THE FEMALE MISER IN HER DEN.
“Peg—Peg, don’t you hear me, Peg! I am tired and _so_ hungry, Peg. Will
no one give me drink or a mouthful to eat?”
This oft-repeated complaint was answered by a hoarse croak from the
small hen-coop that stood on the floor, and three lank chickens thrust
forth their open bills and withered, thin necks, through the upright
bars of their prison, casting side glances toward the old woman, whose
face and hands drooped over the side of the bed.
The sound of this response, which came from the half famished creatures
like the croak of so many hungry ravens, brought tears to the sick
woman’s eyes, for these dumb sufferers had been her companions so long,
that all the sympathies of which she was capable went out from her own
forlorn state to theirs. But these humanizing feelings were all driven
away when Peg, the ungrateful cat, stole out from under her bed with a
fragment of food in her jaws, which she carried to the fireless and
unswept hearth, and devoured under the fierce, hungry gaze of her
mistress, with the sly look and crouching air of an ungrateful thief as
she was.
The old woman was feeble from long illness, but nothing could quite
overcome the bitter malice of her nature, and the sight of her prime
favorite caring for her own wants with cool selfishness, as if she had
been human, quenched her tears in anger.
She gathered herself up in the squalid bed, and shook her clenched hand
fiercely at the feline reprobate, who, as if comprehending all the
impotency of this rage, answered it with a greenish glare of the eyes,
and a low, muffled growl over the food she was devouring.
As the old woman fell back upon her pillow, shedding tears of imbecile
rage, a knock came to the door, for the first time in many days.
The cat listened a moment with her paws fastened greedily on the
fragment of food, and her ears thrown back. The chickens drew in their
lank necks and huddled together in the back of their little coop; and
the old woman cried out piteously, and yet with a tremor of rage in her
voice,—“Come in, whoever you are. Welcome, in the name of the blessed
Virgin!”
The door opened, and a woman entered the room firmly, and with the
demeanor of one who had a right there. Her dress was very humble, and
made after a fashion that had prevailed years before. A large bonnet of
pink silk, now faded and crushed, was on her head; a fall of discolored
blonde lace, once very costly, half shaded her features; and a mantilla
of antique voluminousness fell over a dress of soiled calico.
“Who are you? and what do you come for?” inquired Madame De Marke,
striving to support herself on one elbow in the bed, while she shaded
her eyes with the other hand. “Has anybody heard that I was sick? Why
didn’t they send me a Sister of Mercy?”
“I am all the sister of mercy you’ll be likely to get to take care of
you in this world or the next,” replied her visitor, looking around the
room with a smile of grim satisfaction. “All right! So you are sick and
want help—hungry and want food. I like that. It goes a good way toward
convincing me that there is a just God, and I don’t like to give up that
idea altogether, though he did make such creatures as you are.”
The old woman uttered a sort of hiss, and clenched the hand she had lost
all strength to threaten with.
“I know you. Yes, yes! I know you well enough now, Jane Kelly. Your time
in State’s Prison is up, and you’ve come here to insult me on my
sick-bed. That’s brave of you now, isn’t it?—mighty brave!”
“I came here because I had no other home to go to, and because you owe
me money that I will have: and I owe you punishment for all the
wickedness you have heaped on me, which you are sure to get. It’s
settling-day between us.”
“What do you want? What do you mean? I don’t owe you anything. I never
did anything against you, Jane Kelly, never in my whole life. On the
contrary, I always liked you, and when that impertinent policeman would
take you up, and the judge insisted on sentencing you, I did my best to
buy you off. It was all because you wouldn’t do all that we bargained
for, that you fell into trouble. But you are a good-hearted creature,
Jane, and won’t bear malice against a poor, harmless old woman for what
she couldn’t help. Come, take off your bonnet, Jane, and find a chair.
I’m so glad you came.”
Jane took off her bonnet, and revealed a crop of short, black hair,
which she shook at the old woman with a malignant laugh.
“This is your doings!” she said, threading the thick locks fiercely with
her fingers. “It was a yard and a quarter long when you swore it off my
head. Well, never mind, every dog has its day, and mine is coming round
with a sharp turn. Before this gets to its length again, you’ll be six
feet under ground, or where I just came from.”
