dying child in her arms, and pillowed her head on her breast. The old
negro was standing at the foot of the bed, looking on quietly, while
the tears poured down her aged cheeks. Mrs. Wentworth's little son
climbed on the bed, and gazed in wonder at the sad aspect of his
mother, and the dying features of his sister.
"Mother," said the child, "I am going to Heaven, say a prayer for me."
She essayed to pray, but could not, her lips moved, but utterance was
denied to her.
"I cannot pray, darling," she replied, "prayer is denied to me."
The child asked no more, for she saw her mother's inability to comply
with her wishes.
The little group remained in the same position until the setting sun
gleamed through the window, and shed a bright ray across the bed. Not
a sound was heard, save the ticking of the old fashioned clock on the
mantle piece, as its hands slowly marked the fleeting minutes. The
eyes of the dying child had been closed at the time, but as the
sunlight shot across her face she opened them, and looked up into her
mother's face.
"Open the window, granny," she said.
The old woman opened it, and as she did so, the round red glare of the
sun was revealed, while the aroma of thousands wild flowers that grew
beneath the window, entered the room, and floated its perfume on the
autumn air.
"Mother," said the dying child.
Mrs. Wentworth looked down upon her child.
"What is it darling," she asked.
"Let brother kiss me," she requested.
Her little brother was lifted up and held over her. She pressed a soft
kiss upon his lips.
"Good-bye, granny," she said, holding out her hand to the negro.
The old woman seized it, and the tears fell faster, on the bed than
they had hitherto done. Her humble heart was touched at the simple,
yet unfearing conduct of the child.
"Mother, kiss me," she continued. "Do not be sad," she added,
observing her mother's pale and ghastly countenance. "I am going to a
world where no one is sick, and no one knows want."
Stooping over her dying child, Mrs. Wentworth complied with Ella's
request, and pressed her brow in a long and earnest kiss. She had not
spoken a word from the time her child requested the old woman to open
the window, but she had never for an instant, ceased looking on the
features of her dying daughter, and she saw that the film was fast
gathering on her eyes.
After her mother had kissed her, Ella remained silent for several
minutes, when suddenly starting, she exclaimed: "I see them, mother! I
see them! See the Angels coming for me--Heaven--mother--Angels!" A
bright smile lit her features, the half-opened eyes lit up with the
last fires of life; then as they faded away, her limbs relaxed, and
still gazing on her mother's face, the breath left the body.
There was a rush as of wind through the window, but it was the Angels,
who were bearing the child's spirit to a brighter and a better world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.
THE INTRUSION.
As soon as the breath had left her child's body, Mrs. Wentworth
removed the corpse from her lap and laid it on the bed; than standing
aside of it, gazed upon all that remained of her little daughter. Not
a tear, not a sigh, not a groan denoted that she felt any grief at her
bereavement. Except a nervous twitching of her mouth, her features
wore a cold and rigid appearance, and her eye looked dull and glassy.
She spoke not a word to those around her who yet lived. Her little boy
was unnoticed, no other object but the dead body appeared to meet her
view.
There are moments when the fountains of grief become dried up. It was
so with Mrs. Wentworth. The sight of her dead child's face--beautiful
in death--for it wore a calm and placid exterior, too life-like for
death, too rigid for life, awoke no emotion in her bosom; nor did the
knowledge that the infant would soon be placed in the grave, and be
forever hidden from the gaze she now placed on it so steadfastly,
cause a single tear drop to gather in her eye, nor a sigh to burst
from her pale and firmly closed lips. And yet, there raged within her
breast a volcano, the violence of whose fire would soon exhaust, and
leave her scarred and blasted forever. At that moment it kindled with
a blaze, that scorched her heart, but she felt it not. Her whole being
was transformed into a mass of ruin. She felt not the strain on the
tendrils of her mind; that her overwrought brain was swaying between
madness and reason. She only saw the lifeless lineaments of her
child--the first pledge of her wedded affection--dead before her.
It came to her like a wild dream, a mere hallucination--an imagination
of a distempered mind. She could not believe it. There, on that lowly
bed, her child to die! It was something too horrible for her thoughts,
and though the evidence lay before her, in all its solemn grandeur,
there was something to her eye so unreal and impossible in its silent
magnificence that she doubted its truthfulness.
