to give way to such extravagant requests in your case, I should be
necessitated to do so in others, and the result would be, that I
should find myself sheltering all my tenants, without receiving any
pay for house rent. The idea cannot be entertained for a moment."
"Let your own heart speak," she said, "and not the promptings of
worldly thoughts. All those who rent your houses are not situated as I
am. They are at home among friends, who will aid and succor them, if
ever necessity overtook them. I am far away from home and friends.
There is no one in this town that I can call upon for assistance, and
even now, my children are without food for want of funds to purchase
it. Do not add to my wretchedness by depriving them of shelter. Let me
know that if we are to die of starvation, a roof, at least, will cover
our bodies."
He looked at her with unchanged countenance. Not even the movement of
a muscle, denoted that his heart was touched at her pathetic appeal.
His expression was as hard and cold as adamantine, nor did a single
feeling of pity move him. He cared for nothing but money; she could
not give him what he wanted, and too sentiment of commiseration, no
spark of charity, no feeling of manly regret at her sufferings entered
his bosom.
"Be charitable," she continued. "I have prayed night after night to
God to relieve my necessities; I have walked the town through and
through in the effort to procure work, but my prayers have been
unanswered, and my efforts have proven unavailing. At times the
thought of the maelstrom of woe into which I am plunged, has well nigh
driven me to madness. My brain has seemed on fire, and the shrieks of
the maniac would have been heard resounding through the walls of this
room, but my children would come before me, and the light of reason
would again return. But for their sake I should welcome death as a
precious boon. Life has but every charm for me. In the pale and
alternated woman before you, none could recognize a once happy wife.
Oh, sir!" she continued, with energy; "believe me when I tell you that
for my children's sake alone, I now appeal. Hear me, and look with
pity on a mother's pleadings. It is for them I plead. Were I alone, no
word of supplication would you hear. I should leave here, and in the
cold and turbid waters of Pearl river, find the rest I am denied on
earth."
"This is a very unaccountable thing to me," said Mr. Elder. "You make
an agreement to leave as soon as you fail to pay your rent, and now
that that hour has arrived, instead of conforming to your agreement, I
am beset with a long supplication. My good woman, this effort of yours
to induce me to provide a home for your family at my expense, cannot
be successful. You have no claim upon my charity, and those who have,
are sufficiently numerous already without my desiring to make any
addition. As I mentioned before, you must either find money to pay the
rent, or vacate the room."
"Give me time," she said, speaking with an effort; "give me but two
days, and I will endeavor either to obtain the money, or to procure
somewhere to stay."
Mr. Elder knit his brows again as he answered. "I cannot give you two
days, for I intend renting the room by to-morrow. You can, however,
remain here until this evening, at which time you must either be
prepared to leave, or find money to pay for the rent."
"It is well," she replied. "I will do as you say."
"Then you may expect me here this evening at dusk," he said, and
turning towards the door left the room muttering; "when will I ever
get rid of this crowd of paupers, who, it is always my luck to rent
rooms to."
"God of Heaven aid me!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, as she closed the
door in the receding form of Mr. Elder, and sank on her knees before
the bed on which Ella lay in a high fever.
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 the
means of paying him, or to procure another place to stay, she did so
only to avert the threatened ejectment for a brief period. Nor did she
know where to procure another shelter. There was no one in the town
that she knew from whom she could have obtained a room to rent, unless
the money was paid in advance.
After Mr. Elder's departure, she fell on her knees and prayed for
help, but she did so only from habit, not with the belief that an
Omnipotent arm would be stretched out to aid her. There she knelt and
prayed, 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 is
quite parched."
"You have got the fever, darling," said Mrs. Wentworth.--"Is there
anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing," replied Ella, "except," she continued, "you could get me
something sweet to take this bitter taste from my mouth."
A pang shot through Mrs. Wentworth's heart as she replied, "I cannot
get 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 upon
her 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 her
request at that moment, and she had no desire to cause her additional
pain, by again asking for anything to moisten her parched lips, or
remove the dry and bitter taste that the fever had caused.
Mrs. Wentworth had at last found out that Ella was sick.--Not from any
complaint of the child, for the little girl remained suffering in
silence, and never hinted that she was unwell.--But she had become so
weak that one morning, on endeavoring to rise from the bed, she fell
back and fainted from exhaustion, and on her mother's chafing her
forehead with water for the purpose of reviving her, discovered that
Ella had a hot fever. She was very much alarmed, and would have called
a doctor, but knowing no medical man who would attend her child
without remuneration, she was necessitated to content herself with
what knowledge she had of sickness. This had caused the money she had
remaining in her possession to be quickly expended.
