and proceeded towards Mr. Swartz's office. Her visit was a hopeless
one, but she determined to make the trial. She could not believe that
the heart of every man was turned against the poor and helpless.
What a world is this we live in! We view with calm indifference the
downfall of our fellow-mortals. We see them struggling in the billows
of adversity, and as our proud bark of wealth glides swiftly by, we
extend no helping hand to the worn swimmer. And yet we can look upon
our past life with complacency, can delight to recall the hours of
happiness we have past, and if some scene of penury and grief is
recalled to our memory, we drive away the thought of what we then
beheld and sought not to better.
What is that that makes man's heart cold as the mountain tops of
Kamtschatka? It is that cursed greed for gain--that all absorbing
ambition for fortune--that warps the heart and turns to adamant all
those attributes of gentleness with which God has made us. The haggard
beggar and the affluent man of the world, must eventually share the
same fate. No matter that on the grave of the first--"no storied urn
records who rests below," while on the grave of the other, we find in
sculptured marble long eulogies of those who rest beneath, telling us
"not what he was, but what he should have been." Their end is the
same, for beneath the same sod they "sleep the last sleep that knows
no waking," and their spirits wing their flight to the same eternal
realms, there to be judged by their own merits, and not by the station
they occupied below.
If there are men in this world who cannot be changed by wealth, Swartz
was not of the number. What cared he for the sighs of the desolate,
the appeals of the hungry, or the tears of the helpless? His duty was
but to fill his coffers with money, and not to expend it in aimless
deeds of charity. He looked upon the poor just as we would look upon a
reptile--something to be shunned.
It was indeed a wild hallucination that induced Mrs. Wentworth to bend
her steps towards his office. Could he have seen her as she was
coming, he would have left his room, for the sight of the mendicant
filled him with greater horror than a decree of God declaring that the
end of the world had come.
CHAPTER NINETEENTH.
AN ACT OF DESPAIR.
Mrs. Wentworth reached the store of Mr. Swartz and entered. The clerk
looked at her in astonishment. She was unrecognizable. Her dress was
ragged and dirty; the hands and face that once rivalled the Parian
marble in whiteness, were tanned by toil, and lay shrivelled and
dried. Her hair was dishevelled and gathered up in an uncomely heap on
the back of her head. She looked like the beggar, she had become.
"Some beggar," the clerk said, in a contemptuous tone, as he advanced
towards her.
"Is Mr. Swartz in?" enquired Mrs. Wentworth in a husky tone.
"What do you want with him?" he demanded in a gruff voice.
"I desire to see him privately, for a few moments," she answered.
"If it is charity you have come to beg, you may as well save yourself
the trouble," observed the clerk. "This house don't undertake to
support all the beggars in Jackson."
As his brutal words fell on her ear, a spark of womanly dignity filled
her breast, and her eyes kindled with indignation. She looked at him
for a moment sternly and silently, until her gaze caused him to turn
his countenance from her, abashed at the mute rebuke she had
administered. The pride of by-gone days had returned, with the
unfeeling remarks of the clerk, and Mrs. Wentworth again felt all the
bitterness of her position.
"I did not say I was an applicant for charity," she said at last "All
I desire to know is, if Mr. Swartz is in."
"I believe he is," replied the clerk. "Do you wish to see him, ma'am."
His tone was more respectful. Even poverty can command respect at
times, and the threadbare garment be looked upon with as much
difference as the gorgeous silken dress. It was so at this moment.
"Yes, I desire to see him," answered Mrs. Wentworth. "Be kind enough
to inform Mr. Swartz that a lady has called upon him."
As she used the word "lady," the clerk elevated his eyebrows, and a
smile of pity stole over his features. Lady! Could the miserable
looking object, who stood before him have any claim to the title. Poor
woman! She knew not that the outward form of woman is the only
recognized title to the term. What though the mind be filled with the
loftiest sentiment, and stored with the richest lore of learning. What
though the heart be purer than the snow which covers the mountain
tops, can they ever claim a position among the favorites of fortune,
when accompanied by beggary? Philanthropists, and philosophers tell us
they can, but the demon, Prejudice, has erected a banner, which can
never be pulled down, until man resumes the patriarchal life of
centuries ago, and society, the mockery by which we claim civilization
was built up, is removed from the earth, and mankind can mingle with
each other in free and unrestricted intercourse.
