Unredeemed Pledges by T. S. Arthur
TWO men were walking along a public thoroughfare in New York. One
of them was a young merchant—the other a man past the prime of life,
and belonging to the community of Friends. They were in conversation,
and the manner of the former, earnest and emphatic, was in marked
contrast with the quiet and thoughtful air of the other.
"There is so much idleness and imposture among the poor," said the
merchant, "that you never know when your alms are going to do harm or
good. The beggar we just passed is able to work; and that woman
sitting at the corner with a sick child in her arms, would be far
better off in the almshouse. No man is more willing to give than I
am, if I only knew where and when to give."
"If we look around us carefully, Mr. Edwards," returned the Quaker,
we need be at no loss on this subject. Objects enough will present
themselves. Virtuous want is, in most cases, unobtrusive, and will
suffer rather than extend a hand for relief. We must seek for objects
of benevolence in by-places. We must turn aside into untrodden walks."
"But even then," objected Mr. Edwards, "we cannot be certain that
idleness and vice are not at the basis of the destitution we find. I
have had my doubts whether any who exercise the abilities which God
has given them, need want for the ordinary comforts of life in this
country. In all cases of destitution, there is something wrong, you
may depend upon it."
"Perhaps there is," said the Quaker. "Evil of some kind is ever the
cause of destitution and wretchedness. Such bitter waters as these
cannot flow from a sweet fountain. Still, many are brought to
suffering through the evil ways of others; and many whose own wrong
doings have reacted upon them in unhappy consequences, deeply repent
of the past, and earnestly desire to live better lives in future.
Both need kindness, encouragement, and, it may be, assistance; and it
is the duty of those who have enough and to spare, to stretch forth
their hands to aid, comfort and sustain them."
"Yes. That is true. But, how are we to know who are the real
objects of our benevolence?"
"We have but to open our eyes and see, Mr. Edwards," said the
Quaker. "The objects of benevolence are all around us."
"Show me a worthy object, and you will find me ready to relieve
it," returned the merchant. "I am not so selfish as to be indifferent
to human suffering. But I think it wrong to encourage idleness and
vice; and for this reason, I never give unless I am certain that the
object who presents himself is worthy."
"True benevolence does not always require us to give alms," said
the Friend. "We may do much to aid, comfort and help on with their
burdens our fellow travellers, and yet not bestow upon them what is
called charity. Mere alms-giving, as thee has intimated, but too
often encourages vice and idleness. But thee desires to find a worthy
object of benevolence. Let us see if we cannot find one, What have we
here?" And as the Quaker said this he paused before a building, from
the door of which protruded a red flag, containing the words, "Auction
this day." On a large card just beneath the flag was the announcement,
"Positive sale of unredeemed pledges."
"Let us turn in here," said the Quaker. "No doubt we shall find
enough to excite our sympathies."
Mr. Edwards thought this a strange proposal; but he felt a little
curious, and followed his companion without hesitation.
The sale had already begun, and there was a small company
assembled. Among them, the merchant noticed a young woman whose face
was partially veiled. She was sitting a little apart from the rest,
and did not appear to take any interest in the bidding. But he noticed
that, after an article was knocked off, she was all attention until
the next was put up, and then, the moment it was named, relapsed into
a sort of listlessness or abstraction.
The articles sold embraced a great variety of things useful and
ornamental. In the main they were made up of watches, silver plate,
jewellery and wearing apparel. There were garments of every kind,
quality and condition, upon which money to about a fourth of their
real value had been loaned; and not having been redeemed, they were
now to be sold for the benefit of the pawnbroker.
The company bid with animation, and article after article was sold
off. The interest at first awakened by the scene, new to the young
merchant, wore off in a little while, and turning to his companion he
said—"I don't see that much is to be gained by staying here."
"Wait a little longer, and perhaps thee will think differently,"
returned the Quaker, glancing towards the young woman who has been
mentioned, as he spoke.
The words had scarcely passed his lips, when the auctioneer took up
a small gold locket containing a miniature, and holding it up, asked
for a bid.
"How much for this? How much for this beautiful gold locket and
miniature? Give me a bid. Ten dollars! Eight dollars! Five dollars!
Four dollars—why, gentlemen, it never cost less than fifty! Four
dollars! Four dollars! Will no one give four dollars for this
beautiful gold locket and miniature? It's thrown away at that price."
At the mention of the locket, the young woman came forward and
looked up anxiously at the auctioneer. Mr. Edwards could see enough
of her face to ascertain that it was an interesting and intelligent
one, though very sad.
