by BJ Hoff
Jess Dalton was making a difference in Five Points. By touching a heart here, and another there, he was beginning to change lives for the better. Sara had never heard preaching quite like that of the big curly haired pastor with the compassionate eyes. The man seemed thoroughly comfortable with all kinds of people. Whether standing in the pulpit of his prosperous church on Fifth Avenue or in a tent surrounded by the destitute and downtrodden, he had a way of communicating the loving heart of God in a simple but compelling way. No “hellfire and brimstone” preacher, Pastor Dalton nevertheless managed to instruct and convict in a quiet, steady voice that never failed to convey the gentle warmth of Christ’s forgiving love.
Sara could not imagine anyone coming away from his sermons unchanged. Certainly he had caused her to do some thinking about her own life.
This morning’s sermon at the church on Fifth Avenue, for example, had stirred a discomfiting look at a flaw in her nature she would have preferred to ignore. Perhaps because it bordered on hypocrisy—a sin from which Sara would have believed herself exempt—she had, up until now, avoided confronting it.
It wasn’t merely that she occasionally caught herself feeling smug, much like the sanctimonious Pharisee who considered himself better than other sinners. No, this was something more treacherous, more complicated than simple self-righteousness.
Listening to Pastor Dalton, Sara had been seized by an uncompromising conviction of her own sin. Shaken, she at first tried to retreat into denial. After hours of contemplative prayer, followed by an intense bout of soul-searching she had come to admit that her critical, judgmental attitude toward members of her own social circle—including members of her own congregation—was every bit as sinful as the attitudes she was forever condemning in others.
Sara knew that among her friends she was considered to be a “good Christian”: fair-minded, generous-natured, and unswervingly dedicated to benevolence and good works. She had been raised in a household which upheld the principle that a “good Christian” was to give and to serve in proportion to the level of one’s own prosperity. The more one prospered, the more one strived to mitigate the suffering of those less fortunate.
Her father, while unconventional to the point of raising eyebrows among the more tradition-bound of his class, was unflagging in his devotion to Christian service. Her lovely, genteel mother had died when Sara was only five, but Clarissa Farmington’s kindness and generosity were legendary, not only among her household servants, but among tenement dwellers and Christian workers throughout the city.
Although Sara only vaguely remembered her mother’s soft voice and sweet smile, she was ever mindful of her legacy. Inscribed upon Clarissa Farmington’s gravestone and upon her daughter’s heart were the words: Many women have done excellently, but you surpass them all.
Sara made every effort to follow in her mother’s footsteps as she ministered in her own way to the lost and impoverished souls in the city’s slum areas. Active in the Ladies’ Home Missionary Society of her local congregation, she also spent hours every month as a volunteer for the Infants Hospital.
She had no reservations whatever about going among the most degraded poor wretches in the Five Points slum, knew no fear of the drunks who lined up in the alleys to beg in broad daylight. She was not repulsed by the poor hygiene or appalling physical handicaps she encountered in the tenements. To her, poverty, illness, and even degradation were not nearly so offensive as was the apathy and scorn she observed in many of her contemporaries.
Like her mother, she looked after their household help with diligence and real affection. Ginger, their West Indies housekeeper, received a handsome salary and more time off than any servant on Fifth Avenue. Like their other household servants, she was treated to generous gifts and favors throughout the year.
For years, Sara had lived what she thought to be a selfless, humanitarian existence. She would have no part in the discrimination and cruelty exhibited by many of her contemporaries toward the immigrants pouring into the city. Where others shrank from any form of involvement with these “undesirables,” Sara opened her arms to embrace them. She truly did not understand society’s aversion toward the impoverished and the oppressed, could not seem to help involving herself in the lives of others. It went against her very nature to turn her back on someone in need.
But Pastor Dalton’s sermon that morning had jolted her to a shattering realization: She was not what she thought herself to be, nor were her motives quite so pure as she was sure the Lord would like.