“Hush, now do hush,” pleaded the old woman, with a feeble attempt at her
old cajoling tone. “Don’t talk about being six feet under ground. I’m
only a little weak, you know, and grieved at the ingratitude of the
world. Just look there, Jane Kelly, my dear old friend; look at Peg; I
would have staked anything on the faithfulness of that cat; but ever
since I’ve been sick she’s never been near my bed, but goes off mousing
and stealing for herself, just as if I wasn’t here and couldn’t be
hungry, I, who taught her the difference between cooked birds right from
the restaurant and live mice. Would you believe it, ever since I’ve been
unable to help myself, she’s done nothing but catch mice.”
There the old woman’s passion threw her into a coughing-fit, but the
moment it was over, she began again.
“To-day, when she came with a bird dripping with gravy in her jaws, I
tried to coax her up to the bed; but no, there she stood leering at me
with her round, glaring eye, and munched the bird up bones and all
before my face. I tried to get at her, but the room turned black as
midnight, and though I could hear her crunching and growling under the
bed, it was of no use pleading. Look at her there, Jane Kelly, the viper
that I warmed in my bosom, and if you wish to fight anything, try her,
she deserves it. But I,—just come to the bed, my friend, take my hand,
there’s nothing but kindness in me. I’m full of friendship for you.
Sickness and trouble have changed me, Jane, and if I did you any harm,
it has been repented of long and long ago.”
Jane scarcely seemed to heed all this, save that she went up to the
hearth and gave Peg, the cat, a vigorous kick with one of the heavy
prison-shoes that still encased her feet. This injunction to punish the
cat seemed to be the only portion of the old woman’s speech that
impressed her enough for action. Though it was very evident that the
miserable old creature was absolutely suffering from starvation, Jane
seemed in no hurry to relieve the discomforts of her position, but
seated herself in one of the dilapidated chairs, and took a
well-satisfied survey of the room, till her fierce gaze at last
encountered the keen, black eyes of her enemy glancing upon her from the
bed.
“So you have suffered a good deal?” she said, abruptly.
“A great deal. You would be sorry for me, Jane, if you knew how much.”
“I’m not sure about that. Hungry sometimes, eh?”
“I’m hungry now!” answered the sick woman, while tears dropped like
single hail-stones from her eyes; “I’m very hungry, Jane Kelly.”
“And thirsty?”
“My mouth is parched for want of a drop of water!”
“And weak?”
“So weak that it troubles me to move a finger, except when I’m angry.
Peg gave me a moment’s strength, and your coming kept it up—but now I am
helpless.”
“Yet you are rich?”
“Oh, yes, very rich; rolling in gold—rolling in gold!” cried the old
woman, with a fresh gleam of the eyes.
“And where is this gold? I want my share of it.”
“Your share, oh, ha! you’re joking now, my beautiful friend. Of course,
one never keeps money in a place like this! Safe in the bank, mortgages,
railroad stock, bonds.”
“And jewels perhaps—old-fashioned diamond ear-rings, mated this time,”
said Jane Kelly, glancing under the bed, at which Madame De Marke grew
more livid than sickness had left her, and began to writhe upon her
pillow as if seized with a sudden paroxysm of pain.
“No, no,” the invalid almost shrieked, “the judge kept them both. I
never could get those ear-rings back from his clutches. They were to be
kept for you, he insisted, when you came out of prison. I only wish we
had them here, and they should sparkle in those pretty ears before you
could find time to ask for them.”
Jane gave her head a contemptuous toss, but the eyes of the old woman
were fixed upon her with that keen, mesmeric power which in serpents is
called fascination; and spite of her coarse shrewdness, the material of
the one woman was yielding itself to the diabolical subtlety of the
other.
“You must not complain of the prison, Jane Kelly, for it has made a lady
of you. Why, your forehead and neck are white as lilies, and your cheeks
are like wild roses, only when you look cross one loses sight of the
dimples. It’s worth while staying between four stone walls a year or
two, if it brings one’s beauty out like that!”
“Like this!” said Jane, with another wilful shake of the head, which
sent the hair in disorder over her brow and temples. “This is one of the
beauties I have gained!”
“But it will be thicker and softer, and—”
The old woman broke off suddenly, and turned upon her pillow moaning.
Jane Kelly arose with an impulse of compassion.
“What shall I do for you?” she said.
“Something to eat, and a mouthful of water,” moaned the patient,
wearily, “I am almost dead!”
“Where shall I get food?” inquired Jane. “Water I can find.”
“Give me water—a little water—it costs nothing; give that first!” said
the old woman, in a feeble moan, true to her great vice, even while
hunger was gnawing at her vitals.