Why I Pay Bills When Due;
By Henrietta H. Holdich
"Oh, dear!" said Rose Howard, as she looked at the paper which the servant handed her. "That wretched girl is in a desperate hurry to send her bill for embroidery. Twenty dollars! just what I have saved to pay for the bonnet and gloves which I must have if I go to Mrs. Lorimer's reception. I did not expect this bill until I had my next month's allowance. Well, she must wait, that's all." "I would not make her wait if I were you, Rose," said Miss Grace Rowan, looking up from her sewing. "Why, it is only ten days," said Rose. "Papa always gives me my allowance on the first day of the month, and to-day is the twenty-first." "Nevertheless, I would pay her bill to-day," said Miss Rowan, earnestly. "If it will be of any use to you I would rather lend you the money. I can probably do without it better than she can." "Thank you, Aunt Grace, but that would not do at all," said Rose. "When papa consented to give me a regular allowance it was on condition that I should never borrow a penny of any one. But why are you so anxious that the bill should be paid at once? Do you know anything about this girl that you are so sure is in need of money?" "No," said Miss Rowan, "I know nothing about her. It is only on general principles that I am speaking. Not exactly, either. If you choose I will tell you why I never delay a day in paying a bill sent in by a poor person, above all, a poor young girl." "It is a story of the days when I was an elderly young girl, living at home with my parents," she said. And the heroine of the story—you remember those flower-paintings which you have so often admired at my home, Rose?" "Remember them, of course I do. But how did they come into your story, aunty?" asked Rose, lifting wide eyes of interest to her aunt's face. "Only because the painter of those pictures is the heroine of it," said Aunt Grace. "Cara Hastings was her name. She was much younger than I, an orphan, fighting her way single-handed with the world. Pretty? Well, rather pretty, not very. She had a slight, graceful figure; dark, wistful eyes set in a small pale face; flexible, tremulous lips, and a profusion of soft, dark, wavy hair, which framed her broad forehead like a cloud. "I met her first at the studio of a friend, and, in spite of the two years difference in our ages, we took a mutual fancy to each other. After that I was often at her studio, poor little bare place that it was. One room served for everything—kitchen, parlor, studio, bed-room, yes, and reception room for her pupils. A broad lounge served for her bed by night, and one corner of the room was curtained off to conceal her toilet apparatus. Her cooking, such as it was, was accomplished upon a small kerosene stove, which, when not in use, she kept in her closet. A poor little place, as I said, but Cara was very happy in it. She loved her work, and she had one of those bright, happy dispositions which make their own sunshine. She often talked to me of her pupils, but the one of whom she spoke oftenest was Maud X. I knew the name well, for the father of this Maud was one of the most prominent clergymen in the city where we both lived. Every one respected him, irrespective of denomination. He was not only an eloquent preacher and a profound scholar, of fervid piety and blameless life; he was also a philanthropist, a reformer, prominent in the temperance cause, in the Society for the Suppression of Vice, in everything that was good and noble. Cara often spoke of him with enthusiasm. "'It is not only that Maud is such a darling,' she said, but I feel it such an honor to be associated in any way with the family of such a man.' "All this was in the winter. Spring came, and everybody was leaving town. I did not go, although all my family did, simply because I did not care to. There is such a pleasant feeling and sense of solitude in a large city through July and August that I meant to put off my 'outing' until late September. Cara did not go away either, and we saw a good deal of each other. It was not an unalloyed joy to me, though, for, watching her, I saw that day by day her cheek grew paler and thinner, her step slower, and her eyes more feverishly bright. "'What is the matter with you, Cara,' I often asked anxiously, but she only smiled and protested that nothing ailed her, that she was only a little tired with the hot weather. When fall came she would be herself again. "I urged her to go out of town, or at least to come and stay for a while with me in our large, empty house; but no. "'I must work, you know,' said Cara, 'must work harder than ever now, that my pupils have left me for the summer. I could not work with you. My mind would be continually disturbed, and—no, no, my studio is much the best place for me.' "'But why work so hard?' I said, 'Why not take a holiday? Your lessons of last winter surely brought you in enough to enable you to rest awhile now. There were Maud X.'s lessons, which alone would bring you in a small fortune, you said.' "'A small fortune? Yes, but small fortunes will not last forever,' said Cara, slowly. 'How do I know that I shall have any pupils next year? How do I know?' "There was a short, sharp knock at the studio door, and a letter fell through the slit, upon the floor. Cara sprang to pick it up, glanced at the address, which I saw was in a masculine hand, and a faint flush tinged her pale cheeks. I turned away to look at a picture, while she tore open the envelope. When I turned back the flush had faded, and left her paler than before, her lips were quivering a little, and her eyes had a dim, hopeless look, which moved me sorely. "'Cara, you are not well,' I cried. 'Dear child, you must come with me. You shall do exactly as you please. You shall have a room with a north light and be alone when you like, and no one shall ask you a question. We will make excursions into the country, and you shall sketch while I read, and—' "But Cara stopped me with a motion of her hand. 