CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

AN ACT OF DESPAIR.

Mrs. Wentworth reached the store of Mr. Swartz and entered.  The clerk looked at her in astonishment.  She was unrecognizable.  Her dress was ragged and dirty; the hands and face that once rivalled the Parian marble in whiteness, were tanned by toil, and lay shrivelled and dried.  Her hair was dishevelled and gathered up in an uncomely heap on the back of her head.  She looked like the beggar, she had become.

“Some beggar,” the clerk said, in a contemptuous tone, as he advanced towards her.

“Is Mr. Swartz in?” enquired Mrs. Wentworth in a husky tone.

“What do you want with him?” he demanded in a gruff voice.

“I desire to see him privately, for a few moments,” she answered.

“If it is charity you have come to beg, you may as well save yourself the trouble,” observed the clerk.  “This house don’t undertake to support all the beggars in Jackson.”

As his brutal words fell on her ear, a spark of womanly dignity filled her breast, and her eyes kindled with indignation.  She looked at him for a moment sternly and silently, until her gaze caused him to turn his countenance from her, abashed at the mute rebuke she had administered.  The pride of by-gone days had returned, with the unfeeling remarks of the clerk, and Mrs. Wentworth again felt all the bitterness of her position.

“I did not say I was an applicant for charity,” she said at last “All I desire to know is, if Mr. Swartz is in.”

“I believe he is,” replied the clerk.  “Do you wish to see him, ma’am.”

His tone was more respectful.  Even poverty can command respect at times, and the threadbare garment be looked upon with as much difference as the gorgeous silken dress.  It was so at this moment.

“Yes, I desire to see him,” answered Mrs. Wentworth.  “Be kind enough to inform Mr. Swartz that a lady has called upon him.”

As she used the word “lady,” the clerk elevated his eyebrows, and a smile of pity stole over his features.  Lady!  Could the miserable looking object, who stood before him have any claim to the title.  Poor woman!  She knew not that the outward form of woman is the only recognized title to the term.  What though the mind be filled with the loftiest sentiment, and stored with the richest lore of learning.  What though the heart be purer than the snow which covers the mountain tops, can they ever claim a position among the favorites of fortune, when accompanied by beggary?  Philanthropists, and philosophers tell us they can, but the demon, Prejudice, has erected a banner, which can never be pulled down, until man resumes the patriarchal life of centuries ago, and society, the mockery by which we claim civilization was built up, is removed from the earth, and mankind can mingle with each other in free and unrestricted intercourse.

That day will never come.