THE SAINT AND THE SINNER.
“Now,” whispered the girl Ellen, breathless with terror lest Mrs. Judson
should come into the room and find a stranger there; “get on your
things, dear, we can steal down the servants’ staircase and no one the
wiser. You must come again very soon, remember.”
Jane Kelly consented to put on her bonnet and shawl, but she did it with
a cool deliberation which drove her companion wild.
“_Do_ make haste!” she entreated, frightened out of all patience, “I
hear her coming.”
“Well, then, it is of no use; she is sure to be upon us. Never fear,
I’ll take all the blame.”
Jane stepped into the hall as she said this, and stood directly in the
light as Mrs. Judson came up the stairs with her head erect and her
dress held up a little, that its length might not impede her progress.
But for the bonnet and shawl, she might not have noticed Jane; as it
was, she stopped suddenly and cast a sharp glance at Ellen.
“Who is this? Who authorized you to bring company up here?” she said, in
a cold, calm tone that made the girl shiver.
“No one authorized her, madam,” said Jane, with an air of profound
humility. “I come on business, special business with Mrs. Judson, the
lady of the house.”
“With me!”
“If you are Mrs. Judson, and I suppose you are, it being difficult, not
to say impossible, to find two such splendid—I beg pardon, ma’am, two
such ladies in the world.”
Mrs. Judson’s face became a shade less haughty, and she said with less
anger in her voice,—
“Still there must be a mistake. I never saw you before.”
“True enough, lady; but I think you will be glad to see me now. I’ve got
something for you from that poor young creature that you’ve been trying
to hear about.”
Jane drew close to Mrs. Judson and said this in a voice so depressed,
that Ellen could not gather its meaning. But Mrs. Judson understood her
at once. The color left her face, she cast a sharp glance at Ellen and
bade her go down-stairs and see that all the blinds were closed, then
moving toward one of the chamber-doors, she opened it and made a gesture
that Jane should follow. The girl obeyed and closed the door after her,
while Mrs. Judson seated herself stiffly, as if she had been in a
church.
“You can sit down,” she said, with unusual condescension. Jane did not
heed the invitation, but drew close to Mrs. Judson and took the
velvet-bound volume from under her shawl.
“Does this belong to you, madam?”
Mrs. Judson restrained an impulse to snatch the book, and reached forth
her hand steadily. She examined the clasp, the title-page, and the words
in her own writing before she looked up or spoke. At last she laid the
book in her lap, and lifted her eyes to the girl.
“Where did you get this?”
“That is my affair, lady. How much is it worth to the young lady’s
friends, is the question just now.”
“That is, you wish to sell it,” said Mrs. Judson.
“Yes, to some one. It must be of value, and I want two things.”
“What are the things you want?”
“Money, and a first-rate place—lady’s maid would suit me if I could find
a lady to be proud of.”
“You seem to value this book highly.”
“Yes I do—very highly, and to my thinking the price will be growing
higher and higher every minute.”
“Yet its first cost could not have been more than thirty dollars.”
“You know that better than I can. It wasn’t the first cost or anything
like it, I was thinking of.”
“What then, pray?”
There was a tremor in the proud woman’s voice, spite of the effort she
made to control it, and Jane Kelly saw with a throb of pleasure that she
grew pale and sat less uprightly in her chair.
“It isn’t the book I’m selling, but what I know of the young lady who
owned it. She was a relation of yours.”
“No she was not!”
“A connection then. You had charge of her.”
“Well!”
“You want to know all about her, and being proud as Lucifer—as an angel,
I mean, won’t ask. I know it isn’t because you begrudge the money—all
is, you won’t even yourself with me and talk the thing over sociably.”
“Sociably! girl, you forget yourself.”
“No I don’t; it’s you that won’t forget yourself. This minute you are
dying to ask all I know, and that proud heart won’t allow you to say the
word. Give back the book. The reporters who were so anxious to find out
her history will be glad to get it.”
“Reporters—reporters,” faltered Mrs. Judson, aghast with apprehension.
“What does this mean? What has that wretched girl done? tell me
everything you know. You are right, it is not money that I consider.
Tell me.”
“Well, how much are you ready to hand over for the book,—remember, only
for the book, the rest I throw in.”
“Set your own price; I cannot discuss that with you.”
“Well, supposing we say two hundred, and the place.”
“I will give the money.”
“And the place?”
“Yes, yes, or its equivalent; go on.”
“Well, yes, I can trust you; for you are a real lady, and no mistake.”
Mrs. Judson opened her work-table drawer, which stood within reach, took
a portemonnaie from it and gave Jane two crisp one-hundred dollar-bills
without speaking a word.
“No mistake about that; you _are_ a lady.”
Mrs. Judson made an impatient gesture with her hand.
“Go on. Where is this young person?”
“In her grave.”
Mrs. Judson uttered a sharp cry, and half started from her chair.
“No, no, I’m going just a little too far. She isn’t buried yet. I
managed to keep all that back twenty-four hours; but she is in her pine
coffin with about the scantest shroud on you ever saw; and unless you
stop it, she’ll be taken off in the next boat-load.”
“Woman! woman! what are you talking of?” cried Mrs. Judson, starting to
her feet in a wild fit of excitement, all the composure of her pride
gone, all her sublime calm swept away. “Is that poor child really dead.
