The Trials of the Soldier's Wife

by Alex. St. Clair Abrams

  CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

  THE EJECTMENT

  Mrs. Wentworth knew not where to go to procure money to pay the rent,and when she asked Mr. Elder to give her time to procure either themeans of paying him, or to procure another place to stay, she did soonly to avert the threatened ejectment for a brief period. Nor did sheknow where to procure another shelter. There was no one in the townthat she knew from whom she could have obtained a room to rent, unlessthe money was paid in advance.

  After Mr. Elder's departure, she fell on her knees and prayed forhelp, but she did so only from habit, not with the belief that anOmnipotent arm would be stretched out to aid her. There she knelt andprayed, until the thought of her sick child flashed across her brain,and rising, she stooped over and enquired how she felt.

  "The same way," answered Ella. "I feel very hot, and my throat isquite parched."

  "You have got the fever, darling," said Mrs. Wentworth.--"Is thereanything I can do for you?"

  "Nothing," replied Ella, "except," she continued, "you could get mesomething sweet to take this bitter taste from my mouth."

  A pang shot through Mrs. Wentworth's heart as she replied, "I cannotget anything just now. You must wait until a little later in the day."

  She spoke sadly, for it was a deception that she was practicing uponher child, when she promised to gratify her wishes at a later hour.

  "Never mind," observed Ella. "Do not trouble yourself, my dear mother,I do not want it very badly."

  The little girl defined the cause of her mother's not acceding to herrequest at that moment, and she had no desire to cause her additionalpain, by again asking for anything to moisten her parched lips, orremove the dry and bitter taste that the fever had caused.

  Mrs. Wentworth had at last found out that Ella was sick.--Not from anycomplaint of the child, for the little girl remained suffering insilence, and never hinted that she was unwell.--But she had become soweak that one morning, on endeavoring to rise from the bed, she fellback and fainted from exhaustion, and on her mother's chafing herforehead with water for the purpose of reviving her, discovered thatElla had a hot fever. She was very much alarmed, and would have calleda doctor, but knowing no medical man who would attend her childwithout remuneration, she was necessitated to content herself withwhat knowledge she had of sickness. This had caused the money she hadremaining in her possession to be quickly expended.

  The little girl bore her illness uncomplainingly, and although eachday she sunk lower and felt herself getting weaker, she concealed hercondition, and answered her mother's questions cheerfully. She was alittle angel that God had sent to Mrs. Wentworth. She was too young toappreciate the extent of her mother's wretchedness, but she saw thatsomething was wrong and kept silent, and she lay there that day sick.There was no hope for the child. Death had marked her as his prey, andnothing could stay or turn away his ruthless hand from this littleflower of earth. Stern fate had decreed that she should die. Theunalterable sentence had been registered in the book of Heaven, and anangel stood at her bedside ready to take her to God.

  The day passed over the wretched family. Ella lay on the bed insilence throughout, what appeared to her, the long and weary hours;the little boy called every few minutes for bread, and as his infantvoice uttered the call, the agony of Mrs. Wentworth increased. Thuswas the day passed, and as the dusk of evening spread its mantle overthe town, the soldier's wife prepared to receive her summons forejectment. She was not kept waiting long. No sooner had the darknessset in, than Mr. Elder, accompanied by another man, opened the doorand entered the room.

  "Well," he said, "have you succeeded in procuring money to pay therent."

  "I have not," Mrs. Wentworth answered.

  "I suppose you have made arrangements to go somewhere else then," heremarked.

  "No," she replied. "My child has been ill all day long, and I wascompelled to remain here and attend to her wants."

  "That is very unfortunate," Mr. Elder remarked, "for this gentleman,"pointing to the stranger who accompanied him, "has made arrangementsto take the room, and will move into it to-night.".

  "Will he not wait until the morning," she enquired.

  "I do wot know," he replied. "Will you," he asked, speaking to theman, "be willing to wait until to-morrow before you take possession?"

  "Bo jabers! I've got to leave my owld room to-night, and if I cannotgit this I must take another that I can get in town," answered theman, who was a rough and uneducated son of the Emerald Isle.

  "That settles the matter, then," observed Mr. Elder. "You will have toleave," he continued, addressing Mrs. Wentworth. "You will perceivethat I cannot lose a tenant through your remaining in the roomto-night."

  "Och!" said the Irishman, "if the lady can't lave to-night, shure ah'I will take the other room, for be jabers I wouldn't have a womanturned out of doors for me."

  "You need not fear about that, my good friend," remarked Mr. Elder."Does the room suit you?"

  "Yes! It does well enough for myself and my children," was the answer.

  "Then you can consider yourself a tenant from to-night," Mr. Eldersaid. "Go and bring your things here. By the time you return I shallhave the room vacated and ready for you."

  "Jist as you say, yer honor," replied the man, as he bowed himselffrom the room.

  "And now, my good woman," remarked Mr. Elder, "you will perceive thenecessity of removing your children and whatever articles you may havehere to some other place at once. I cannot be induced to grant anyfurther time, and lose tenants by the operation."

  "Great God, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, "where am I to go to? Iknow of no place where I can find a shelter this night. You cannot,must not, force me to leave."

