CHAPTER II.
THE HOUSE OF DEATH.
In a dingy, filthy street, known to those familiar with New York as Mott, there stood, among a great many others of the same class, an old, dilapidated, wooden structure, which, though it could scarcely bear the title of dwelling, was used as such, or rather as an abode, by a few miserable tenants, whose poverty precluded the possibility of their seeking one more pleasant and commodious. Since its erection, the street whereon it stood had been somewhat raised, which gave to the building the appearance of having sunk into the earth some two or three feet. Its windows could hardly boast a sound pane of glass— in some cases not any—and the door of entrance was broken from its hinges. There was no fear of thieves here, for the simple reason there was nothing within worth the trouble of stealing; and hence the tenants lived less in dread of their neighbors than the elements, whose cold penetration, on such a night as we have described in the opening chapter, was any thing but agreeable. Between this building and a similar one on the left, ran a narrow, filthy alley, communicating with a miserable hovel in the rear, containing only two apartments, badly ventillated and worse lighted. To this latter we must for the present direct our attention. In the front apartment—or at least in that apartment nearest the street, for neither, strickly speaking, could be called front—on the night our story opens, there were two occupants—a mother and daughter— the former lying upon a rude bed, worn down almost to a skeleton, and in the agonies of a disease which was fast bearing her to a world that knows no sorrow, and the latter kneeling by her side on the damp floor, clasping her thin hand, and weeping the bitterest tears a mortal can feel. The elder was a woman slightly turned of forty, but bearing the marks of sixty years—the third score being added by trouble rather than time. Although, as previously stated, sadly wasted by sorrow and disease, yet the outlines of her pale, sunken features and a glance of her deep blue eye, which was scarcely shorn of its wonted luster, showed she had once been a very beautiful being—beautiful by reason of intellect as well as person. In sooth, what is beauty of person without intellect, but the cold expressionless wax figure, or the equally inanimate doll? The features and form of the daughter bore a strong resemblance to those of her mother in her palmiest days. Her skin was fine and clear, and her deep blue eyes beamed with a soft and tender light, showing a soul full of all the sweetest, purest and holiest feelings of humanity. Her hair was a light brown, and parted over a smooth, handsome forehead, which gave to her a noble and benevolent appearance. In fine, combine the whole features— which to define singly would almost be impossible, as the strong points for which the painter would seek were every where wanting—and you beheld one of those angelic creatures that seem formed to convey to us an accurate conception of beings too lovely to dwell in a place so cold and heartless, unless for a brief period, to soften, as it were, by the sunshine of their presence, the dark and cheerless aspect which must otherwise surround us. Her form, not above medium, was airy and graceful as that of sylph; while her tiny feet and white delicate hands would have won favor from the most fastidious connossieur. Add to this, that her age was just eighteen, and with a little imagination you can place her accurately before your mind's eye. Lovely as she was in person, not less so was she in those virtues which most adorn her sex. There was nothing in her disposition of a cold, haughty, repulsive nature; but, on the contrary, she was ardent, mild and affectionate, forgiving to a fault, and full of all those sweet and holy sympathies which sometimes make us pause and wonder why earth is permitted to contain a being so illy suited to its jars and discords. But a little reflection will show us that this is a wise ordination of that Great Being who set the wheels of creation in motion—for what would our world be without occasionally such spirits to produce a harmony with the rough chords of life? Without such gentle spirits, what would earth be but pandemonium— a darkened sphere of gloom and sorrow, illumined by no ray of happiness? The apartment where these two beings were, was unfurnished, or at least so scantily as to be unworthy of the name. A few rough chairs, an old worm-eaten bureau, a deal table, on which stood a sickly, tallow candle, sending forth a dismal light, that rather served to show than dispel the darkness, together with the bed and a few of the most common articles in use, completed the list. In the fire-place lingered a few embers, fast going out for lack of fuel to renew the flame. And this cold, dismal, dungeon-like place, was the present abode of those whose every look and gesture, to say nothing of their language, told that to them it was a new life, or rather a living wretchedness to which they had never been accustomed. Oh, what a gloomy scene was this! what a terrible trial for those to undergo who had heretofore been used to wealth, ease and refinement! What are the sufferings of the miserable wretches who have never known aught but poverty, compared with those who feel it for the first time? In any case such condition is hard enough to be borne, Heaven knows; but the horrors thereof are increased ten-fold, when it falls upon such as have been born and bred in the halls of wealth. How