A Mistaken Charity

Mary E. Wilkins

From Cinnamon Roses (Hodder and Stoughton; London: 1908)

There were in a green field a little, low, weather-stained cottage, with a footpath leading to it from the highway several rods distant, and two old women — one with a tin pan and old knife searching for dandelion greens among the short young grass, and the other sitting on the doorstep watching her, or, rather, having the appearance of watching her.

“Air there enough for a mess, Harriét?” asked the old woman on the doorstep. She accented oddly the last syllable of the Harriet, and there was a curious quality in her feeble, cracked old voice. Besides the question denoted by the arrangement of her words and the rising inflection, there was another, broader and subtler, the very essence of all questioning, in the tone of her voice itself; the cracked, quavering notes that she used reached out of themselves, and asked, and groped like fingers in the dark. One would have known by the voice that the old woman was blind.

The old woman on her knees in the grass searching for dandelions did not reply; she evidently had not heard the question. So the old woman on the doorstep, after waiting a few minutes with her head turned expectantly, asked again, varying her question slightly, and speaking louder:

“Air there enough for a mess, do ye s'pose, Harriét?”

The old woman in the grass heard this time. She rose slowly and laboriously; the effort of straightening out the rheumatic old muscles was evidently a painful one; then she eyed the greens heaped up in the tin pan, and pressed them down with her hand.

“Wa'al, I don't know, Charlotte,” she replied, hoarsely. “There's plenty on 'em here, but I ain't got near enough for a mess; they do bile down so when you get 'em in the pot; an' it's all I can do to bend my j'ints enough to dig 'em.”

“I'd give consider'ble to help ye, Harriét,” said the old woman on the doorstep.

But the other did not hear her; she was down on her knees in the grass again, anxiously spying out the dandelions.

So the old woman on the doorstep crossed her little shrivelled hands over her calico knees, and sat quite still, with the soft spring wind blowing over her.

The old wooden doorstep was sunk low down among the grasses, and the whole house to which it belonged had an air of settling down and mouldering into the grass as into its own grave.

When Harriet Shattuck grew deaf and rheumatic, and had to give up her work as tailoress, and Charlotte Shattuck lost her eyesight, and was unable to do any more sewing for her livelihood, it was a small and trifling charity for the rich man who held a mortgage on the little house in which they had been born and lived all their lives to give them the use of it, rent and interest free. He might as well have taken credit to himself for not charging a squirrel for his tenement in some old decaying tree in his woods.

So ancient was the little habitation, so wavering and mouldering, the hands that had fashioned it had lain still so long in their graves, that it almost seemed to have fallen below its distinctive rank as a house. Rain and snow had filtered through its roof, mosses had grown over it, worms had eaten it, and birds built their nests under its eaves; nature had almost completely overrun and obliterated the work of man, and taken her own to herself again, till the house seemed as much a natural ruin as an old tree-stump.

The Shattucks had always been poor people and common people; no especial grace and refinement or fine ambition had ever characterized any of them; they had always been poor and coarse and common. The father and his father before him had simply lived in the poor little house, grubbed for their living, and then unquestioningly died. The mother had been of no rarer stamp, and the two daughters were cast in the same mould.

After their parents' death Harriet and Charlotte had lived along in the old place from youth to old age, with the one hope of ability to keep a roof over their heads, covering on their backs, and victuals in their mouths — an all-sufficient one with them.

Neither of them had ever had a lover; they had always seemed to repel rather than attract the opposite sex. It was not merely because they were poor, ordinary, and homely; there were plenty of men in the place who would have matched them well in that respect; the fault lay deeper — in their characters. Harriet, even in her girlhood, had a blunt, defiant manner that almost amounted to surliness, and was well calculated to alarm timid adorers, and Charlotte had always had the reputation of not being any too strong in her mind.

Harriet had gone about from house to house doing tailor-work after the primitive country fashion, and Charlotte had done plain sewing and mending for the neighbours. They had been, in the main, except when pressed by some temporary anxiety about their work or the payment thereof, happy and contented, with that negative kind of happiness and contentment which comes not from gratified ambition, but a lack of ambition itself. All that they cared for they had had in tolerable abundance, for Harriet at least had been swift and capable about her work. The patched, mossy old roof had been kept over their heads, the coarse, hearty food that they loved had been set on their table, and their cheap clothes had been warm and strong.