That day will never come.
But to return to our story. The clerk looked pityingly at Mrs.
Wentworth for a moment, then walked to the door of Mr. Swartz's
office, and knocked.
The door was opened.
"There is a _lady_ here who wants to see you on private business," he
said with emphasis.
"Shust tell de lady I will see her in a few minutes," replied the
voice of Mr. Swartz, from the interior of the room.
The clerk withdrew, after closing the door, and advanced to where Mrs.
Wentworth was standing.
"Mr. Swartz will see you in a few moments, he said."
"Go back for me, and tell him my business is urgent, and will admit of
no delay," she answered.
Her thoughts were of the little girl, who lay ill on the bed in the
negro's cabin, and to whom she had promised to return quickly.
The clerk withdrew, and announced her wishes, to his employer.
"Vell," said Mr. Swartz. "Tell her to come in."
She walked up to the door, and as she reached the threshold it opened
and Mr. Elder, stood before her. She spoke not a word as he started
from surprise at her unexpected appearance. She only gazed upon him
for awhile with a calm and steady gaze. Hastily dropping his eyes to
the ground, Mr. Elder recovered his usual composure, and brushing past
the soldier's wife left the store, while she entered the office where
Mr. Swartz was.
"Oot tam," he muttered as she entered. "I shall give dat clerk te
tevil for sending dis voman to me. Sum peggar I vill pet."
"I have called on you again, Mr. Swartz," Mrs. Wentworth began.
Mr. Swartz looked at her as if trying to remember where they had met
before, but he failed to recognize her features.
"I don't know dat you vash here to see me pefore," he replied.
"You do not recognize me," she remarked, and then added: "I am the
lady who sold her last piece of furniture to you some time ago."
He frowned as she reminded him who she was, for he then surmised what
the object of her visit was.
"Oh!" he answered, "I recollect you now, and vat do you vant?"
"I have come upon the same errand," she replied. "I have come once
more to ask you to aid me, but this time come barren of anything to
induce you to comply with my request. Nothing but the generous
promptings of your heart can I hold up before you to extend the
charity I now solicit."
"You have come here to peg again," he observed, "but I cannot give you
anything. Gootness! ven vill te place pe rid of all te peggers?"
"I cannot help my position," she said. "A cruel fortune has deprived
my of him who used to support me, and I am now left alone with my
children to eke out the wretched existence of a pauper. Last night I
was turned out of my room by the man who left here a few seconds ago,
because I could not pay for my rent. One of my children was sick, but
he cared not for that. I told him of my poverty, and he turned a deaf
ear towards me. I was forced to leave, and my child has become worse
from exposure in the night air."
"And vot have I cot to do mit all dis," he enquired.
"You can give me the means of purchasing medicine for my sick child,"
she replied. "The amount thus bestowed cannot cause you any
inconvenience, while it may be the means of saving life."
"Dis never vill do," Mr. Swartz said, interrupting her. "My goot
woman, you must go to somepody else, I can't give away my monish."
"You have got a plenty," she persisted, "you are rich. Oh, aid me! If
you believe there is a God above, who rewards the charitable, aid me,
and receive the heartfelt blessings of a mother. Twenty dollars will
be enough to satisfy my present wants, and that sum will make but
little difference to a man of your wealth."
"Mine Cot!" he exclaimed, "If I make monish I work for it, and don't
go about begging."
"I know that," she answered, "and it is to the rich that the poor must
appeal for assistance. This has made me come to you this day. Let my
desire be realized. Aid me in saving the life of my child who is now
lying ill, and destitute of medical attendance."
He could not appreciate her appeal, and he again refused.
"I can't give you any ding," he answered.
"There is a virtue which shines far more than all the gold you
possess," replied Mrs. Wentworth. "It is in man what chastity is in a
woman. An act of charity ennobles man more than all the fame bestowed
upon him for any other merit, and his reward is always commensurate
with his works. Let this virtue move you. The ear of God cannot always
be turned against my prayers to Him, and the hour must surely come,
when my husband will be released from prison, and be enabled to repay
any kindness you may show his wife and children. Let me have the money
I have asked you for." "Oh, sir!" she continued, falling on her knees
before him, "believe the words I speak to you, and save my child from
the hands of death. But a short time ago I left her gasping for
breath, with cold drops of perspiration resting on her brow, perhaps
the marks of approaching dissolution. She is very ill, and can only
recover through proper treatment. Place it in my power to call a
physician and to procure medicines, and I shall never cease to bless
you."
