It was now dusk, and she hastened to perform this duty. Whiston's
dwelling was wooden and of small dimensions. She lifted the latch softly
and entered. The lower room was unoccupied. She advanced to the foot of
a narrow staircase, and knocked and listened, but no answer was returned
to the summons. Hence there was reason to infer that no one was within,
but this, from other considerations, was extremely improbable. The truth
could be ascertained only by ascending the stairs. Some feminine
scruples were to be subdued before this proceeding could be adopted.
After some hesitation, she determined to ascend. The staircase was
terminated by a door, at which she again knocked for admission, but in
vain. She listened and presently heard the motion as of some one in
bed. This was succeeded by tokens of vehement exertions to vomit. These
signs convincing her that the house was not without a tenant, she could
not hesitate to enter the room.
Lying in a tattered bed, she now discovered Mary Whiston. Her face was
flushed and swelled, her eyes closed, and some power, appeared to have
laid a leaden hand upon her faculties. The floor was moistened and
stained by the effusion from her stomach. Constantia touched her hand,
and endeavoured to rouse her. It was with difficulty that her attention
was excited. Her languid eyes, were scarcely opened before they again
closed, and she sunk into forgetfulness.
Repeated efforts, however, at length recalled her to herself, and
extorted from her some account of her condition. On the day before, at
noon, her stomach became diseased, her head dizzy, and her limbs unable
to support her. Her brother was absent, and her drowsiness, interrupted
only by paroxysms of vomiting, continued till his return late in the
evening. He had then shown himself, for a few minutes, at her bedside,
had made some inquiries and precipitately retired, since when he had not
reappeared.
It was natural to imagine that Whiston had gone to procure medical
assistance. That he had not returned, during a day and a half, was
matter of surprise. His own indisposition was recollected, and his
absence could only be accounted for by supposing that sickness had
disabled him from regaining his own house. What was his real destiny it
was impossible to conjecture. It was not till some months after this
period that satisfactory intelligence was gained upon this head.
It appeared that Whiston had allowed his terrors to overpower the sense
of what was due to his sister and to humanity. On discovering the
condition of the unhappy girl, he left the houses and, instead of
seeking a physician, he turned his step towards the country. After
travelling some hours, being exhausted by want of food, by fatigue; and
by mental as well as bodily anguish, he laid himself down under the
shelter of a hayrick, in a vacant field. Here he was discovered in the
morning by the inhabitants of a neighbouring farm house. These people
had too much regard for their own safety to accommodate him under their
roof, or even to approach within fifty paces of his person.
A passenger whose attention and compassion had been excited by this
incident was endowed with more courage. He lifted the stranger in his
arms, and carried him from this unwholesome spot to a barn. This was the
only service which the passenger was able to perform. Whiston, deserted
by every human creature, burning with fever, tormented into madness by
thirst, spent three miserable days in agony. When dead, no one would
cover his body with earth, but he was suffered to decay by piecemeal.
The dwelling being at no great distance from the barn, could not be
wholly screened from the malignant vapour which a corpse thus neglected,
could not fail to produce.
The inhabitants were preparing, on this account, to change their abode,
but, on the eve of their departure, the master of the family became
sick. He was, in a short time, followed to the grave by his mother, his
wife, and four children.
They probably imbibed their disease from the tainted atmosphere around
them. The life of Whiston, and their own lives, might have been saved by
affording the wanderer an asylum and suitable treatment, or at least
their own deaths might have been avoided by interring his remains.
Meanwhile Constantia was occupied with reflecting on the scene before
her. Not only a physician but a nurse was wanting. The last province it
was more easy for her to supply than the former. She was acquainted with
the abode but of one physician. He lived at no small distance from this
spot. To him she immediately hastened; but he was absent, and his
numerous engagements left it wholly uncertain when he would return, and
whether he would consent to increase the number of his patients.
Direction was obtained to the residence of another, who was happily
disengaged; and who promised to attend immediately. Satisfied with this
assurance, she neglected to request directions; by which she might
regulate herself on his failing to come.
During her return her thoughts were painfully employed in considering
the mode proper for her to pursue in her present perplexing situation.
