A Philanthropist

A Philanthropist, by Josephine
Daskam

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Title: A Philanthropist
Author: Josephine Daskam
Release Date: November 6, 2007 [EBook #23366]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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PHILANTHROPIST ***

Produced by David Widger

A PHILANTHROPIST
By Josephine Daskam
Copyright, 1903, by Charles Scribner's Sons

"I suspected him from the first," said Miss Gould, with some irritation,
to her lodger. She spoke with irritation because of the amused smile of
the lodger. He bowed with the grace that characterized all his lazy
movements.
"He looked very much like that Tom Waters that I had at the Reformed
Drunkards' League last year. I even thought he was Tom--"
"I do not know Tom?" hazarded the lodger.
"No. I don't know whether I ever mentioned him to you. He came twice
to the League, and we were really quite hopeful about him, and the
third time he asked to have the meeting at his house. We thought it a
great sign--the best of signs, in fact. So as a great favor we went there
instead of meeting at the Rooms. I was a little late--I lost the way--and
when I got there I heard a great noise as if they were singing different
songs at the same time. I hurried in to lead them--they get so mixed in
the singing--and--it makes me blush now to think of it!--the wretch had
invited them all early, and--and they were all intoxicated!
"I am sorry I told you," she added with dignity; for the lodger, in an
endeavor to smile sympathetically, had lost his way and was convulsed
with a mirth entirely unregretful.
"Not at all, not at all," he murmured politely. "It is a delightful story. I
would not have missed it--a choir of reformed drunkards! But do you
not, my dear Miss Gould, perceive in these little setbacks a warning
against further attempts? Do you still attend the League? It is not
possible!"
"Possible?" echoed his visitor; for owing to certain recent and untoward
circumstances, Miss Gould was half reclining in her lodger's great
Indian chair, sipping a glass of his '49 port. "Indeed I do! They had
every one of them to be reformed all over again! It was most
disgraceful!"
Her lodger checked a rising smile, and leaned solicitously toward her,
regarding her firm, fine-featured face with flattering attention.

"Are you growing stronger? Can I bring you anything?" he inquired.
Miss Gould's color rose, half with anger at her weakness of body, half
with a vexed consciousness of his amusement.
"Thank you, no," she returned coldly, "I am ashamed to have been so
weak-minded. I must go now and tell Henry to pile the wood again in
the east corner. There will probably come another tramp very
soon--they are very prevalent this month, I hear."
Her lodger left his low wicker seat--a proof of enormous
excitement--and frowned at her.
"Do you seriously mean, Miss Gould, that you are going to run the risk
of another such--such catastrophe? It is absurd. I cannot believe it of
you! Is there no other way--"
But he had been standing a long while, it occurred to him, and he
retired to the chair again. A splinter of wood on his immaculate white
flannel coat caught his eye, and a slow smile spread over his handsome,
lazy face. It grew and grew until at last a distinct chuckle penetrated to
the dusky corner where the Indian chair leaned back against dull
Oriental draperies. Its occupant attempted to rise, her face stern, her
mouth unrelenting. He was at her side instantly.
"Take my arm--and pardon me!" he said with an irresistible grace. "It is
only my fear for your comfort, you know, Miss Gould. I cannot bear
that you should be at the mercy of every drunken fellow that wishes to
impose on you!"
As she crossed the hall that separated her territory from his, her fine,
full figure erect, her dark head high in the air, a whimsical regret came
over him that they were not younger and more foolish.
"I should certainly marry her to reform her," he said to the birch log
that spluttered on his inimitable colonial fire-dogs. And then, as the
remembrance of the events of the morning came to him, he laughed
again.

He had been disturbed at his leisurely coffee and roll by a rapid and
ceaseless pounding, followed by a violent rattling, and varied by stifled
cries apparently from the woodshed.