the sensitive soul shudders and shrinks within itself, and even longs to escape its frail tenement of clay, and soar to that world of bliss where sorrow never enters, and all is bright and glorious sunshine forever! And here were these unfortunate beings, alone by themselves, on a dismal night, when the storm without was howling in fury, shaking their frail abode even to its foundation, as it whistled and moaned through the crevices with a wail like the voices of imprisoned spirits seeking to escape their bell of torture. And why were they here on such a night as this? Let the wrongs of humanity answer. Let the crimes of those who sit in high places answer. Let him, no matter who nor where, who has robbed the widow and the orphan of their last mite, answer—ay, answer before that Great Tribunal where Justice alone sits Judge, and Power and Wealth and Position stand but as chaff before the gale. As this poor widow and her daughter were on the night we introduce them, so have thousands been both before and since; and from the same cause, the wrongs of those who have occupied, and do occu py, a high place in the eyes of the worldly wise. But look to it, ye Wrongers, and tremble! for surely as the sun shines at noon day, that the stars are above us in the night, or that death will overtake you, so surely will there come a day of retribution— of fearful reckoning—when your canting hypocrisy will avail you not— when the "silver vail" will be stripped from your vile features, and you will stand forth before the eye of Almighty God in your own natural, hideous deformity! Look to it, we repeat, and tremble! for it will be a fearful, a terribly fearful moment to you. For a few moments mother and daughter remained as introduced, with hands clasped in each other's, while the quick breathings of the invalid, the sobbings of the younger, and the raging of the storm, were the only sounds audible. It was a damp, cold night, and yet they were almost without fire, and both so thinly covered that they shivered in spite of their efforts to the contrary. "Do not weep, my child!" said the invalid at length; "do not weep, Virginia! for your tears make my sufferings intense." "Oh! how can I help it, mother?" returned the other, lifting her soft, wet eyes to her parent, with a fresh burst of grief. "How can I help it, mother, when I behold you thus, on a bed of sickness and pain, and—and—perhaps death, (she shuddered at the last dreadful word,) without even the ordinary comforts of life to relieve in part your sufferings? Oh! it is too much—too much!" and she again sobbed aloud with grief. "It is hard, my daughter, I know," rejoined the other; "very, very hard; but then, my sweet Virginia, we should remember it is the will of God, who does all things for the best." "So I try to think, dear mother; and so I do think, and know; and I have struggled long and hard to be composed, and not excite you with my grief—but in vain. My cup of bitterness seems over full, and these tears will come in spite of all my efforts to the contrary When I think of how we were once, and what we now are, and to what we owe our misfortunes, it is impossible for me to restrain myself, and it seems as if my brain were on fire and I must go mad." "But," pursued the other, "you must not give way, my child! I feel certain our afflictions are all for the be
st, if we, poor, weak, short-sighted mortals, could but see into the great futurity. We are chastened, and most severely, but it is by the hand of our Maker, and for some good end— perhaps that we may wean our thoughts and affections from the world, and place them on more holy things." "Ah! dear mother," returned the daughter, affectionately, "it is gratifying to hear you talk thus—you who have suffered so much—to see you so resigned to the will of Him who holds our destinies in his hands; for did you indeed repine, I am sure my reason would desert me. But still, for all, dear mother, I cannot restrain these tears—tears that come to relieve the overcharged soul—and I thank my God I can weep. You are sick, dear mother— you are suffering, perhaps with the pangs of death—and yet without aught to relieve you—with no kind friends but your own unfortunate children to shed a tear or feel an emotion for your fate.— And we, alas! cannot assist you. Look round this desolate apartment, and say, can I help but weep? It is cold, and dismal, and our scanty fire is going out. Oh! mother," she cried, with a new burst of grief, "you are dying for want of the ordinary comforts of life!" "But I trust all will be better soon, my sweet Virginia! Edgar, you know, has gone to see his uncle, who, however unmindful of our necessities he may have been, will surely not reject his petition when he learns our present condition." "Hope for nothing there, mother—hope for nothing from him!" rejoined the other; "for he who was so base as to rob us of all we had, and then so shamefully deceive us, is devoid of all pity." "Well, well, my child, do not despond, for God is good, though man be base. Is it not most time for Edgar to return? I wish he would come—for I—I—feel—very —very weak;" and her voice died away to a whisper. Virginia sprang to her feet, with a look of alarm. "Oh, mother!" she cried, wildly, observing a marked change in the features of the invalid—a kind of deathly sinking about the eyes, and a lividness on the lips: "Oh, mother! dear mother! you surely are not dying?" For a few moments Mrs. Courtly vainly struggled to speak. At last she gasped, rather