She was for the most part unacquainted with the character of those who
compelled her neighbourhood. That any would be willing to undertake the
attendance of this girl was by no means probable. As wives and mothers,
it would perhaps be unjust to require or permit it. As to herself, there
were labours and duties of her own sufficient to engross her faculties,
yet, by whatever foreign cares or tasks she was oppressed, she felt that
to desert this being was impossible.
In the absence of her friend, Mary's state exhibited no change.
Constantia, on regaining the house, lighted the remnant of a candle, and
resumed her place by the bed side of the sick girl. She impatiently
waited the arrival of the physician, but hour succeeded hour, and he
came not. All hope of his coming being extinguished, she bethought
herself that her father might be able to inform her of the best manner
of proceeding. It was likewise her duty to relieve him from the
suspense in which her absence would unavoidably plunge him.
On entering her own apartment, she found a stranger in company with Mr.
Dudley. The latter perceiving that she had returned, speedily acquainted
her with the view of their guest. His name was M'Crea; he was the nephew
of their landlord, and was now become, by reversion, the proprietor of
the house which they occupied. Matthews had been buried the preceding
day, and M'Crea, being well acquainted with the engagements which
subsisted between the deceased and Mr. Dudley, had come thus
unreasonably to demand the rent. He was not unconscious of the
inhumanity and sordidness of this proceeding, and therefore endeavoured
to disguise it by the usual pretences. All his funds were exhausted. He
came not only in his own name, but in that of Mrs. Matthews his aunt,
who was destitute of money to procure daily and indispensable
provision, and who was striving to collect a sufficient sum to enable
her and the remains of her family to fly from a spot where their lives
were in perpetual danger.
These excuses were abundantly fallacious, but Mr. Dudley was too proud
to solicit the forbearance of a man like this. He recollected that the
engagement on his part was voluntary and explicit, and he disdained to
urge his present exigences as reasons for retracting it. He expressed
the utmost readiness to comply with the demand, and merely desired him
to wait till Miss Dudley returned. From the inquietudes with which the
unusual duration of her absence had filled him, he was now relieved by
her entrance.
With an indignant and desponding heart, she complied with her father's
directions, and the money being reluctantly delivered, M'Crea took an
hasty leave. She was too deeply interested in the fate of Mary Whiston
to allow her thoughts to be diverted for the present into a new channel.
She described the desolate condition of the girl to her father, and
besought him to think of something suitable to her relief.
Mr. Dudley's humanity would not suffer him to disapprove of his
daughter's proceeding. He imagined that the symptoms of the patient
portended a fatal issue. There were certain complicated remedies which
might possibly be beneficial, but these were too costly, and the
application would demand more strength than his daughter could bestow.
He was unwilling, however, to leave any thing within his power untried.
Pharmacy had been his trade, and he had reserved, for domestic use some
of the most powerful evacuants. Constantia was supplied with some of
these, and he consented that she should spend the night with her patient
and watch their operation.
The unhappy Mary received whatever was offered, but her stomach refused
to retain it. The night was passed by Constantia without closing her
eyes. As soon as the day dawned, she prepared once more to summon the
physician, who had failed to comply with his promise. She had scarcely
left the house, however, before she met him. He pleaded his numerous
engagements in excuse for his last night's negligence, and desired her
to make haste to conduct him to the patient.
Having scrutinized her symptoms, he expressed his hopelessness of her
recovery. Being informed of the mode in which she had been treated, he
declared his approbation of it, but intimated, that these being
unsuccessful, all that remained was to furnish her with any liquid she
might choose to demand, and wait patiently for the event. During this
interview the physician surveyed the person and dress of Constantia with
an inquisitive eye. His countenance betrayed marks of curiosity and
compassion, and, had he made any approaches to confidence and
friendliness, Constantia would not have repelled them. His air was
benevolent and candid, and she estimated highly the usefulness of a
counsellor and friend in her present circumstances. Some motive,
however, hindered him from tendering his services, and in a few moments
he withdrew.