  "I trust you will not put me to the necessity of having you ejected byforce," remarked Mr. Elder. "You are fully aware that by thearrangement entered into between us, when you first rented the room,that I am doing nothing illegal in requiring you to leave. You willsave me both trouble and pain by doing as I have requested."

  "I cannot," she replied, pressing her hands to her forehead, and thenbursting into tears she exclaimed appealingly: "For the sake of Godhave pity, sir! Let not your heart be so hardened, but turn andbefriend a soldiers wretched wife. There is scarce a beast butcontains some touch of feeling, scarce a heart but vibrates in somedegree, and beats with a quicker pulsation at the sight of poverty andmisery. Let me hope that yours contains the same feeling, and beatswith the same sorrow at the miserable scene before you. Look aroundyou, sir, and see the destitution of my family; go to the side of thatlowly bed and press your hand upon the burning brow of my child; callthat little boy and ask him how long he has been without food, look ata wretched mother's tears, and lot a gracious God remove the hardnessfrom your heart, and drive us not homeless from this roof. Think notthat the ragged, woman who now stands before you, weeping andpleading, would have thus supplicated without a cause. There was atime when I never dreamed of experiencing such suffering and hardship,such bitter, bitter woe. Oh! sir, let pity reign dominant in yourheart."

  He was unmoved. Why should he care for the misery of strangers? Was henot of the world as man generally finds it? The exceptions to the ruleare not of this earth. They occupy a place in the celestial realms,for, if even they may have committed sins in early life, their deedsof charity blots out the record, and they enter Heaven welcomed by thehosts of angels who dwell there, while their absence from this createsa void not easily filled.

  Mr. Elder answered her not for several minutes. He stood there withhis arms folded, silently gazing upon the thin form of Mrs. Wentworth,who, with clasped hands and outstretched arms, anxiously awaited hisdecision. But he gave no promise of acquiescence, no hope of pity, nolook of charity in his features--they looked cold, stern, and vexed.

  There she stood the picture of grief, awaiting the words that wouldeither give her hope or plunge her forever into the fathomless depthsof despair. The eyes of the soldier's wife were turned on Mr. Elderwith a sad and supplicating lo
ok. In any other but the cold,calculating creature before her, their look might have moved to pity,but with him nothing availed; not even a struggle for mastery betweenhumanity and brutality could be seen, and as she gazed upon him shefelt that there was no chance of her wishes being gratified.

  Her little son clung to her dress half frightened at the attitude ofhis mother, and the stern and unforbidding aspect of Mr. Elder. Ellastrove to rise while her mother was speaking, but fell back on her bedunable to perform the effort. She was, therefore, content to be thereand listen to the conversation as it occurred between Mr. Elder andher mother. Her little heart was also tortured, for this had been thefirst time she had ever heard such passionate and earnest language aswas depicted in Mrs. Wentworth's words.

  At last Mr. Elder spoke, and his words were eagerly listened to byMrs. Wentworth.

  "This annoys me very much," he said. "Your importunities are verydisagreeable to me, and I must insist that they shall cease. As I toldyou before, I cannot afford to lose tenants in an unnecessary act ofliberality, and through mistaken charity. The fact is," he continuedin a firm and decisive tone, "you _must_ leave this room to-night. Iwill not listen to any more of your pleading. Your case is but therepetition of many others who fled from their homes and left all theyhad, under the impression that the people of other States would becompelled to support them. This is a mistaken idea, and the sooner itserror is made known the better it will be for the people of the South,whose homes are in the hands of the enemy."

  "Then you are determined that my children and myself shall be turnedfrom the shelter of this room to-night," she enquired, dropping herhands by her side, and assuming a standing attitude.

  "You have heard what I have already said, my good woman," he replied."And let me repeat, that I will listen to no further supplications."

  "I shall supplicate to you no more," she answered. "I see, alas! toowell, that I might sooner expect pity from the hands of an uncivilizedIndian than charity or aid from you. Nor will I give you any troubleto forcibly eject me."

  "I am very glad to hear it," he rejoined.

  "Yes," she continued, without noticing his words, "I shall leave of myown accord, and there," she said, pointing to Ella, "lies my sickchild. Should exposure on this night cause her death, I shall let youknow of it that you may have some subject, accruing from yourheartless conduct, on which to ponder."

  Slowly she removed all the articles that were in the room, and placedthem on the sidewalk. There were but few things in the room, and hertask was soon completed.

  "Come, darling," she said as she wrapped up Ella in a cover-lid andlifted the child in her arms, "come, and let us go."

  Mr. Elder still stood with folded arms looking on.

  "Farewell, sir," she said, turning to him, "you have driven asoldier's helpless wife and children from the roof that covered theminto the open streets, with none other than skies above as a covering.May God pardon you as I do," and speaking to the little boy who stillclung to her dress, she replied, "Come, darling, let us go."

  Go where? She knew not, thought not where. She only knew that she wasnow homeless.

  The clouds looked as serene, the stars twinkled as merrily as ever,and the moon shed as bright a light upon the form of the soldier'swife, as she walked out of that room, a wanderer upon the earth, as itdid on scenes of peace and happiness. The Ruler of the Universe sawnot the desolate mother and her children; thus there was no change inthe firmament, for had He gazed upon them at that moment, a blackcloud would have been sent to obscure the earth, and darkness wouldhave taken the place of light.