The message had struck her with such force that she had written down the closing words:
“Charity is not merely an act of giving. It is an attitude. It does not demand or set conditions. It does not harbor expectations. True Christian charity is borne of a spirit large enough and great enough to look past the prejudices and weaknesses, the pettiness and the sin of the human heart and see the love of our Lord and Savior reaching out to all mankind, whatever their condition.”
Now, as the pastor reached the closing of his evening message, Sara was once more jarred by the conviction that today the Lord had spoken to her in unmistakable terms, exposing an ugly sin in her life—a sin she had deliberately ignored for years. Jess Dalton’s final words were for her:
“Christian charity is defined at the cross, the great equalizer of all time. When Christ looked down from the cross, He didn’t see rich or poor, fools or saints, slaves or enslavers, bankers or beggars. He saw sinners—sinners in need of a Savior. He didn’t qualify His love or His forgiveness—and we have no right to put conditions on ours, either. He loves that difficult neighbor you can’t abide, that wretched opium eater, that pompous, hypocritical alderman with the fat cigar—He loves them all—just as much as He loves you and me. And He calls us to love with the same unconditional love!”
The blood hammering wildly in her ears, Sara swallowed against the lump in her throat. How many times had she silently condemned a member of her own congregation for exhibiting what she interpreted as Pharisaism, prejudice, or indifference?
How many among the circle of her acquaintances and friends had she judged as heartless, denying them her respect, goodwill, and affection? Why, she had actually severed relationships—old family ties—because she deemed the other party to be selfish or without social conscience!
“He loves them just as they are, and we should thank Him with our every breath that He does! Where would any one of us be if our Lord could love only spotless, sin-free souls who lived up to His expectations?”
Her condemning spirit had secretly demanded that her friends and acquaintances live up to Sara Farmington’s expectations before they could be counted worthy of her affection.
God forgive me, I’ve tried and judged others as if I somehow had the right to condemn their hearts. Yet, by withholding understanding and love from those I found lacking, I am as guilty as those I’ve condemned!
Sara sat in stunned silence, oblivious to the movement around her. The service was over, but still she sat, intent and isolated within the shell of her own contemplation. Suddenly she jumped and gasped when a broad shoulder squeezed in next to her.
Michael Burke smiled down at her with a quizzical expression. “Miss Farmington—I’m sorry, did I startle you?”
Sara blinked, taking a moment to recover. “Sergeant Burke—I—no! No, that’s quite all right. I must have been…lost in the sermon.”
“Aye, he gives a powerful message, doesn’t he?” the sergeant replied. “Unfortunately, I had to miss most of this evening’s—we had an entire gang of disruptives to handle before the service ever started. I’m just now getting back to the tent.” Burke stood and extended an arm to her. “These Sunday evening congregations are growing fast,” he observed, waiting for her to rise, then escorting her to the tent’s exit. “We have to put on an extra man or two most every week.”
“You said there was trouble earlier—what happened?”
His lip curled with distaste. “Just a gang of drunk
en Irishers in a mood to rile the crowd. A normal occurrence down here.”
“But surely all the troublemakers aren’t Irish?”
He looked at her, his eyes still hard. “As it happens, they usually are,” he said bitterly. “Our lads and lassies from the Emerald Isle account for the largest population of the Tombs—the city jail. We haven’t the cells to hold them all, and the problem is only growing worse.”
His biting candor about his own people made Sara feel awkward and embarrassed for him. “Many of them are desperate, I’m sure—”
“Begging your pardon, Miss Farmington,” he interrupted, “but I hear that excuse far too often. Oh, the Irish in the city are in dire straits, there’s no denying it. But a vast number of them bring on their own grief—or at least add to it—simply because they can’t keep their faces out of the bottle!”
Sara could almost feel the man’s anger as the harsh words poured from him. “They drink because they can’t find work,” he went on. “They drink because they miss the ‘ould country.’ They drink because they believe themselves to be disadvantaged and persecuted. They drink for any number of reasons, but many, I’m afraid, drink just because they love to drink!”