After Charlotte's eyes failed her, and Harriet had the rheumatic fever, and the little hoard of earnings went to the doctors, times were harder with them, though still it could not be said that they actually suffered.

When they could not pay the interest on the mortgage they were allowed to keep the place interest free; there was as much fitness in a mortgage on the little house, anyway, as there would have been on a rotten old apple tree; and the people about, who were mostly farmers, and good friendly folk, helped them out with their living. One would donate a barrel of apples from his abundant harvest to the two poor old women, one a barrel of potatoes, another a load of wood for the winter fuel, and many a farmer's wife had bustled up the narrow footpath with a pound of butter, or a dozen fresh eggs, or a nice bit of pork. Besides all this, there was a tiny garden patch behind the house, with a straggling row of currant bushes in it, and one of gooseberries, where Harriet contrived every year to raise a few pumpkins, which were the pride of her life. On the right of the garden were two old apple trees, a Baldwin and a Porter, both yet in a tolerably good fruit-bearing state.

The delight which the two poor old souls took in their own pumpkins, their apples and currants, was indescribable. It was not merely that they contributed largely towards their living; they were their own, their private share of the great wealth of nature, the little taste set apart for them alone out of her bounty, and worth more to them on that account, though they were not conscious of it, than all the richer fruits which they received from their neighbours' gardens.

This morning the two apple trees were brave with flowers, the currant bushes looked alive, and the pumpkin seeds were in the ground. Harriet cast complacent glances in their direction from time to time, as she painfully dug her dandelion greens. She was a short, stoutly built old woman, with a large face coarsely wrinkled, with a suspicion of a stubble of beard on the square chin.

When her tin pan was filled to her satisfaction with the sprawling, spidery greens, and she was hobbling stiffly towards her sister on the doorstep, she saw another woman standing before her with a basket in her hand.

“Good-morning, Harriet,” she said, in a loud, strident voice, as she drew near. “I've been frying some doughnuts, and I brought you over some warm.”

“I've been tellin' her it was real good in her,” piped Charlotte from the doorstep, with an anxious turn of her sightless face towards the sound of her sister's footstep.

Harriet said nothing but a hoarse “Good-mornin', Mis' Simonds.” Then she took the basket in her hand, lifted the towel off the top, selected a doughnut, and deliberately tasted it.

“Tough,” said she. “I s'posed so. If there is anything I 'spise on this airth it's a tough doughnut.”

“Oh, Harriét!” said Charlotte, with a frightened look.

“They air tough,” said Harriet, with hoarse defiance, “and if there is anything I 'spise on this airth it's a tough doughnut.”

The woman whose benevolence and cookery were being thus ungratefully received only laughed. She was quite fleshy, and had a round, rosy, determined face.

“Well, Harriet,” said she, “I am sorry they are tough, but perhaps you had better take them out on a plate, and give me my basket. You may be able to eat two or three of them if they are tough.”

“They air tough — turrible tough,” said Harriet, stubbornly; but she took the basket into the house and emptied it of its contents nevertheless.

“I suppose your roof leaked as bad as ever in that heavy rain day before yesterday?” said the visitor to Harriet, with an inquiring squint towards the mossy shingles, as she was about to leave with her empty basket.

“It was turrible,” replied Harriet, with crusty acquiescence — “turrible. We had to set pails an' pans everywheres, an' move the bed out.”

“Mr. Upton ought to fix it.”

“There ain't any fix to it; the old ruff ain't fit to nail new shingles on to; the hammerin' would bring the whole thing down on our heads,” said Harriet, grimly.

“Well, I don't know as it can be fixed, it's so old. I suppose the wind comes in bad around the windows and doors too?”

“It's like livin' with a piece of paper, or mebbe a sieve, 'twixt you an' the wind an' the rain,” quoth Harriet, with a jerk of her head.

“You ought to have a more comfortable home in your old age,” said the visitor, thoughtfully.

“Oh, it's well enough,” cried Harriet, in quick alarm, and with a complete change of tone; the woman's remark had brought an old dread over her. “The old house 'll last as long as Charlotte an' me do. The rain ain't so bad, nuther is the wind; there's room enough for us in the dry places, an' out of the way of the doors an' windows. It's enough sight better than goin' on the town.” Her square, defiant old face actually looked pale as she uttered the last words and stared apprehensively at the woman.