"Three dollars!" continued the auctioneer. But there was no bid.
"Two dollars! One dollar!"
"One dollar," was the response from a man who stood just in front
of the woman. Mr. Edwards, whose eyes were upon the latter, noticed
that she became much agitated the moment this bid was made.
"One dollar we have! One dollar! Only one dollar!" cried the
auctioneer. "Only one dollar for a gold locket and miniature worth
forty. One dollar!"
"Nine shillings," said the young woman in a low, timid voice.
"Nine shillings bid! Nine shillings! Nine shillings!"
"Ten shillings," said the first bidder.
"Ten shillings it is! Ten shillings, and thrown away. Ten
"Eleven shillings," said the girl, beginning to grow excited. Mr.
Edwards, who could not keep his eyes off of her face, from which the
veil had entirely fallen, saw that she was trembling with eagerness
"Eleven shillings!" repeated the auctioneer, glancing at the first
bidder, a coarse-looking man, and the only one who seemed disposed to
bid against the young woman.
"Twelve shillings," said the man resolutely.
A paleness went over the face of the other bidder, and a quick
tremor passed through her frame.
"Twelve shillings is bid. Twelve shillings is bid. Twelve
shillings!" And the auctioneer now looked towards the young woman
who, in a faint voice, said—
By this time the merchant began to understand the meaning of what
was passing before him. The miniature was that of a middle-aged lady;
and it required no great strength of imagination to determine that the
original was the mother of the young woman who seemed so anxious to
possess the locket.
"But how came it here?" was the involuntary suggestion to the mind
of Mr. Edwards. "Who pawned it? Did she?"
"Fourteen shillings," said the man who was bidding, breaking in
upon the reflections of Mr. Edwards.
The veil that had been drawn aside, fell instantly over the face of
the young woman, and she shrunk back from her prominent position, yet
still remained in the room.
"Fourteen shillings is bid. Fourteen shillings! Are you all done?
Fourteen shillings for a gold locket and miniature. Fourteen!
The companion of Mr. Edwards glanced towards him with a meaning
look. The merchants for a moment bewildered, found his mind clear
"Twice!" screamed the auctioneer. "Once! Twice! Three——"
"Twenty shillings," dropped from the lips of Mr. Edwards.
"Twenty shillings! Twenty shillings!" cried the auctioneer with
renewed animation. The man who had been bidding against the girl
turned quickly to see what bold bidder was in the field: and most of
the company turned with him. The young woman at the same time drew
aside her veil and looked anxiously towards Mr. Edwards, who, as he
obtained a fuller view of her face, was struck with it as familiar.
"Twenty-one shillings," was bid in opposition.
"Twenty-five," said the merchant, promptly.
The first bidder, seeing that Mr. Edwards was determined to run
against him, and being a little afraid that he might be left with a
ruinous bid on his hands, declined advancing, and the locket was
assigned to the young merchant, who, as soon as he had received it,
turned and presented it to the young woman, saying as he did so—
"It is yours."
The young woman caught hold of it with an eager gesture, and after
gazing on it for a few moments, pressed it to her lips.
"I have not the money to pay for it," she said in a low sad voice,
recovering herself in a few moments; and seeking to return the
"It is yours!" replied Mr. Edwards. Then thrusting back the hand
she had extended, and speaking with some emotion, he said—"Keep
it—keep it, in Heaven's name!"
And saying this he hastily retired, for he became conscious that
many eyes were upon him; and he felt half ashamed to have betrayed
his weakness before a coarse, unfeeling crowd. For a few moments he
lingered in the street; but his companion not appearing, he went on
his way, musing on the singular adventure he had encountered. The
more distinctly he recalled the young woman's face, the more
strangely familiar did it seem.
About an hour afterwards, as Mr. Edwards sat reading a letter, the
Quaker entered his store.
"Ah, how do you do? I am glad to see you," said the merchant, his
manner more than usually earnest. "Did you see anything more of that
"Yes," replied the Quaker. "I could not leave one like her without
knowing something of her past life and present circumstances. I think
even you will hardly be disposed to regard her as an object unworthy
"No, certainly I will not. Her appearance, and the circumstances
under which we found her, are all in her favor."
"But we turned aside from the beaten path. We looked into a
by-place to us; or we would not have discovered her. She was not
obtrusive. She asked no aid; but, with the last few shillings that
remained to her in the world, had gone to recover, if possible, an
unredeemed pledge—the miniature of her mother, on which she had
obtained a small advance of money to buy food and medicine for the
dying original. This is but one of the thousand cases of real distress
that are all around us. We could see them if we did but turn aside
for a moment into ways unfamiliar to our feet."