Mary's condition hourly grew worse. A corroded and gangrenous stomach
was quickly testified by the dark hue and poisonous malignity of the
matter which was frequently ejected from it. Her stuper gave place to
some degree of peevishness and restlessness. She drank the water that
was held to her lips with unspeakable avidity, and derived from this
source a momentary alleviation of her pangs. Fortunately for her
attendant her agonies were not of long duration. Constantia was absent
from her bedside as rarely and for periods as short as possible. On the
succeeding night the sufferings of the patient terminated in death.
This event took place at two o'clock, in the morning,--an hour whose
customary stillness was, if possible, increased tenfold by the
desolation of the city. The poverty of Mary and of her nurse; had
deprived the former of the benefits, resulting from the change of bed
and clothes. Every thing about her was in a condition noisome and
detestable. Her yellowish and haggard visage, conspicuous by a feeble
light, an atmosphere freighted with malignant vapours, and reminding
Constantia at every instant of the perils which encompassed her, the
consciousness of solitude and sensations of deadly sickness in her own
frame, were sufficient to intimidate a soul of firmer texture than hers.
She was sinking fast into helplessness, when a new train of reflections
showed her the necessity of perseverance. All that remained was to
consign the corpse to the grave. She knew that vehicles for this end
were provided at the public expense; that, notice being given of the
occasion there was for their attendance, at receptacle and carriage for
the dead would be instantly provided. Application at this hour, she
imagined, would be unseasonable: it must be deferred till the morning,
which was yet at some distance.
Meanwhile to remain at her present post was equally useless and
dangerous. She endeavoured to stifle the conviction that some mortal
sickness had seized upon her own frame. Her anxieties of head and
stomach she was willing to impute to extraordinary fatigue and
watchfulness, and hoped that they would be dissipated by an hour's
unmolested repose. She formed the resolution of seeking her own chamber.
At this moment, however, the universal silence underwent a slight
interruption. The sound was familiar to her ears. It was a signal
frequently repeated at the midnight hour during this season of calamity.
It was the slow movement of a hearse, apparently passing along the
street in which the alley where Mr. Dudley resided terminated. At first
this sound had no other effect than to aggravate the dreariness of all
around her. Presently it occurred to her that this vehicle might be
disengaged. She conceived herself bound to see the last offices
performed for the deceased Mary. The sooner so irksome a duty was
discharged the better: every hour might augment her incapacity for
exertion. Should she be unable when the morning arrived to go as far as
the City-Hall, and give the necessary information, the most shocking
consequences would ensue. Whiston's house and her own were opposite each
other, and not connected with any on the same side. A narrow space
divided them, and her own chamber was within the sphere of the
contagion which would flow, in consequence of such neglect, from that of
her neighbour.
Influenced by these considerations she passed into the street, and
gained the corner of the alley just as the carriage, whose movements she
had heard, arrived at the same spot. It was accompanied by two men,
negroes, who listened to her tale with respect. Having already a burden
of this kind, they could not immediately comply with this request. They
promised that, having disposed of their present charge, they would
return forthwith, and be ready to execute her orders.
Happily one of these persons was known to her. At other seasons his
occupation was that of _wood-carter_, and as such he had performed some
services for Mr. Dudley. His temper was gentle and obliging. The
character of Constantia had been viewed by him with reverence, and his
kindness had relieved her from many painful offices. His old occupation
being laid aside for a time, he had betaken himself like many others of
his colour and rank, to the conveyance and burial of the dead.
At Constantia's request, he accompanied her to Whiston's house, and
promised to bring with him such assistance as would render her further
exertions and attendance unnecessary. Glad to be absolved from any new
task, she now retired to her own chamber. In spite of her distempered
frame, she presently sunk into a sweet sleep. She awoke not till the day
had made considerable progress, and found herself invigorated and
refreshed. On re-entering Whiston's house, she discovered that her
humble friend had faithfully performed his promise, the dead body having
disappeared. She deemed it unsafe, as well as unnecessary, to examine
the clothes and other property remaining; but, leaving every thing in
the condition in which it had been found, she fastened the windows and
doors, and thenceforth kept as distant from the house as possible.