“Oh, I did not think of your doing that,” she said, hastily and kindly. “We all know how you feel about that, Harriet, and not one of us neighbours will see you and Charlotte go to the poorhouse while we've got a crust of bread to share with you.”

Harriet's face brightened. “Thank ye, Mis' Simonds,” she said, with reluctant courtesy. “I'm much obleeged to you an' the neighbours. I think mebbe we'll be able to eat some of them doughnuts if they air tough,” she added, mollifyingly, as her caller turned down the footpath.

“My, Harriét,” said Charlotte, lifting up a weakly, wondering, peaked old face, “what did you tell her them doughnuts was tough fur?”

“Charlotte, do you want everybody to look down on us, an' think we ain't no account at all, just like any beggars, 'cause they bring us in vittles?” said Harriet, with a grim glance at her sister's meek, unconscious face.

“No, Harriét,” she whispered.

“Do you want to go to the poor-house?”

“No, Harriét.” The poor little old woman on the doorstep fairly cowered before her aggressive old sister.

“Then don't hender me agin when I tell folks their doughnuts is tough an' their pertaters is poor. If I don't kinder keep up an' show some sperrit, I sha'n't think nothing of myself, an' other folks won't nuther, and fust thing we know they'll kerry us to the poorhouse. You'd 'a been there before now if it hadn't been for me, Charlotte.”

Charlotte looked meekly convinced, and her sister sat down on a chair in the doorway to scrape her dandelions.

“Did you git a good mess, Harriét?” asked Charlotte, in a humble tone.


“They'll be proper relishin' with that piece of pork Mis' Mann brought in yesterday. O Lord, Harriét, it's a chink!”

Harriet sniffed.

Her sister caught with her sensitive ear the little contemptuous sound. “I guess,” she said, querulously, and with more pertinacity than she had shown in the matter of the doughnuts, “that if you was in the dark, as I am, Harriét, you wouldn't make fun an' turn up your nose at chinks. If you had seen the light streamin' in all of a sudden through some little hole that you hadn't known of before when you set down on the door step this mornin', and the wind with the smell of the apple blows in it came in your face, an' when Mis' Simonds brought them hot doughnuts, an' when I thought of the pork an' greens jest now — O Lord, how it did shine in! An' it does now. If you was me, Harriét, you would know there was chinks.”

Tears began starting from the sightless eyes, and streaming pitifully down the pale old cheeks.

Harriet looked at her sister, and her grim face softened. “Why, Charlotte, hev it that thar is chinks if you want to. Who cares?”

“Thar is chinks, Harriét.”

“Wa'al, thar is chinks, then. If I don't hurry, I sha'n't get these greens in in time for dinner.”

When the two old women sat down complacently to their meal of pork and dandelion greens in their little kitchen they did not dream how destiny slowly and surely was introducing some new colours into their web of life, even when it was almost completed, and that this was one of the last meals they would eat in their old home for many a day. In about a week from that day they were established in the “Old Ladies' Home” in a neighbouring city. It came about in this wise: Mrs. Simonds, the woman who had brought the gift of hot doughnuts, was a smart, energetic person, bent on doing good, and she did a great deal. To be sure, she always did it in her own way. If she chose to give hot doughnuts, she gave hot doughnuts; it made not the slightest difference to her if the recipients of her charity would infinitely have preferred ginger cookies. Still, a great many would like hot doughnuts, and she did unquestionably a great deal of good.

She had a worthy coadjutor in the person of a rich and childless elderly widow in the place. They had fairly entered into a partnership in good works, with about an equal capital on both sides, the widow furnishing the money, and Mrs. Simonds, who had much the better head of the two, furnishing the active schemes of benevolence.

The afternoon after the doughnut episode she had gone to the widow with a new project, and the result was that entrance fees had been paid, and old Harriet and Charlotte made sure of a comfortable home for the rest of their lives. The widow was hand in glove with officers of missionary boards and trustees of charitable institutions. There had been an unusual mortality among the inmates of the “Home” this spring, there were several vacancies, and the matter of the admission of Harriet and Charlotte was very quickly and easily arranged. But the matter which would have seemed the least difficult — inducing the two old women to accept the bounty which Providence, the widow, and Mrs. Simonds were ready to bestow on them — proved the most so. The struggle to persuade them to abandon their tottering old home for a better was a terrible one. The widow had pleaded with mild surprise, and Mrs. Simonds with benevolent determination; the counsel and reverend eloquence of the minister had been called in; and when they yielded at last it was with a sad grace for the recipients of a worthy charity.