"Did you learn who she was, and anything of her condition?" asked
"Oh yes. To do so was but a common dictate of humanity. I would
have felt it as a stain upon my conscience to have left one like her
uncared for in the circumstances under which we found her."
"Did you accompany her home?"
"Yes; I went with her to the place she called her home—a room in
which there was scarcely an article of comfort—and there learned the
history of her past life and present condition. Does thee remember
Belgrave, who carried on a large business in Maiden Lane some years
"Very well. But, surely this girl is not Mary Belgrave?"
"Yes. It was Mary Belgrave whom we met at the pawnbroker's sale."
"Mary Belgrave! Can it be possible? I knew the family had become
poor; but not so poor as this!"
And Mr. Edwards, much disturbed in mind, walked uneasily about the
floor. But soon pausing, he said—
"And so her mother is dead!"
"Yes. Her father died two years ago and her mother, who has been
sick ever since, died last week in abject poverty, leaving Mary
friendless, in a world where the poor and needy are but little
regarded. The miniature which Mary had secretly pawned in order to
supply the last earthly need of her mother, she sought by her labor
to redeem; but ere she had been able to save up enough for the
purpose, the time for which the pledge had been taken, expired, and
the pawn broker refused to renew it. Under the faint hope that she
might be able to buy it in with the little pittance of money she had
saved, she attended the sale where we found her."
The merchant had resumed his seat, and although he had listened
attentively to the Quaker's brief history, he did not make any reply,
but soon became lost in thought. From this he was interrupted by his
visitor, who said, as he moved towards the door—
"I will bid thee good morning, friend Edwards."
"One moment, if you please," said the merchant, arousing himself,
and speaking earnestly, "Where does Mary Belgrave live?"
The Friend answered the question, and, as Mr. Edwards did not seem
inclined to ask any more, and besides fell back again into an
abstract state, he wished him good morning and retired.
The poor girl was sitting alone in her room sewing, late in the
afternoon of the day on which the incident at the auction room
occurred, musing, as she had mused for hours, upon the unexpected
adventure. She did not, in the excitement of the moment, know Mr.
Edwards when he first tendered her the miniature; but when he said
with peculiar emphasis and earnestness, turning away as he
spoke—"Keep it, in Heaven's name!" she recognized him fully. Since
that moment, she had not been able to keep the thought of him from
her mind. They had been intimate friends at one time; but this was
while they were both very young. Then he had professed for her a
boyish passion; and she had loved him with the childish fondness of a
young school-girl. As they grew older, circumstances separated them
more; and though no hearts were broken in consequence, both often
thought of the early days of innocence and affection with pleasure.
Mary sat sewing, as we have said, late in the afternoon of the day
on which the incident at the auction room occurred, when there was a
tap at her door. On opening it, Mr. Edwards stood before her. She
stepped back a pace or two in instant surprise and confusion, and he
advanced into the desolate room. In a moment, however, Mary recovered
herself, and with as much self-possession as, under the circumstances,
she could assume, asked her unexpected visitor to take a chair, which
she offered him.
Mr. Edwards sat down, feeling much oppressed. Mary was so changed
in everything, except in the purity and beauty of her countenance,
since he had seen her years before, that his feelings were completely
borne down. But he soon recovered himself enough to speak to her of
what was in his mind. He had an old aunt, who had been a friend of
Mary's mother, and from her he brought a message and an offer of a
home. Her carriage was at the door—it had been sent for her—and he
urged her to go with him immediately. Mary had no good reason for
declining so kind an offer. It was a home that she most of all needed;
and she could not refuse one like this.
"There is another unredeemed pledge," said Mr. Edwards,
significantly, as he sat conversing with Mary about a year after she
had found a home in the house of his aunt. Allusion had been made to
the miniature of Mary's mother.
"Ah!" was the simple response.
"Yes. Don't you remember," and he took Mary's unresisting
hand—"the pledge of this hand which you made me, I cannot tell how
many years ago?"
"That was a mere girlish pledge," ventured Mary, with drooping
"But one that the woman will redeem," said Edwards confidently,
raising the hand to his lips at the same time, and kissing it.
Mary leaned involuntarily towards him; and he, perceiving the
movement, drew his arm around her, and pressed his lips to her cheek.
It was no very long time afterwards before the pledge was redeemed.