FullReads

About two years after my acquaintance with Peyton began, an incident let me deeper into the character and quality of his generosity. I called one day at the house of a poor widow woman who washed for me, to ask her to do up some clothes, extra to the usual weekly washing. I thought she looked as if she were in trouble about something, and said so to her.

“It’s very hard, at best,” she replied, “for a poor woman, with three or four children to provide for, to get along–especially if, like me, she has to depend upon washing and ironing for a living. But when so many neglect to pay her regularly”–

“Neglect to pay their washerwoman!” I said, in a tone of surprise, interrupting her.

“Oh, yes. Many do that!”

“Who?”

“Dashing young men, who spend their money freely, are too apt to neglect these little matters, as they call them.”

“And do young men, for whom you work, really neglect to pay you?”

“Some do. There are at least fifteen dollars now owed to me, and I don’t know which way to turn to get my last month’s rent for my landlord, who has been after me three times this week already. Mr. Peyton owes me ten dollars, and I can’t”–

“Mr. Peyton? It can’t be possible!”

“Yes, it is, though. He used to be one of the most punctual young men I washed for. But, of late, he never has any money.”

“He’s a very generous-hearted young man.”

“Yes, I know he is,” she replied. “But something is wrong with him. He looks worried whenever I ask him for money; and sometimes speaks as if half angry with me for troubling him. There’s Mr. Merwin–I wish all were like him. I have never yet taken home his clothes, that I didn’t find the money waiting for me, exact to a cent. He counts every piece when he lays out his washing for me, and knows exactly what it will come to: and then, if he happens to be out, the change is always left with the chambermaid. It’s a pleasure to do any thing for him.”

“He isn’t liked generally as well as Mr. Peyton is,” said I.

“Isn’t he? It’s strange!” the poor woman returned, innocently.

On the very next day, I saw Peyton riding out with an acquaintance in a buggy.

“Who paid for your ride, yesterday?” I said to the latter, with whom I was quite familiar, when next we met.

“Oh, Peyton, of course. He always pays, you know. He’s a fine, generous fellow. I wish there were more like him.”

“That you might ride out for nothing a little oftener, hey?”

My friend coloured slightly.

“No, not that,” said he. “But you know there is so much selfishness in the world; we hardly ever meet a man who is willing to make the slightest sacrifice for the good of others.”

“True. And I suppose it is this very selfishness that makes us so warmly admire a man like Mr. Peyton, who is willing to gratify us at his own charge. It’s a pleasant thing to ride out and see the country, but we are apt to think twice about the costs before we act once. But if some friend will only stand the expense, how generous and whole-souled we think him! It is the same in every thing else. We like the enjoyments, but can’t afford the expense; and he is a generous, fine-hearted fellow, who will squander his money in order to gratify us. Isn’t that it, my friend?” said I, slapping him on the shoulder.

He looked half convinced, and a little sheepish, to use an expressive Saxonism.

On the evening succeeding this day, Peyton sat alone in his room, his head leaning upon his hand, and his brow contracted. There was a tap at his door. “Come in.” A poorly-clad, middle-aged woman entered. It was his washerwoman.

The lines on the young man’s brow became deeper.

“Can’t you let me have some money, Mr. Peyton? My landlord is pressing hard for his rent, and I cannot pay him until you pay me.”