His bitterness pierced Sara’s heart. She sensed that Michael Burke’s anger was motivated by shame and grief for his people. “It seems we’re always harder on our own, Sergeant,” she said softly. “I’ve had to deal with that particular…problem…myself recently.”
His left eye narrowed slightly, a mannerism Sara had come to recognize as a sign of skepticism or puzzlement.
She managed a rueful smile. “It’s the very thing I was chastising myself about only moments ago. I’ve always been too quick to criticize my peers, I’m afraid. I suppose we simply expect—or demand—more of those we consider ‘our own kind.’ And when they don’t live up to our expectations, we tend to strike out at them. I’m only now beginning to realize that I have a great deal more forgiveness and understanding for total strangers than I do for the very ones I call my friends.”
Searching her face, the sergeant lifted one dark brow. “You are a painfully honest young woman, Sara Farmington—Miss Farmington,” he corrected quickly.
Inexplicably flustered, Sara glanced away. “Sara will do just fine, Sergeant,” she assured him. “I believe we’ve known each other long enough by now to dispense with the formalities.”
“That being the case,” he countered with a grin, “you might want to know that my name is not Sergeant, after all. It’s Michael.”
“Oh…yes. Yes, of course,” Sara stammered, feeling ridiculously young and awkward under his amused scrutiny.
“Nora and the children—they’re well?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, they’re fine!” Sara said, relieved at the change of subject. “As a matter of fact, Father took them and Evan Whittaker on the ferry to Staten Island this afternoon. I’m sure the children will love it, but frankly I’m afraid Nora wasn’t all that excited about being on the water again, so soon after their ocean voyage.”
The sergeant made no reply for a moment. When he finally spoke, Sara wondered at the sharpness in his tone. “Whittaker went with them, you say?”
“Whittaker?” Sara stared at him blankly. “Oh—yes! Yes, Evan went along, too.”
His dark brows dipped lower, his mouth again went hard. “They seem to have become great friends, Nora and Whittaker.” Again, the unpleasant edge in his voice.
“Why…yes, I suppose they have.”
“Not exactly a common thing between the Irish and the British. But, then, according to Nora, Whittaker is not your ordinary Englishman.”
Good heavens, he sounded almost…jealous! Jealous of Evan Whittaker? For an instant, the idea caught Sara up short. Could Nora possibly be interested in the Englishman—romantically interested, that is? It was no secret around the Farmington mansion that Evan was sweet on Nora—Ginger clucked her tongue in sympathy for the “poor mon” at least once a day. But with the handsome, virile Michael Burke just waiting in the wings for her to accept his proposal, it had never occurred to any one of them that perhaps Nora’s interest might lie elsewhere.
Sara felt a faint stirring of something akin to hope. Just as quickly, she shook it off. Of course Nora didn’t care for Evan—that way!
And whether she did or not, Sara had no call to go getting wild ideas about Michael Burke! Even if by some remote possibility Nora should happen to be out of the picture, why would the police sergeant give an uptown spinster like herself a second glance? New York was filled with younger—and prettier—Irish girls.
The man was an Irish policeman, for goodness’ sake! And she was Lewis Farmington’s daughter, after all. Farmingtons didn’t carry on over Irish policemen, even foolish, old-maid Farmingtons like herself!
“Miss Farmington? Sara?”
Sara blinked. Michael Burke was staring at her with a decidedly curious expression. “Yes—I’m sorry?”
“I asked how you came? Is Uriah waiting for you?”
“Oh, no—no, I came with the Daltons, actually.”
“Well, then, would you like to walk a bit, until they’re ready to leave?”
When Sara hesitated, he put in quickly, “Not in the Points. I was thinking we might start toward Broadway.”