The little girl bore her illness uncomplainingly, and although each
day she sunk lower and felt herself getting weaker, she concealed her
condition, and answered her mother's questions cheerfully. She was a
little angel that God had sent to Mrs. Wentworth. She was too young to
appreciate the extent of her mother's wretchedness, but she saw that
something 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, and
nothing could stay or turn away his ruthless hand from this little
flower of earth. Stern fate had decreed that she should die. The
unalterable sentence had been registered in the book of Heaven, and an
angel stood at her bedside ready to take her to God.
The day passed over the wretched family. Ella lay on the bed in
silence throughout, what appeared to her, the long and weary hours;
the little boy called every few minutes for bread, and as his infant
voice uttered the call, the agony of Mrs. Wentworth increased. Thus
was the day passed, and as the dusk of evening spread its mantle over
the town, the soldier's wife prepared to receive her summons for
ejectment. She was not kept waiting long. No sooner had the darkness
set in, than Mr. Elder, accompanied by another man, opened the door
and entered the room.
"Well," he said, "have you succeeded in procuring money to pay the
rent."
"I have not," Mrs. Wentworth answered.
"I suppose you have made arrangements to go somewhere else then," he
remarked.
"No," she replied. "My child has been ill all day long, and I was
compelled 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 arrangements
to 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 the
man, "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 cannot
git this I must take another that I can get in town," answered the
man, who was a rough and uneducated son of the Emerald Isle.
"That settles the matter, then," observed Mr. Elder. "You will have to
leave," he continued, addressing Mrs. Wentworth. "You will perceive
that I cannot lose a tenant through your remaining in the room
to-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 woman
turned 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. Elder
said. "Go and bring your things here. By the time you return I shall
have the room vacated and ready for you."
"Jist as you say, yer honor," replied the man, as he bowed himself
from the room.
"And now, my good woman," remarked Mr. Elder, "you will perceive the
necessity of removing your children and whatever articles you may have
here to some other place at once. I cannot be induced to grant any
further time, and lose tenants by the operation."
"Great God, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, "where am I to go to? I
know 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 by
force," remarked Mr. Elder. "You are fully aware that by the
arrangement entered into between us, when you first rented the room,
that I am doing nothing illegal in requiring you to leave. You will
save me both trouble and pain by doing as I have requested."
"I cannot," she replied, pressing her hands to her forehead, and then
bursting into tears she exclaimed appealingly: "For the sake of God
have pity, sir! Let not your heart be so hardened, but turn and
befriend a soldiers wretched wife. There is scarce a beast but
contains some touch of feeling, scarce a heart but vibrates in some
degree, and beats with a quicker pulsation at the sight of poverty and
misery. Let me hope that yours contains the same feeling, and beats
with the same sorrow at the miserable scene before you. Look around
you, sir, and see the destitution of my family; go to the side of that
lowly bed and press your hand upon the burning brow of my child; call
that little boy and ask him how long he has been without food, look at
a wretched mother's tears, and lot a gracious God remove the hardness
from your heart, and drive us not homeless from this roof. Think not
that the ragged, woman who now stands before you, weeping and
pleading, would have thus supplicated without a cause. There was a
time when I never dreamed of experiencing such suffering and hardship,
such bitter, bitter woe. Oh! sir, let pity reign dominant in your
heart."
He was unmoved. Why should he care for the misery of strangers? Was he
not of the world as man generally finds it? The exceptions to the rule
are not of this earth. They occupy a place in the celestial realms,
for, if even they may have committed sins in early life, their deeds
of charity blots out the record, and they enter Heaven welcomed by the
hosts of angels who dwell there, while their absence from this creates
a void not easily filled.
Mr. Elder answered her not for several minutes. He stood there with
his arms folded, silently gazing upon the thin form of Mrs. Wentworth,
who, with clasped hands and outstretched arms, anxiously awaited his
decision. But he gave no promise of acquiescence, no hope of pity, no
look of charity in his features--they looked cold, stern, and vexed.
There she stood the picture of grief, awaiting the words that would
either give her hope or plunge her forever into the fathomless depths
of despair. The eyes of the soldier's wife were turned on Mr. Elder
with a sad and supplicating look. 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 between
humanity and brutality could be seen, and as she gazed upon him she
felt that there was no chance of her wishes being gratified.
Her little son clung to her dress half frightened at the attitude of
his mother, and the stern and unforbidding aspect of Mr. Elder. Ella
strove to rise while her mother was speaking, but fell back on her bed
unable to perform the effort. She was, therefore, content to be there
and listen to the conversation as it occurred between Mr. Elder and
her mother. Her little heart was also tortured, for this had been the
first time she had ever heard such passionate and earnest language as
was depicted in Mrs. Wentworth's words.