It had been hard to convince them that the “Home” was not an almshouse under another name, and their yielding at length to anything short of actual force was only due probably to the plea, which was advanced most eloquently to Harriet, that Charlotte would be so much more comfortable.

The morning they came away, Charlotte cried pitifully, and trembled all over her little shrivelled body. Harriet did not cry. But when her sister had passed out of the low sagging door she turned the key in the lock, then took it out and thrust it slyly into her pocket, shaking her head to herself with an air of fierce determination.

Mrs. Simonds' husband, who was to take them to the depot, said to himself, with disloyal defiance of his wife's active charity, that it was a shame, as he helped the two distressed old souls into his light wagon, and put the poor little box, with their homely clothes in it, in behind.

Mrs. Simonds, the widow, the minister, and the gentleman from the “Home” who was to take charge of them, were all at the depot, their faces beaming with the delight of successful benevolence. But the two poor old women looked like two forlorn prisoners in their midst. It was an impressive illustration of the truth of the saying “that it is more blessed to give than to receive.”

Well, Harriet and Charlotte Shattuck went to the “Old Ladies' Home” with reluctance and distress. They stayed two months, and then — they ran away.

The “Home” was comfortable, and in some respects even luxurious; but nothing suited those two unhappy, unreasonable old women.

The fare was of a finer, more delicately served variety than they had been accustomed to; those finely flavoured nourishing soups for which the “Home” took great credit to itself failed to please palates used to common, coarser food.

“O Lord, Harriét, when I set down to the table here there ain't no chinks,” Charlotte used to say. “If we could hev some cabbage, or some pork an' greens, how the light would stream in!”

Then they had to be more particular about their dress. They had always been tidy enough, but now it had to be something more; the widow, in the kindness of her heart, had made it possible, and the good folks in charge of the “Home,” in the kindness of their hearts, tried to carry out the widow's designs.

But nothing could transform these two unpolished old women into two nice old ladies. They did not take kindly to white lace caps and delicate neckerchiefs. They liked their new black cashmere dresses well enough, but they felt as if they broke a commandment when they put them on every afternoon. They had always worn calico with long aprons at home, and they wanted to now; and they wanted to twist up their scanty grey locks into little knots at the back of their heads, and go without caps, just as they always had done.

Charlotte in a dainty white cap was pitiful, but Harriet was both pitiful and comical. They were totally at variance with their surroundings, and they felt it keenly, as people of their stamp always do. No amount of kindness and attention — and they had enough of both — sufficed to reconcile them to their new abode. Charlotte pleaded continually with her sister to go back to their old home.

“O Lord, Harriét,” she would exclaim (by the way, Charlotte's “O Lord,” which, as she used it, was innocent enough, had been heard with much disfavour in the “Home,” and she, not knowing at all why, had been remonstrated with concerning it), “let us go home. I can't stay here no ways in this world. I don't like their vittles, an' I don't like to wear a cap; I want to go home and do different. The currants will be ripe, Harriét. O Lord, thar was almost a chink, thinking about 'em. I want some of 'em; an' the Porter apples will be gittin' ripe, an' we could have some apple-pie. This here ain't good; I want merlasses fur sweeting. Can't we get back no ways, Harriét? It ain't far, an' we could walk, an' they don't lock us in, nor nothin'. I don't want to die here; it ain't so straight up to heaven from here. O Lord, I've felt as if I was slantendicular from heaven ever since I've been here, an' it's been so awful dark. I ain't had any chinks. I want to go home, Harriét.”

“We'll go to-morrow mornin',” said Harriet, finally; “We'll pack up our things an' go; we'll put on our old dresses, an' we'll do up the new ones in bundles, an' we'll jest shy out the back way to-morrow mornin'; an' we'll go. I kin find the way, an' I reckon we kin git thar, if it is fourteen mile. Mebbe somebody will give us a lift.”