than said: "I—I—trust not, Vir-gin-ia; but—I— am very—we—weak—and—and—feel strangely." "Oh, God!" burst from the terrified Virginia. "Dying, and no one by! Heaven help me! Oh, Merciful Father, help me! Oh, you must not die, mother!" she continued, wildly. "Pray take something to revive you! Here," she cried, seizing a small tin cup that rested on the table, and hurriedly applying it to the lips of the other, "take a draught of water!" Poor creature! God help her! it was all she had to give. With a slight motion of the hand, the invalid waved it away, saying, in a feeble tone: "I wish Edgar would come. Ah! how dark it grows! Has the candle gone out, Virginia?" "No, mother, it is still burning, but feebly." "Then my sight must be failing, for I can hardly see." "Oh, this is terrible!" shrieked Virginia, sinking upon her knees and burying her face in the miserable covering of the bed. A groan from the sufferer made her again spring to her feet. "Are you dying, mother?" she asked, wildly; "really dying, think you?" "Alas!" sighed the other, "that is more than I can say. I feel strangely—perhaps the hand of death is on me." Virginia instantly caught hold of her hands. They felt cold. She then tried her temples and feet. They were cold also. Then she began chafing different parts of her body, while her own bosom heaved with emotions too deep for language to express. While thus occupied, there came a rap upon the door. "Ha!" exclaimed Mrs. Courtly, with something like returning animation, "God grant it be Edgar!" and as Virginia sprang forward to give him admittance, she added, in an under tone: "for I would see him again ere I depart to return no more." "And how is mother now?" were the first words Edgar spoke as he crossed the threshold. "Alas! I fear she is dying," whispered his sister. "Dying?" cried Edgar; and with one bound he stood beside the bed of his mother, and would have embraced her, only that he remembered in time his garments were dripping water. "I am glad you have come, Edgar," spoke Mrs. Courtly, in a very weak, husky tone, "for I was afraid I should never behold you again." "Are you then much worse, dear mother?" inquired Edgar, in a tremulous voice, striving to master his feelings so as not to appear agitated. "Yes, Edgar," was the reply, "mortal aid I fear can avail me nothing now. I feel the hand of death upon me. My sight has already failed me. I cannot see you.— Give me your hand. And now yours, Virginia;" and as they both silently complied, she continued: "My dear children, you must not weep and mourn for my loss, for you know I shall be better off in the land to which I am hastening. True, I could have desired to live longer, to comfort you with my counsel in these your darkest hours of adversity— but it is not permitted, and I will not murmur. You know what is right and proper; and I trust, when I am gone, you will not swerve from the path of duty and rectitude. However sorely you may be tried, and God alone knows to what extent that will be, I beseech you, with a dying prayer, never to do wrong! never to be led from the path of virtue into that of vice! I know you will have many temptations before you—will have examples of how the wicked prosper—but still be firm to your dying mother's injunctions, and all will in the end be well. My children, I charge you, with my last breath, to value honor and virtue more than life! I would say more, but my strength is failing me so fast I cannot." While speaking, both Edgar and Virgina stood gazing upon the countenance of their dying parent in silence, but with breasts heaving with feelings too deep and potent for the pen to record. As she ceased, Edgar exclaimed: "Oh! mother! do not say your are dying ! Perhaps it is only a faintness—a want of food—or of some reviving cordial. Cheer up, dear mother! you shall have every thing. I am rich now, dearest mother. I succeeded in my errand. See here! I have my uncle's check for a thousand dollars;" and he held the paper up before her. "Then you will not starve, my children, God be thanked!" cried Mrs. Courtly, fervently, with energy. "I can die happier now for the thought. But it comes too late for me—for already I stand on the brink of death." "Nay, mother, perhaps net. Stay! something must be done! I will run for a physician. I know I shall not be refused when I show this." As he spoke, he turned hurriedly away and darted to the door to execute his purpose, but the feeble voice of his mother arrested his progress. "Stay, Edgar," she said, "stay, I implore you! for if you leave me now, you will never behold me again on earth. I am more and more convinced every moment that I am dying—that I shall speedily pass away." Edgar slowly returned, and again taking her hand, the manly tears he could no longer restrain followed each other mournfully down his anguished features; while his sister, placing her head on her mother's pillow, sobbed aloud. It was a heart-rending and dismal scene. Without the winds did fiercely blow— Within were desolation—wo. For a few moments no voice broke the cheerless monotony of the driving storm. Then the invalid feebly said: "Kneel, my children, and pray!" Both silently obeyed; and as they arose from their knees and bent over their mother, each drew back with a start. The next moment a wild shriek from Virginia told the fearful tale. Their mother was dead. During that prayer her spirit had passed away—gone from earth—returned to God who gave it.
Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch Page 2