He moved uneasily in his chair, and averted his head from where she
was kneeling, not because he felt touched at her appeal, but because
he felt annoyed at her importuning him for money.
"Here my voman," he said at last. "Here is von tollar pill, dat is all
I can give you."
She looked at the note in his extended hand, and felt the mockery.
"It will not do," she answered. "Let me have the amount I have asked
you for. You can spare it. Do not be hardened. Recollect it is to
provide medicine for the sick."
"I can't do it," he replied. "You should be shankful for what you
get."
His motive in offering her the dollar, was not from a charitable
feeling, it was only to get rid of a beggar.
"Oh God!" she groaned, rising from her knees, and resting her elbow on
an iron safe near by. "Have you a heart?" she exclaimed wildly, "I
tell you my child is ill, perhaps at this moment dying, aid me! aid
me! Do not turn away a miserable mother from your door to witness her
child die through destitution, when it is in your power to relieve its
sufferings, and save it, so that it may live to be a blessing and
solace to me. If not for my sake, if not for the sake of the child,
let me appeal to you for charity, for the sake of him, who is now
imprisoned in a foreign dungeon. He left me to defend you from the
enemy--left his wife and children to starve and suffer, for the
purpose of aiding in that holy cause we are now engaged in conflict
for. For his sake, if for no other, give me the means of saving my
child."
He did not reply to her passionate words, but simply rang a bell that
stood on the table before which he was seated. His clerk answered the
summons.
"If you vont quit mithout my making you," he observed to Mrs.
Wentworth in a brutal tone, "I must send for a police officer to take
away. Gootness," he continued, speaking to himself, "I pelieve te
voman is mat."
"Save yourself the trouble," she replied, "I will leave. I am not yet
mad," she added. "But, oh, God! the hour is fast approaching when
madness must hold possession of my mind. I go to my child--my poor
dying child. Oh, Heaven, help me!"
As she moved her hand from the safe, she perceived a small package of
money lying on it. She paused and looked around. The clerk had
withdrawn at a sign from Mr. Swartz, while that gentleman was gazing
intently at the open pages of a ledger, that lay before him. For a
moment she hesitated and trembled from head to foot, while the warm
blood rushed to her cheeks, until they were a deep crimson hue.
Swiftly she extended her hand towards the package, and grasped it; in
another instant it was concealed in her dress, and the act of despair
was accomplished.
"God pity me!" she exclaimed, as she left the room and departed from
the scene of her involuntary crime.
Despair had induced her to commit a theft, but no angel of God is
purer in mind than was the Soldier's Wife, when she did so. It was the
result of madness, and if the Recording Angel witnessed the act, he
recorded not the transgression against her, for it was a sin only in
the eyes of man; above it was the child of despair, born of a pure and
innocent mind, and there is no punishment for such.
"Thank God, I have the means of saving my darling child," exclaimed
Mrs. Wentworth, as she bent her steps towards a druggist's store.
Entering it, she purchased a few articles of medicine, and started for
the old negro's cabin, intending to send the old woman for a
physician, as soon as she could reach there.
Swiftly she sped along the streets. Many passers by stopped and looked
with surprise at her rapid walking. They knew not the sorrows of the
Soldier's Wife. Many there were who gazed upon her threadbare
habiliments and haggard features, who could never surmise that the
light of joy had ceased to burn in her heart. Their life had been one
long dream of happiness, unmarred, save by those light clouds of
sorrow, which at times flit across the horrizon of man's career, but
which are swiftly driven away by the sunshine of happiness, or
dissipated by the gentle winds of life's joyous summer.
And the crowds passed her in silence and surprise, but she heeded them
not. Her thoughts were of the angel daughter in the negro's lonely
cabin. To her she carried life; at least she thought so, but the
inevitable will of Death had been declared. Ella was dying.
The eye of God was still turned from the widow and her children. He
saw them not, but his Angels, whose duty it is to chronicle all that
occurs on earth, looked down on that bright autumn day, and a tear
fell from the etherial realms in which they dwelt, and rested upon the
Soldier's Wife.
It was the tear of pity, not of relief.