Tell me at once what you know of her.”
Mrs. Judson stood in the middle of the room, wringing her hands, and
shivering as if a cold blast were sweeping over her.
Jane looked upon her with a gleam of triumph in her eyes. At last she
had made the haughty woman feel.
“This, madam, is what I know of her. About five weeks ago she came to
the hospital.”
“What hospital?”
“Bellevue, the poor-house hospital. The people who come there are all
paupers.”
Mrs. Judson lifted both hands, as if to ward off a blow. “Mercy! have
some mercy!” she cried; “you are spiteful! you have been sent by some
cruel enemy to torture me.”
“Not a bit of it, ma’am; I am telling you nothing but the truth,”
answered Jane, settling her shawl and pinning it afresh; “about five
weeks ago she came to the hospital, a quiet, heart-sick, little thing,
that seemed afraid to say her soul was her own. I don’t generally take
much notice of the women, so many are coming and going, but she was so
pretty and quiet, that I did now and then give her an extra turn of
attention. She was half the time crying, and the other half writing or
looking out of the windows, gloomy as the grave, speaking to no one,
except it was another young thing like herself that no human creature
seemed to know anything about, but _so_ beautiful and humble. Well, it’s
no use talking; those two young creatures were ladies, and that I was
sure of from the first. Well, when the time came, this one, she who
owned the book, died.”
Mrs. Judson had partially recovered from the shock which Jane had given
her, and resumed her seat, pale and shivering, but resolute to listen
more calmly.
“Did—did she suffer greatly?”
“Yes; it would set you off again if I was to say how much; both she and
the baby died.”
“The baby?”
“Yes, of course; I thought you understood that!”
Mrs. Judson leaned back in her chair, gasping for breath. Jane thought
that she was fainting, and was about to call for help, but a low voice
recalled her.
“No, no, I must bear this alone. Is there more for me to learn? Did she
tell you nothing about herself?”
“Nothing; I did ask some questions, but she only cried and kept away
from me.”
“Did no person come to see her?”
“Not a soul.”
“You spoke of writing; what became of that?”
“Oh, it was letters; she sent them away.”
“To whom were these letters directed?”
“That I don’t know; she always managed to get them off secretly.”
“And this is all you know of her?”
“Pretty much.”
“But I have no certainty; this book may have been stolen. I cannot be
sure that the poor girl is the one I am interested in,” said Mrs.
Judson, seized by a very natural doubt.
“Yes, you can,” answered Jane, bluntly. “You asked about letters. That
poor girl left one letter which will tell you something about her. There
it is in her own handwriting, if you know that,—look and see.”
Mrs. Judson took the letter from Kelly’s hand; the address seemed to
strike her with astonishment, and her hands shook as she unfolded it.
The letter was a long one, but she read it twice, and seemed to ponder
over it after every word had been gathered. Jane sat still reading the
lady’s face, which for a time came out of its cold composure and was
disturbed.
“Do you know the writing, madam?”
Mrs. Judson looked up and answered the question, abrupt as it was. “Yes,
it is her writing. You will leave the letter with me.”
“No, madam, I cannot do that. It would be like robbing the dead. I mean
to put that letter in the mail by daylight to-morrow morning. The man
shall get it, but I have taken a copy, and that you may have and no
extra charge. You’ve acted the lady by me, and I mean to act the lady by
you; give me that letter and take this, it’s the same thing word for
word.”
Mrs. Judson folded the letter and exchanged it for that Jane Kelly held
in her hand.
“If this does not satisfy you, there is a way that will. Come and look
upon her where she lies.”
Mrs. Judson gazed on the woman who made this rude proposal in absolute
terror for an instant, then pressing one hand over her eyes she seemed
to reflect, and at last said, shuddering visibly,—
“Tell me how to get there without observation, and I will come.”
“Could you get up by daybreak?” asked Jane.
Mrs. Judson turned her head wearily against the back of her chair.
“I shall not go to bed. It would be of no use.”
“So much the better,” answered Jane; “then just as it is getting light I
will come here after you. It will be best to walk.”
“Yes, that will be best.”
“I will see that a gate is left unfastened and that everything is
ready.”
“Must I go into that dreadful building?”
“What, into the hospital? not at all. She is in the dead-house outside.”
Mrs. Judson did not speak, but her face turned coldly white. Jane looked
at her with a sense of superiority. She was far above such weakness as
that. Neither the living nor the dead could frighten her much. That half
hour had lifted her into a feeling almost of companionship with the
woman who had swept by her so haughtily in the hall.
“Don’t take on, ma’am,” she said; “if I was you now, it would not be ten
minutes before I should be in bed and sound asleep; but there is a
difference between people and people; so if you like sitting up in a
chair, why, chair it is, say I.”
But Mrs. Judson was not sitting in her chair just then. Some new thought
had seized upon her, and she was walking up and down the room in great
agitation. When Jane Kelly was about to withdraw, she called her back.
“If this should prove true,” she said, “I shall want help, and have no
one to confide in. Will you be faithful and silent if I double the sum
you have just received?”
“True as steel, and silent as the grave. Try me.”
“If it should prove true, I will. You may go now.”
As Jane went down-stairs, Ellen was waiting in the hall, and would have
stopped her for a little free gossip, but Jane passed her, only stopping
to say,—
“Wait till I come again, then you shall hear lots.”