And they went. With a grim humour Harriet hung the new white lace caps with which she and Charlotte had been so pestered, one on each post at the head of the bedstead, so they would meet the eyes of the first person who opened the door. Then they took their bundles, stole slyly out, and were soon on the high-road, hobbling along, holding each other's hands, as jubilant as two children, and chuckling to themselves over their escape, and the probable astonishment there would be in the “Home” over it.

“O Lord, Harriét, what do you s'pose they will say to them caps?” cried Charlotte, with a gleeful cackle.

“I guess they'll see as folks ain't going to be made to wear caps agin their will in a free kentry,” returned Harriet, with an echoing cackle, as they sped feebly and bravely along.

The “Home” stood on the very outskirts of the city, luckily for them. They would have found it a difficult undertaking to traverse the crowded streets. As it was, a short walk brought them into the free country road — free comparatively, for even here at ten o'clock in the morning there was considerable travelling to and from the city on business or pleasure.

People whom they met on the road did not stare at them as curiously as might have been expected. Harriet held her bristling chin high in air, and hobbled along with an appearance of being well aware of what she was about, that led folks to doubt their own first opinion that there was something unusual about the two old women.

Still their evident feebleness now and then occasioned from one and another more particular scrutiny. When they had been on the road a half-hour or so, a man in a covered wagon drove up behind them. After he had passed them, he poked his head around the front of the vehicle and looked back. Finally he stopped, and waited for them to come up to him.

“Like a ride, ma'am?” said he, looking at once bewildered and compassionate.

“Thankee,” said Harriet, “we'd be much obleeged.”

After the man had lifted the old women into the wagon, and established them on the back seat, he turned around, as he drove slowly along, and gazed at them curiously.

“Seems to me you look pretty feeble to be walking far,” said he. “Where were you going?”

Harriet told him with an air of defiance.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “it is fourteen miles out. You could never walk it in the world. Well, I am going within three miles of there, and I can go on a little farther as well as not. But I don't see — Have you been in the city?”

“I have been visitin' my married darter in the city,” said Harriet, calmly.

Charlotte started, and swallowed convulsively.

Harriet had never told a deliberate falsehood before in her life, but this seemed to her one of the tremendous exigencies of life which justify a lie. She felt desperate. If she could not contrive to deceive him in some way, the man might turn directly around and carry Charlotte and her back to the “Home” and the white caps.

“I should not have thought your daughter would have let you start for such a walk as that,” said the man. “Is this lady your sister? She is blind, isn't she? She does not look fit to walk a mile.”

“Yes, she's my sister,” replied Harriet, stubbornly: “an' she's blind; an' my darter didn't want us to walk. She felt reel bad about it. But she couldn't help it. She's poor, and her husband's dead, an' she's got four leetle children.”

Harriet recounted the hardships of her imaginary daughter with a glibness that was astonishing. Charlotte swallowed again.

“Well,” said the man, “I am glad I overtook you, for I don't think you would ever have reached home alive.”

About six miles from the city an open buggy passed them swiftly. In it were seated the matron and one of the gentlemen in charge of the “Home.” They never thought of looking into the covered wagon — and indeed one can travel in one of those vehicles, so popular in some parts of New England, with as much privacy as he could in his tomb. The two in the buggy were seriously alarmed, and anxious for the safety of the old women, who were chuckling maliciously in the wagon they soon left far behind. Harriet had watched them breathlessly until they disappeared on a curve of the road; then she whispered to Charlotte.

A little after noon the two old women crept slowly up the footpath across the field to their old home.

“The clover is up to our knees,” said Harriet; “an' the sorrel and the white-weed; an' there's lots of yaller butterflies.”

“O Lord, Harriét, thar's a chink, an' I do believe I saw one of them yaller butterflies go past it,” cried Charlotte, trembling all over, and nodding her grey head violently.

Harriet stood on the old sunken doorstep and fitted the key, which she drew triumphantly from her pocket, in the lock, while Charlotte stood waiting and shaking behind her.

Then they went in. Everything was there just as they had left it. Charlotte sank down on a chair and began to cry. Harriet hurried across to the window that looked out on the garden.

“The currants air ripe,” said she, “an' them pumpkins hev run all over everything.”

“O Lord, Harriét,” sobbed Charlotte, “thar is so many chinks that they air all runnin' together!”