'No, no,' she said. 'I cannot come. Do not make it harder for me to refuse you by urging me. I must stay here—there is no other place for me.' "Her tone was so decided that I felt it would be useless to urge her further, and sadly and reluctantly I left her. That night came the news of the severe illness of your mother, my only sister, accompanied with an entreaty that I would go to her. Of course I went by the first train next morning, leaving only a note for Cara, to explain my sudden departure. "It was the first of August when I left the city, but September had come and well-nigh gone before your mother's health was sufficiently reestablished to enable me to leave her. "'I saw your friend Cara Hastings to-day,' said one of the family, as we gathered around the table for the first meal after my return. 'I am afraid the poor girl is in a bad way. She was always fragile, but now she is shadowy. She has a settled cough and a hectic color. She looks very pretty, but I should be very sorry to see any dear friend of mine looking pretty in just the same way.' "I need not say that the next morning found me on my way to Cara's studio. It was all true. I knew it as soon as I looked in her face. She threw herself into my arms with a little cry of delight, which changed into a spasm of coughing, and I felt the slight form pant and quiver in my arms. "'Cara, dear child, what have you been doing to yourself,' I cried in dismay. Cara smiled her own bright, cheerful smile. "'I have had a hard summer,' she said, 'but I shall soon be strong again. Now that it is all over I can tell you about it, but at one time I really thought that I should never live to do so.' "'It was not a romantic story, for there was no love in it, and no tragedy, save as I plainly foresaw, looking in my poor Cara's face. "'I suppose I was rather extravagant in the spring,' said Cara, 'for I needed a good many things, and I knew that the money for Maud X.'s lessons would keep me all summer. Maud and her mother left town rather suddenly in June, and I did not know where they had gone. I sent my bill to the house, however, not doubting that it would be paid at once. I waited a month, and in the meantime my funds ran very low, and I found that the strictest economy was necessary. Do what I would, however, the money melted away like water, and at last, in despair, I resolved to write to Dr. X. It was a hard thing to do, but I did it, merely telling him that I had sent in my bill to Mrs. X. at such a date, and having heard nothing from her, feared that it had not been forwarded. It seemed to me that life and death hung upon the answer, yet I did not really doubt that he would send the money at once. His answer came one day while you were with me.' "'I remember,' I said briefly. "'There was no money inclosed, as I had expected,' continued Cara. 'He merely informed me that the bills for Maud's lessons and schooling were always settled by Mrs. X.; that the bill had been duly forwarded to her, and that no doubt she would settle it promptly upon her return in September. And I had just sixty cents in the world!' "'My poor Cara!' I cried, 'what did you do?' "'Do? What was there to do?' said Cara. 'Fortunately, my rent was paid for three months in advance, so that I was sure of a shelter, at least. For the rest, I lived for a month upon that sixty cents. Of course I could not afford to buy fuel, so bread and water constituted my entire diet. Two rolls a day are not very satisfactory, but it was all I could afford. Two cents a day will not set a luxurious table. Hungry? I think I was not so much hungry as weak. The worst of all was that I could not paint, I had not the strength to stand before the easel, and my hand shook so that I could not manage the brushes, and sometimes it really seemed that my mind wandered. Dear, you must not feel so badly about it. It is all over now.' "'Oh, Cara! why would you not come to me when I begged you?' I sobbed at last. "'Dear, I could not,' said Cara, gently. 'I should have felt like a beggar. I could not tell you of my straits, and I could not go and live upon you, knowing that I was actually a pauper. I should have felt ashamed even before your servants. If you will ask me for a visit now that I have money enough to make me independent, I will come; but at that time I could not—I tried, but indeed I could not.' "Ask her? Of course I asked her well knowing that it was the last thing I should ever do for her. That month's starvation had done its work, and the weakened system fell an easy victim to the hereditary foe, which might else have been baffled. When Cara left our house at last, it was with hands meekly folded upon her breast, with the sightless eyes veiled by their long, dark lashes, and the smile of the triumphant redeemed upon her pallid lips."407 Aunt Grace's lips were quivering and her eyes dim with tears as she finished her story. Rose had dropped her work, and sat with her eyes fixed upon her aunt's face. "How did Dr. X. feel when he heard of it?" she asked, at last. "He never knew it," said Aunt Grace. "When I take up the religious or secular papers and read the burning and eloquent words in which he pleaded the cause of some benevolent object, I wonder what he would say if he knew the true story of the life and death of his daughter's drawing teacher, little Cara Hastings." "But he ought to know it," said Rose, indignantly. "It was hardly his fault, after all," said Aunt Grace, gently. "He could never imagine of what consequence a sum of money which seemed trifling to him might be to a poor girl. But that is the reason why I always pay my bills promptly, Rose." Rose stood up, put away her work and her crewels, and left the room. A few minutes afterward she returned, cloaked and hatted for the street. "Thank you for your story, Aunt Grace," she said, as she buttoned her glove. "I am going down to pay that bill, and as for Mrs. Lorimer's reception—well I can wear my old bonnet or stay at home."—Henrietta H. Holdich.