dollars that were given me, and bought a little yarn. I ought to do something for the poor, you know, when so much is done for me.” John Claverhouse moved restlessly in his chair, and left suddenly, after promising to call again. Not many minutes later, Aunt Prilly’s bell was pulled violently. “It’s John Claverhouse,” she said to herself; and just then he came in, with his wallet in his hand. “Take it! take it!” he said, as he opened his wallet and dropped fifty dollars into Aunt Prilly’s lap. “I found a saint,” he added; “and if she lives a week longer at the head of that rickety staircase, my name isn’t John Claverhouse.” One day, before the week was gone, the “King’s child,” as she lay on her bed, considering the lilies, heard footsteps on the rickety staircase,—Aunt Prilly and a strong man, sent by Mr. Claverhouse, had come to take her to a new, bright home he had prepared for her. And, as they laid her on the bed in her fresh little house, her eyes were at once attracted to the walls; and there in beautifully illuminated letters, set in a frame and hung up as a picture, she read, “I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.” On the other side of the room, in as brightly illuminated letters and in a match frame, were the words, “Consider the lilies.” The next day Aunt Prilly met Mr. Claverhouse; and, laying her hands on his head, as if she would bless him in the name of the Lord, she said, in her tenderest tones, “Ah! John Claverhouse, you found your ‘saint,’ and now listen to the words of the Master: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’” —Paul Cobden, in Independent.