The old negro saw her misery. She knew that the waters which run with
a mild and silent surface, are often possessed of greater depth, than
those which rush onward with a mighty noise.
"Come missis," she said, placing her hand on Mrs. Wentworth's
shoulder. "De Lord will be done. Nebber mind. He know better what to
do dan we do, and we must all be satisfy wid his works."
Mrs. Wentworth looked at the old woman for a moment, and a bitter
smile swept across her countenance. What were words of consolation to
her? They sounded like a mockery in her heart. She needed them not,
for they brought not to life again the child whose spirit had winged
its flight to eternity, but a short time since.
"Peace old woman," she replied calmly, "you know not what you say.
That," she continued, pointing to the body of Ella, "that you tell me
not to mourn, but to bend to the will of God. Pshaw! I mourn it not.
Better for the child to die than lead a beggar's life on earth."
"Shame, shame missis," observed the old woman, very much shocked at
what appeared to her the insensibility of Mrs. Wentworth. "You musn't
talk dat way, it don't do any good."
"You know not what I mean, auntie," Mrs. Wentworth answered in a
milder tone. "Why did I come here? Why did I bring my child ill and
dying from a shelter, and carry her through the night air, until I
found a home in your lonely cabin? Do you know why?" she continued
with bitterness. "It was because I was a beggar, and could not pay the
demands of the rich."
"Poh lady!" ejaculated the old woman. "Whar is your husband."
"My husband?" she replied. "Ah! where is he? Oh, God!" she continued
wildly. "Where is he now while his child lies dead through
destitution, and his wife feels the brand of the _thief_ imprinted
upon her forehead? Why is he not here to succor the infant boy who yet
remains, and who may soon follow his sister? Oh, God! Oh, God! that he
should be far away, and I be here gazing on the dead body of my
child--dead through my neglect to procure her proper medical
attendance; dead through the destitution of her mother."
"Nebber mind, missis," observed the old negro soothingly, "De chile is
gone to heaben, whar it wont suffer any more."
"Peace!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth passionately. "Do not talk to me of
Heaven. What has God done to aid me in my misery? Has he not suffered
me to feel the pangs of hunger, to see my children deprived of bread,
to permit me to stain my whole existence with a crime? The child is
gone to Heaven. Aye! there her sinlessness and innocence might give
her a welcome, and she may be happy, but the blank left in my heart,
the darkness of my mind, the cheerless and unpropitious future that
unveils itself before my aching eyes, can never be obliterated until I
am laid in the grave beside her, and my spirit has winged its flight
to the home where she now dwells."
She spoke slowly and earnestly, but her words were of despair not of
grief. Motioning to the old woman that she desired no further
conversation, Mrs. Wentworth again fixed her gaze upon the dead
features of her child. On them she looked, until the tablet of her
memory contained but one impress, that of her daughter's face. All
records of past suffering, all anxiety for the present, all prayer for
the future, were driven away, and solitary and alone the image of the
dead child filled their place, and in that lone thought was
concentrated all that had transpired in her life for months past. It
was the last remaining bulwark to her tottering mind, and though it
still held reason dominant, the foundation of sanity had been shaken
to such an extent that the slightest touch and the fabric would fall
from its throne and crumble to dust at the feet of madness. But this
was unknown to God. He who knoweth all things still kept his eyes away
from the mother and her children.
"Dead! dead!" said, Mrs. Wentworth, swaying her body to and fro. "My
angel child dead! Oh, God!"' she continued, passing her hand across
her brow. "That I should live to see this day, that this hour of
bereavement should ever be known to me. Oh! that this should be the
result of my sufferings, that this should be the only reward of my
toils and prayers."
The blood rushed to her face, and her whole form trembled with an
uncontrollable agitation; her bosom heaved with emotion, and the
beatings of her heart were heard as plain as the click of the clock on
the mantlepiece. Stooping over the dead body she clasped it in her
arms, and pressed the bloodless and inanimate lips in a fond embrace.
