Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 54: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

44 though she would have liked to have done so. She had already seriously jeopardized her capital. She might miti- gate suffering. She had no doubt been ~ a consoler, but no soul had been saved because of her passing. If she might have transformed one single existence, solved one problem— if this had been the fact—she felt that the Sodom before her would have been spared, With a better front than its interior revealed, the eight-floor tenement leered out on Second Avenue with sardonic eyes. Miss Maitland visited only four floors. She went in reluctantly to-day, but did not get farther than the first floor. The door of the room opposite the stairs was open, and before the table sat one of her failures. As Celia entered the room, the old woman quickly threw a dish cloth over an object not intended for the visitor’s vision. “It’s yerself, shure!’ The beatific smile with which the old woman wel- comed Celia was forced for politeness’ sake. “It’s the Mulhaleys will tell ye I was speakin’ kind of ye to-day.” Miss Maitland sat down without hes- itation, and laid her hand upon the table; it was spotless. Everything in the room was spotless, the small bed covered with a hand-pieced quilt, the windowpanes with small, decent cur- tains. Bridgit Moreen was as bright and span as if she had been a shilling coined this very year, and not of the coinage of 1850. She wore no cap; her hair was soft and neat about her face; her features small, showing the imprint, never lost, of real beauty. Her old mouth had once been a perfect bow; in her cheeks a little pink glowed. On the palms and fingers of her hands the marks of forty years of toil had: set their disfigurement. They had once been comely hands that a young man in love had kissed many times. “It’s God’s truth, the springtime is sheddin’ round ye, miss. It’s a new hat and frock ye’ve got on, entirely. The mornin’ breeze came up the stairs with AINSLEE’S ye. It’s good luck at all I set the door open.” “Bridgit,’ said the Anglo-Saxon mildly, “what have you got under that towel ?” “To think I amn’t tidier than the sluts in taverns, miss!” Under Celia’s eyes, she whisked the cloth and what it cov- ered off the table. “A clout as should be in the wash! Will I make ye a cup of tay, dear—are ye weary comin’ up the stairs?” “Only one flight, Bridgit, and these are my old clothes.” The old woman stood in front of Celia. “I’m thinkin’ that the spring’s in yer- self. Glory be! but I smell the vi’lets as if they were growin’ in Kerry.” She turned to her spotless cupboard. “I’m thinkin’ ye’ll take some tay ?” “No,” said Miss Maitland firmly. “Sit down, Bridgit.”’ Celia Maitland drew off her gloves, as she always did when she slummed. She wanted nothing between her hands and the hands she touched. “Bridgit, won't you give up your glass of beer?” Bridgit smiled. “Me glass of beer Glory be!” As Celia sat before the old creature, it seemed to her of a sudden as if she must have this soul, this one victory. Just this one soul! There was an embarrassment between the two women, and the Irishwoman’s eyes fell. “Glory be to God, there’s not much pleasure left to me for me sixty years.” Before Celia could reply to this, Bridgit, with the quickness of her race, said: “Is it any leisure hours in yer prayers yell be havin’, darlint ?” “Leisure hours in my prayers!” re- peated Miss Maitland vaguely, and realized at the same time how few hours she spent in prayer. “I’m thinkin’ ye might take off a few Fridays for me. I’m sure the Lord would love to hear the prayers of a sweet lady like yerself.” “A few Fridays, Bridgit!” “Darlint,’ said the old creature sol- emnly, “haven’t I been prayin’ forty years for one sole thing?” (C@ OOK Oo