At last Mr. Elder spoke, and his words were eagerly listened to by
Mrs. Wentworth.
"This annoys me very much," he said. "Your importunities are very
disagreeable to me, and I must insist that they shall cease. As I told
you before, I cannot afford to lose tenants in an unnecessary act of
liberality, and through mistaken charity. The fact is," he continued
in a firm and decisive tone, "you _must_ leave this room to-night. I
will not listen to any more of your pleading. Your case is but the
repetition of many others who fled from their homes and left all they
had, under the impression that the people of other States would be
compelled to support them. This is a mistaken idea, and the sooner its
error 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 turned
from the shelter of this room to-night," she enquired, dropping her
hands 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! too
well, that I might sooner expect pity from the hands of an uncivilized
Indian than charity or aid from you. Nor will I give you any trouble
to forcibly eject me."
"I am very glad to hear it," he rejoined.
"Yes," she continued, without noticing his words, "I shall leave of my
own accord, and there," she said, pointing to Ella, "lies my sick
child. Should exposure on this night cause her death, I shall let you
know of it that you may have some subject, accruing from your
heartless conduct, on which to ponder."
Slowly she removed all the articles that were in the room, and placed
them on the sidewalk. There were but few things in the room, and her
task was soon completed.
"Come, darling," she said as she wrapped up Ella in a cover-lid and
lifted 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 a
soldier's helpless wife and children from the roof that covered them
into 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 still
clung to her dress, she replied, "Come, darling, let us go."
Go where? She knew not, thought not where. She only knew that she was
now 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's
wife, as she walked out of that room, a wanderer upon the earth, as it
did on scenes of peace and happiness. The Ruler of the Universe saw
not the desolate mother and her children; thus there was no change in
the firmament, for had He gazed upon them at that moment, a black
cloud would have been sent to obscure the earth, and darkness would
have taken the place of light.
CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.
THE RESTING PLACE--ANOTHER VISIT TO MR. SWARTZ.
The mother and her child walked on in silence. Mrs. Wentworth knew not
where to go. From her heart the harrowing cry of desolation went out,
and mingled with the evening air, filling it with the sound of
wretchedness, until it appeared dull and stifling. But she knew not
this, for to her it had never appeared pleasant. For weeks past her
cup of misery had been filling, and as each drop of sorrow entered the
goblet of her life, so did all sense of what was happy and lovely
depart from her heart. She was, indeed, a breathing figure of all that
could be conceived miserable and unhappy. The flowers that bloomed in
the Spring time of her happy years, had withered in the winter of her
wretched weeks, and over the whole garden of her life, nothing but the
dead and scentless petals remained, to tell of what was once a
paradise of affection--a blooming image of love.
As she walked on she discovered that the child she carried in her arms
had fainted. She paused not for consideration, but observing a light
in a small cabin near by, she hurriedly bent her steps towards it, and
entered through the half opened door. It was the home of an aged negro
woman, and who looked up much surprised at the intrusion.
"Here, auntie," Mrs. Wentworth said hastily, "give me some water
quickly, my child has fainted."
"Goodness, gracious, what could ha' made you bring dem children to dis
part of de town dis time o' night," exclaimed the old negress, as she
hastened to do the bidding of Mrs. Wentworth, who had already placed
the inanimate body of Ella on the negro's humble bed.
The water being brought, Mrs. Wentworth sprinkled it upon the face of
the child, but without avail. Ella still remained motionless, and to
all appearances lifeless.
"Great Heaven!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, "my child cannot be dead!"
"Top a bit, mistis, an' I will fix de little gal for you," said the
old negro, hobbling, to the bedside, with a small bottle filled with
camphor in her hand. "Dis stuff will bring her to. Don't be afeard,
she ain't dead."
Pouring out some of the stimulant in one hand, the kind-hearted old
woman bathed Ella's face with it, and held the bottle to her nostrils,
until a sigh from the child showed that she still lived. After a few
seconds she opened her eyes, and looked up to her mother, who was,
bending with anxious countenance over her.
"Dar now," said the old negro in a tone of satisfaction, "did not I
tell you dat de sweet little child was libbing."
"Thank you, old woman, God in Heaven bless you!" exclaimed Mrs.
Wentworth, as she clapped the old woman's hand in her own.
"Berry well, berry well," was the answer of the negro, "you welcome
misses."
There, in the cabin of that good old slave, the soldier's wife heard
the first voice of kindness that had greeted her ears for months. From
the hands of a servile race she had received the first act of charity,
and in a land like this. In the performance of that kindness, the old
slave had done more to elevate herself than all the philanthropists
and abolitionists of the North could have done. Could the cursed race,
whose war upon the South have seen this act, they would have conceded
to her people the justice of their right to slavery, when such a slave
as this existed.