It was the promptings of a mother's heart. She had nursed the child
when an infant, and had seen her grow up as beautiful as the fairies
so often described by the writers of fiction. She had looked forward
for the day when the child would bloom into womanhood, and be a
blessing and a comfort in her old age. All these were now forever
blighted. Not even the presence of her son awoke a thought within her
that the living remained to claim her care and affection. He was but a
link in the chain of her paternal love, and the bonds having been
broken she looked on the shattered fragment and sought not to unite
what yet remained in an unhurt state.
When she rose from her stooping posture her face had resumed its cold
and rigid appearance. Turning to the old negro who was looking on in
silent wonder and grief, she enquired in a calm tone: "Have you any of
the money left that I gave you this morning?"
"Yes, missis," she replied. "I got some left."
"How much is it?" asked Mrs. Wentworth.
"Twelve dollars," she answered, counting the notes that she had taken
from her pocket.
"Will that be enough to pay for a coffin for my child?" Mrs. Wentworth
enquired.
"I don't know, but I spect it will do," replied the old negro.
"To make sure that it will be enough," observed Mrs. Wentworth, "here
is some more money to pay for it." As she spoke she handed several
notes to the old woman. "And now," she continued, "I want you to go
out and order a coffin, as I want the child to be buried to-morrow
morning."
"I spec I better get de parson to preach over de poor chile," remarked
the old woman, who was a strict member of the church, and very
superstitious in relation to the evils that would accrue from a
departure from all that is laid down in religious tenets.
"Yes, yes!" Mrs. Wentworth replied. "But there is no necessity of
going for him this evening, wait until early in the morning, that time
will do well enough."
The old woman curtsied and moved out of the room. Arriving in town she
entered an undertaker's shop and enquired if he could furnish a coffin
by the next morning. On his answering in the affirmative she paid him
twenty dollars, the amount charged, and hastened back to her cabin.
The interest manifested by this old woman, was that usually shown to
all persons in distress by the faithful slave of the South. She had
not even learned Mrs. Wentworth's name, but the sight of her sad and
haggard features, as well as the death of Ella, had awaken a feeling
of sympathy for the unfortunate family; thus we see her obeying the
orders of her accidental guests, without making any objections. But to
return to the dead.
As soon as Mrs. Wentworth was left alone, her face assumed its natural
appearance, and the rigid expression it had hitherto worn was
dispelled. Opening a bundle she had brought front her room, she took
out a white dress. It was one of the few remaining articles of
clothing she possessed, and had only been saved at the earnest
solicitation of the little Ella. It was her bridal robe; in that she
had walked up to the altar and plighted her troth to the loved husband
who was now a prisoner and far away. The first and last time she had
worn it was on that day, and as she gazed on it the memory of the past
rushed upon her. She thought of the hour when, as a blushing bride,
she leaned on the proud form of her lover, as they walked together in
the sacred edifice to register those vows that bound them in an
indissoluble tie, and unite their hearts in a stronger and holier love
than their lover's vows had done. Then she know not what sorrow was.
No gift of futurity had disclosed to her the wretchedness and penury
that after years had prepared for her. No, then all was joy and
happiness. As she stood by the side of her lover her maiden face
suffused with blushes, and her palpitating heart filled with mingled
felicity and anxiety as she looked down on the bridal dress that
covered her form. No thought, no dream, not even a fear of what after
years would bring to her, stirred the fountain of fear and caused her
a single pang. And now--but why trouble the reader with any further
remarks of the past? That is gone and forever. We have seen her tread
the paths in which all that is dismal and wretched abides; we have
seen herself and her children lead a life, the very thought of which
should cause us to pray it may never be our lot. Words can avail but
little. They only fill the brain with gladness for awhile to turn to
horror afterwards. We have but to write of the present. In it we find
misery enough, we find sorrow and wretchedness, without the hand of
compassion being held forth to help the miserable from the deep and
fearful gulf with which penury and want abound.
The wedding dress was soiled and crumpled; the bunches of orange
blossoms with which it was adorned, lay crushed upon its folds--a fit
appearance for the heart of the owner--It looked like a relic of
grandeur shining in the midst of poverty, and as its once gaudy folds
rested against the counterpane in the bed, the manifest difference of
the two appeared striking and significant.