CHAPTER TWENTIETH
THE DYING CHILD.
After the departure of Mrs. Wentworth, the little girl lie still upon
the bed, while her little brother played about the room. Nearly one
hour elapsed in silence. The breath of the child became shorter and
harder drawn. Her little face became more pinched, while the cold
drops of perspiration rose larger on her forehead. Instinct told her
she was dying, but young as she was, death created no terrors in her
heart. She lay there, anxious for her mother's return, that she may
die in the arms of the one who gave her birth. Death seemed to her but
the advent to Heaven, that home in which we are told all is goodness
and happiness. She thought herself an Angel dwelling with the Maker,
and in her childish trustfulness and faith almost wished herself
already numbered among the Cherubs of Paradise.
The old negro returned before Mrs. Wentworth, and walking to the
bedside of the child, looked at her, and recognized the impress of
approaching death. She felt alarmed, but could not remedy the evil.
Looking at the child sorrowfully for a moment, she turned away.
"Poh chile," she muttered sadly, "she is dyin' sho' and her mammy is
gone out. Da's a ting to take place in my room."
"Granny," said Ella feebly.
"What do you want my darlin' chile," answered the old woman, returning
to the bedside.
"See if mother is coming," she requested.
The old woman walked to the door, and looked down the street. There
was no sign of Mrs. Wentworth.
"No missy," she said to Ella, "your mammy is not coming yet."
"Oh, I do wish she would come," remarked the little girl.
"Lie still, darlin'," the old woman answered. "Your mammy will come
back directly."
The child lay still for several minutes, but her mother came not and
she felt that before many hours she would cease to live.
"Look again, granny, and see if mother is coming," she again
requested, and in a fainter tone.
The old woman looked out once more, but still there was no sign of
Mrs. Wentworth.
"Neber mind, darlin' your mammy will cum directly," she said, and then
added. "Let me know what you want and I will git it for you."
"I don't want anything, granny," Ella answered, and remained silent
for a moment, when she continued: "Granny aint I going to die?"
The old negro looked at her for a moment, and a tear stole down her
withered features. She could not answer, for ignorant and uneducated
as she was, the signs which betoken the parting of the soul from the
body, were too apparent, not to be easily recognized.
"Poh chile," she muttered, as she turned her head and brushed away the
falling tear.
"Answer me, granny," said Ella. "I am not afraid to die, but I would
like to bid mother good-bye, before I went to Heaven."
"Don't tink of sich tings chile'" observed the old woman. "You is sick
now only; lie still and you will soon see your mother."
The time sped swiftly, but to the dying child it seemed an age. She
lay there; her life breath ebbing fast, waiting for her mother, that
she may die in her arms. Angels filled the lowly cabin, and held their
outstretched arms to receive the spirit of a sinless babe, as soon as
it would leave the mortal clay it animated. Soon, soon would it have
been borne on high, for the rattle in the child's throat had almost
commenced, when a hurried footstep was heard at the door, and Mrs.
Wentworth, pale and tired entered the room.
The hand of Death was stayed for awhile, for the presence of the
mother started anew the arteries of life, and the blood once more
rushed to the cheeks of the dying. Ella held out her arms as her
mother approached her, with some medicine in her hand. As she gazed
upon her child, Mrs. Wentworth started back, and uttered a faint
exclamation of anguish. She saw the worst at a glance, and placing
aside the medicine, she seized her child's extended hands, and bending
over her, pressed her darling daughter to her heart.
"Here aunty," she said, as soon us she had released Ella, "Here is
some money, run and call a physician at once."
The old negro took the money and moved off.
"Tell him to come instantly," she called out after the negro. "It is a
matter of life and death, and there is no time to lose."
"Too late, too late! poor people," said the old woman, as she hurried
on her mission of mercy.
It was too late. No science on earth could save Ella from death, and
none on high save the Infinite Power, but He knew not of it. His eyes
were still turned away from the Soldier's Wife and her children.
Mrs. Wentworth remained silent, looking at her child as she gasped for
breath. Of what use was the money she had committed a crime to obtain?
Of what avail were her supplications to God? It were thoughts like
these that passed rapidly through her mind, as she speechlessly gazed
at the fast sinking form of her child. Ella saw her agony, and tried
to soothe her mother.
"Come nearer to me, mother," she said. "Come near and speak to me."