"What make you come to dis part ob town to-night, missis," asked the
negro, after a few moments of silence.
"Nothing, nothing, my good woman," replied Mrs. Wentworth hastily. She
could not let a slave know of her trials and misery.
"Poh ting!" ejaculated the old woman in a compassionate tone, but too
low for Mrs. Wentworth to hear her. "I 'spec her husband been treatin'
her bad. Dem men behave berry bad sometime," and with a sigh she
resumed her silence.
The soldier's wife sat by the bedside, on one of the rude chairs, that
formed a portion of the furniture, and remained plunged in thought. A
deep sleep had overtaken Ella, although her breathing was heavy, and
the fever raged with redoubled violence.
"Mother can't I get something to eat?" asked her little son. His words
woke his mother from her thoughts, but before she could reply, the old
negro had forestalled.
"Is it some ting you want to eat, my little darling," she enquired,
rising from her seat, and going to a little cupboard near the door of
the room.
"Yes granny," he answered, "I am quite hungry."
"Bress your little heart," she remarked, giving him a large piece of
bread. "Here is some ting to eat."
Taking the child on her knees, she watched him until he had completed
eating the food, when putting him down, she opened a trunk, and pulled
out a clean white sheet, which she placed on a little mattress near
the bed.
"Come now," she said, "go to bed now like a good boy."
The child obeyed her, and was soon enjoying a refreshing sleep.
"Where will you sleep to-night, auntie," asked Mrs. Wentworth, who had
been a silent observer of the old woman's proceedings.
"I got some tings 'bout here; missis, dat will do for a bed," she
answered.
"I am sorry I have to take away your bed to-night," remarked Mrs.
Wentworth, "but I hope I will be able to pay you for your kindness
some time."
"Dat's all right," replied the old negress, and spreading a mass of
different articles on the floor, she crept in among them, and shortly
after fell asleep, leaving Mrs. Wentworth alone with her thoughts,
watching over the sleeping forms of her children.
The next morning the old woman woke up early, and lighting fire, made
a frugal but amply sufficient breakfast, which, she placed before her
uninvited guests. Mrs. Wentworth partook of the meal but slightly, and
her little son ate heartily. Ella being still asleep, she was not
disturbed. Shortly after the meal was over, the old negro left the
cabin, saying she would return some time during the day.
About nine o'clock, Ella woke, and feebly called her mother. Mrs.
Wentworth approached the bedside, and started back much shocked at the
appearance of her child. The jaws of the little girl had sunk, her
eyes were dull and expressiveless and her breath came thick and
heavily.
"What do you wish my darling," enquired her mother.
"I feel quite sick, mother," said the little girl, speaking faintly
and with great difficulty.
"What is the matter with you?" Mrs. Wentworth asked, her face turning
as pale as her child's.
"I cannot breathe," she answered, "and my eyes feel dim. What can be
the matter?"
"Nothing much, my angel," replied her mother. "You have only taken a
cold from exposure in the air last night. Bear up and you will soon
get well again."
"I feel so different now from what I did before," she remarked.
"Before I was so hot, and now I feel as cold as ice."
Mrs. Wentworth put her hand upon the face of her child. It was indeed
as cold as ice, and alarmed the mother exceedingly. She knew not how
to act; she was alone in the cabin, and even had the old negro been at
home, she had no money to purchase medicines with. She was determined,
however, that something should be done for her child, and the thought
of again appealing to Mr. Swartz for assistance came into her mind.
"Perhaps, he will loan me a small sum of money when he learns how
destitute I am, and that my child is very ill," she said musingly, and
then added: "At any rate I will try what I can do with him."
Turning to Ella Mrs. Wentworth said: "Do you think you could remain
here with your brother until my return. I want to go out and get
something for you to take."
"Yes, mother, but do not be long," she replied. "I will try and keep
brother by me while you are away."
"Very well," said Mrs. Wentworth, "I shall make haste and return."
Admonishing her little son not to leave the room during her absence,
Mrs. Wentworth was on the point of leaving the room when Ella called
to her: "Be sure to come back soon, mother," she said. "I want you
back early particularly."
"Why, my darling?" enquired her mother.
"Why, in case I should be going to--" Here her voice sunk to a
whisper, and her mother failed to catch what she said.
"In case you should be going to, what?" enquired Mrs. Wentworth.
"Nothing, mother," she replied. "I was only thinking, but make haste
and come back."
"I will," her mother answered, "I will come back immediately."