For a moment Mrs. Wentworth gazed upon this last momento of long past
happiness, and a spasm of grief contracted her features. It passed
away, however, in an instant, and she laid the dress across the dead
body of her child. Drawing a chair to the bedside, she took from her
pocket a spool of thread, some needles and her scissors. Selecting one
of the needles, she thread it, and pinning it in the body of her
dress, removed the wedding gown from the body of her child, and
prepared to make a shroud of it. Rapidly she worked at her task, and
before darkness had set in, the burial garment was completed, and the
body of Ella was enclosed in the last robe she would wear on earth.
The body of the dead child looked beautiful. The snowy folds of the
dress were looped up with the orange blossoms which Mrs. Wentworth had
restored to their natural beauty. On her cold, yet lovely brow, a
wreath of the same flowers was placed, while in her hand was placed a
tiny ivory cross, that Ella had worn around her neck while living. The
transformation was complete. The dress of the young and blooming bride
had become the habiliments of the dead child, and the orange blossoms
that rested on its folds and on the brow of Ella, were not more
emblematical for the dead than they had been for the living.
"Oh! how pretty sister looks," exclaimed the little boy, who could not
comprehend why the dead body lie so motionless and stiff. "Wake her
up, mother," he continued, "she looks so pretty that I want her to
stand up and see herself."
Mrs. Wentworth smiled sorrowfully at her son's remarks, but she did
not remove her features from the dead. The saint-like expression of
her child, and the placid and beautiful face that lay before her
devoid of animation, had awoke the benumbed feelings of affection
within her. A bright light flashed across her brain, and the long pent
up tears, were about to flow, when the door was widely opened, and a
dark shadow spread itself over the body of Ella. Checking her emotion,
Mrs. Wentworth looked around and beheld the figure of Mr. Swartz,
accompanied by two police officers.
She spoke not a word at first, for in an instant the cause of his
visit was known. One look she gave him, which sunk into the inmost
depths of his soul; then turning to the dead child, she slowly
extended her hand and pointed to it.
"There," she said at last. "Look there," and her face again wore its
former colorless and rigid aspect.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND.
IMPRISONMENT OF THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.
We must now take a glance back at the time that Mrs. Wentworth
committed her act of despair in taking the package of money from the
safe. Mr. Swartz, as we stated, was then gazing intently at the open
pages of his ledger, and, in her leaving the room hurriedly, did not
take any other notice of her, than mere glance. He then resumed his
calculations, nor did he rise from his seat for nearly three hours
afterwards, so intent was he on the books before him. Rising up at
last, he walked to the safe, and observing that the package of money
was gone, called out to his clerk, who quickly answered the summons
and entered the room.
"Vere is dat package of money I had on de safe dis morning?" he
enquired, as soon as the clerk had entered.
"I have not seen anything of it, since I gave it into your hands this
morning at nine o'clock," the clerk replied.
"Vell, I put it on top of dis safe," observed Mr. Swartz, "and I
forgot to lock it up, ven Mr. Elder came in, and kept me talking
nearly two hours, den de beggar came in and remained for a long time.
After dat I vas busy mit the ledger, and didn't think of it."
"Perhaps you have placed it somewhere else, and cannot recollect
where," remarked the clerk, who was apprehensive that Mr. Swartz would
charge him with having stolen the money.
"No, I didn't," answered Mr. Swartz, "De monish vas put down on de top
of the safe, for I remember putting it down here myself," he added,
pointing to the spot where the money had been.
"You had better search about before you make certain of that," said
the clerk. "See if it is not in your pocket you may have placed it
there, and at the same time believe that you placed it on your safe."
"Mine Cot!" answered Mr. Swartz, "I tell you I put the package on de
safe. See here," he continued, searching his pockets, and emptying
them of whatever they contained. "Don't you see dat de monish is not
in my pockets. It vas on de safe und unless somebody removed it, it
never could have gone away."
"You should be certain, sir, before you insist that you placed it on
the safe," remarked the clerk. "Look in the draw of your desk, it may
have been placed there as well as any other place."
With a gesture of impatience Mr. Swartz opened the drawers of the
desk, and removing everything they contained searched carefully among
the large number of papers for the missing package. It was not there
however, and turning to the clerk who was standing near by, he pointed
to the table to indicate the fact of its absence among the papers he
had taken from the drawers.