“I—well, I should stay and help…the pastor and Kerry may need an extra pair of hands.” Now, why had she said that? She wanted to go, wanted to be with him.
He waited, smiling at her in the most disconcerting manner.
“Well, perhaps just a short walk,” she said uncertainly, looking up to study the evening sky with feigned interest. “But I’ll need to tell the Daltons.”
He nodded, his smile widening.
Sara turned with a jerk and headed toward the Daltons, who were still surrounded by those few evening worshipers reluctant to leave. She was thoroughly disgusted with herself. What was there about Michael Burke that threw her into such a dither? He had the most unsettling way of making her feel like a silly, empty-headed schoolgirl!
Watching Sara Farmington and Michael Burke make their way out of Paradise Square, Jess Dalton attempted to carry on a disjointed conversation with his wife. There were frequent interruptions from the worshipers still filing past, but by now he and Kerry had grown skilled at communicating in fragments.
“What do you make of Sara and her policeman?” he asked in a low voice. Jess had seen the two together on other occasions, chatting after services usually, both looking somewhat stiff and uncomfortable in each other’s company.
“What I think is that they’re trying awfully hard to ignore their feelings for each other,” Kerry replied, smiling cheerfully as she greeted the Widow Ransom.
Surprised, Jess continued to smile as he said goodnight to Willie Toothman and his pretty wife, Sally, who was very much in the family way. “So you believe there are feelings there?”
“Faith, Jess, only a blind man could not see the sparks flying between those two!” Kerry paused to give poor Vida Ransom a hug. “And why are you looking so amused?” she said after the widow and her daughter went on by.
“I was considering the implications of a millionaire’s daughter being paired with an Irish policeman,” Jess murmured. Turning back to the worshipers, he gripped the dry, gnarled hand of Cletus Denvers, intoxicated as usual. Putting a hand to the man’s shoulder, he said, “It’s good to see you here, Cletus. You’ll come back again next Sunday, I hope?”
Kerry looked up at him. “Sara’s not all that clever at disguising her feelings, is she?”
Jess shook his head, both in answer to her question and as a greeting to a young woman who refused to meet his eye. Her face was garishly painted, her hair frizzed, but he had noticed her among the crowd on more than one occasion. “Good to have you. Please come again,” he said warmly, shaking her hand. She hurried from the tent, still avoiding his gaze.
Kerry’s eyes softened as she watched the woman scurry outside the tent. Keeping her voice low, she sai
d, “Do you suppose the sergeant is aware of Sara’s…interest?”
“Not likely,” answered Jess with a tired sigh as his gaze took in several worshipers still milling about the tent. “I believe the sergeant is too busy dealing with his own feelings to notice Sara’s.”
“Oh, d’you think so, Jess?”
He didn’t miss the hopeful note in her voice.
“I recognize the signs,” he said, solemnly, “having been badly smitten myself a few years back.”
Her sharp little chin snapped up. “You make it sound somewhat like hydrophobia.”
He pretended to consider her retort. “It does carry some of the same symptoms, I suppose.”
“And am I to assume from that remark, then, that you are no longer smitten, Mr. Dalton?”
He grinned at her. “Not at all, Mrs. Dalton. Just like hydrophobia, my condition has no known cure.”
She attempted a severe frown, reminding him, “We were discussing Sergeant Burke and Sara Farmington.”
“You were discussing Sergeant Burke and Sara Farmington. I was counting the shamrocks in your eyes.”
“You are daft.”
“And it’s entirely your doing.”
“We should be getting home,” she said, ignoring the squeeze he gave her hand. “Where has our son taken himself off to, d’you suppose?”
“If he’s true to form, we’ll find him at the chestnut stand on Mulberry by now.”
“Jess,” Kerry said thoughtfully, “that limp of Sara Farmington’s—do you know how she came by it?”
Jess nodded. “Her father told me. She was born with one hip out of alignment. The doctors could do nothing to correct the problem.”
“Another condition with no known cure?”