Mrs. Wentworth drew near the bedside, and bent her face to the child.
"What do you wish, darling?" she asked.
"Mother, I am dying--I am going to Heaven," Ella said, speaking with
an effort.
A smothered sob, was the only response she met with.
"Don't cry mother," continued the child. "I am going to a good place,
and do not feel afraid to die."
Shaking off her half maddened feeling, Mrs. Wentworth replied. "Don't
speak that way, darling. You are not going to die. The physician will
soon be here, and he will give you some thing which will get you
better."
Ella smiled faintly. "No, mother, I cannot get better; I know I am
going to die. Last night, while sleeping, an angel told me in my
dream, that I would sleep with God to-night."
"That was only a dream, darling," Mrs. Wentworth replied, "you will
get well and live a long time."
As she spoke the old negro returned, accompanied by a physician. He
was one of these old fashioned gentlemen, who never concern themselves
with another's business, and therefore, he did not enquire the cause
of Mrs. Wentworth, and her family being in so poor a dwelling. His
business was to attend the sick, for which he expected to be paid; not
that he was hard-hearted, for, to the contrary, he was a very
charitable and generous man, but he expected that all persons who
required his advice, should have the means of paying for the same, or
go to the public hospital, where they could be attended to free of
charge. His notions were on a par with those of mankind in general, so
we cannot complain of him.
Approaching Ella, he took her hand and felt the pulse which was then
feebly beating. A significant shake of the head, told Mrs. Wentworth
that there was no hope for her child's recovery.
"Doctor," she asked, "will my daughter recover?"
"Madam," he replied, "your child is very, very ill, in fact, I fear
she has not many hours to live."
"It cannot be," she said. "Do not tell me there is no hope for my
child."
"I cannot deceive you, madam," he replied, "the child has been
neglected too long for science to triumph over her disease. When did
you first call in a medical practitioner?" he added.
"Not until you were sent for," she answered.
"Then you are much to blame, madam," he observed bluntly. "Had you
sent for a physician three weeks ago, the life of your child would
have been saved, but your criminal neglect to do so, has sacrificed
her life."
Mrs. Wentworth did not reply to his candid remarks. She did not tell
him that for weeks past her children and herself had scarcely been
able to find bread to eat, much less to pay a doctor's bill. She did
not tell him that she was friendless and unknown; that her husband had
been taken prisoner while struggling for his country's rights; that
Mr. Elder had turned herself and her children from a shelter, because
she had no money to pay him for the rent of the room; nor did she tell
him that the fee he had received, was obtained by theft--was the fruit
of a transgression of God's commandments.
She forgot all these. The reproach of the physician had fallen like a
thunderbolt from Heaven, in her bosom. Already in her heart she
accused herself with being the murderess of her child. Already she
imagined, because her poverty had prevented her receiving medical
advice, that the accusing Angel stood ready to prefer charges against
her for another and a greater crime, than any she had ever before
committed.
"Dying! dying!" she uttered at last, her words issuing from her lips,
as if they were mere utterances from some machine. "No hope--no hope!"
"Accept my commiseration, madam," observed the physician, placing his
hat on, and preparing to depart. "Could I save your child, I would
gladly do so, but there is no hope. She may live until nightfall, but
even that is doubtful."
Bowing to Mrs. Wentworth, he left the room, in ignorance of the agony
his reproach had caused her, and returned to his office. Dr. Mallard
was the physician's name. They met again.
Ella had listened attentively to the physicians words, but not the
slightest emotion was manifested by her, when he announced that she
was dying. She listened calmly, and as the doctor had finished
informing her mother of the hopelessness of her case, the little pale
lips moved slowly, and the prayer that had been taught her when all
was joy and happiness, was silently breathed by the dying child.
"Mother," she said, as soon as Dr. Mallard had left the room. "Come
here and speak to me before I die."
"Ella! Ella!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth wildly. "Did you not hear what
the physician said?"
"Yes, mother," she answered, "but I knew it before. Do not look so
sad, come and speak to me, and let me tell you that I am not afraid to
die."
"Ella, my darling child," continued Mrs. Wentworth in the same strain.
"Did you not hear the physician say it is my neglect that had caused
you to be dying?"
"I heard him mother, but he was not right," she replied.
"Come nearer," she continued in an earnest tone. "Sit on the bed and
let me rest my head on your lap."