"I told you it vash not tere," he remarked. "Somebody has taken te
monish, and, py Cot! I vill find out who has got it."
"Don't be so hasty in your conclusions, sir," said the clerk. "Let us
search the room carefully, and see whether it has not been mislaid by
you. It will never do," he added, "to charge anybody with having taken
the money, when it may be lying about the room."
"Vere can it pe lying?" asked Mr. Swartz angrily. "I tell you it vash
on te safe, and tere ish no use looking any where else."
"That maybe so, sir," replied the clerk, "but if you will give me
permission I will search the room well before you take any further
steps in the matter."
"You can look if you like," observed Mr. Swartz, "but I know tere ish
no chance of your finding it, and it ish only giving yourself trouble
for noting."
"Never do you mind that, sir," the clerk answered. "I am willing to
take the trouble."
Removing the books from the top of the safe he carefully shook them
out, but the package was not among them. He then replaced them and
turned the safe round, with the hope that the money might have fallen
under it. The same success, however, attended him, and he was
compelled to renew his efforts. Everything in the room was removed
without the package being found. After a minute and diligent search he
was compelled to give up the work in despair, and ceasing he stood
trembling before Mr. Swartz, who, he momentarily expected, would
charge him with having committed a theft. But for this fear he would
never have taken the trouble of upsetting and replacing everything in
the room, but would have been perfectly satisfied for his employer to
sustain the loss.
"Vell!" said Mr. Swartz. "I suppose you ish satisfied dat te monish
ain't here."
"Its disappearance is very singular," replied the clerk. "If, as you
say, the package was laid on the safe and never removed by you,
somebody must have taken it away."
"Of course, somepody tock it," remarked Mr. Swartz. "How te tevil
could it go mitout it vash taken away py somepody?"
"Do you suspect any one of having stolen it," asked the clerk, turning
as white as the shirt he wore.
"Did you ever come near de safe to-day," asked Mr. Swartz, abruptly.
"Me, sir?" said the now thoroughly frightened clerk. "No, I--No
sir--I--never came further than the door each time you called to me."
"I can't say dat Mr. Elder vould take it," observed Mr. Swartz, "and
all I remember now dat you didn't come anyvere near de safe, I can't
tink who could have taken the monish."
Assured by his manner that Mr. Swartz had dismissed all idea of
charging him with the theft, the clerk's confidence returned, and he
ceased stuttering and trembling.
"Do you think the woman who was here could have taken it?" he
enquired, and then added: "The last time I entered this room while she
was here, I remember seeing her standing near the safe, with her elbow
on the top."
"By Cot!" exclaimed Mr. Swartz, striking the table with his hand. "She
must be de very person. She vanted me to give her monish, and she must
have seen de package lying on the safe and taken it avay."
"It is no use wasting any time then," said the clerk, "you must
endeavor to find out where she stays, and have her arrested this
evening."
"Vere can I find her house?" asked Mr. Swartz.
"You will have to track her," answered the clerk. "The first place you
had better go to is Elkin's drug store, for I saw the woman enter
there after leaving here."
Mr. Swartz made no reply, but taking up his hat he walked out of his
office, and proceeded to the drug store. The druggist, who had noticed
the wild and haggard appearance of Mrs. Wentworth, informed him, in
reply to his enquiries, that such a person as the one he described had
purchased several descriptions of medicines from him, and on leaving
his store, she had walked up the street. This being the only
information that the druggist could give, Mr. Swartz left the store,
and after many enquiries discovered where Mrs. Wentworth resided. He
immediately returned to his store, and mentioned his discovery to the
clerk.
"You had better go at once and take out a warrant against her for
robbery;" remarked the clerk, "and take a couple of policemen with you
to arrest her."
Starting to the City Hall, Mr. Swartz took out a warrant against Mrs.
Wentworth for larceny, and procuring the assistance of two policemen,
he started for the old negro's cabin, determined to prosecute the
thief to the utmost extent of his power and the law. Having informed
our readers of his conduct on discovering that his money had been
stolen, we will continue from where we left off at the close of the
last chapter.
Mrs. Wentworth on perceiving Mr. Swartz and the two policemen, had
pointed to the dead body of her child, and pronounced the solitary
word, "there," while her face became cold and expressiveless.