"A little."
"Come right into the sitting-room. I've had a fire made up on purpose
for you." And the considerate Mrs. Grant hurried Mary into the small
back room, and taking off her cloak and bonnet, placed her in a chair
before the fire. Then, as she drew off one of her shoes, and clasped
the foot in her hand, she exclaimed--
"Soaking wet, as I live!" Then added, after removing, with kind
officiousness, the other shoe--"Hold both feet to the fire, while I run
up and get you a pair of dry stockings. Don't take off the wet ones
until I come back."
In a few minutes Mrs. Grant returned with the dry stockings and a
towel. She bared one of the damp feet, and dried and heated it
thoroughly--then warmed one of the stockings and drew it on.
"It feels so good," said Mary, faintly, yet with a tone of satisfaction.
Then the other foot was dried, warmed, and covered. On completing this
welcome service, Mrs. Grant looked more steadily into Mary's face, and
saw that her cheeks were flushed unnaturally, and that her eyes shone
with an unusual lustre. She also noticed, that in breathing there was
an effort.
"You got very wet this morning," said Mrs. Grant.
"Yes. The wind blew right in my face all the way. An umbrella was
hardly of any use."
"You dried yourself on getting to Mrs. Lowe's?"
Mary shook her head.
"What?"
"There was no fire in the room."
"Why, Mary!"
"I had no change of clothing, and there was no fire in the room. What
could I do?"
"You could have gone down into the kitchen, if nowhere else, and dried
your feet."
"It would have been better if I had done so; but you know how hard it
is for me to intrude myself or give trouble."
"Give trouble! How strangely you do act, sometimes! Isn't life worth a
little trouble to save? Mrs. Lowe should have seen to this. Didn't she
notice your condition?"
"I think not."
"Well, it's hard to say who deserves most censure, you or she. Such
trifling with health and life is a crime. What's the matter?" She
observed Mary start as if from sudden pain.
"I have suffered all day, with an occasional sharp stitch in my
side--it caught me just then."
Mrs. Grant observed her more closely; while doing so, Mary coughed two
or three times. The cough was tight and had a wheezing sound.
"Have you coughed much?" she asked.
"Not a great deal. But I'm very tight here," laying her hand over her
breast. "I think," she added, a few moments afterwards, "that I'll go
up to my room and get to bed. I feel tired and sick."
"Wait until I can get you some tea," replied Mrs. Grant. "I'll bring
down a pillow, and you can lie here on the sofa."
"Thank you, Mrs. Grant. You are so kind and thoughtful." Miss Carson's
voice shook a little. The contrast between the day's selfish
indifference of Mrs. Lowe, and the evening's motherly consideration of
Mrs. Grant, touched her. "I will lie down here for a short time.
Perhaps I shall feel better after getting some warm tea. I've been
chilly all day."
The pillow and a shawl were brought, and Mrs. Grant covered Mary as she
lay upon the sofa; then she went to the kitchen to hurry up tea.
"Come, dear," she said, half an hour afterwards, laying her hand upon
the now sleeping girl. A drowsy feeling had come over Mary, and she had
fallen into a heavy slumber soon after lying down. The easy touch of
Mrs. Grant did not awaken her. So she called louder, and shook the
sleeper more vigorously. At this, Mary started up, and looked around in
a half-conscious, bewildered manner. Her cheeks were like scarlet.
"Come, dear--tea is ready," said Mrs. Grant.
"Oh! Yes." And Mary, not yet clearly awake, started to leave the room
instead of approaching the table.
"Where are you going, child?" Mrs. Grant caught her arm.
Mary stood still, looking at Mrs. Grant, in a confused way.
"Tea is ready." Mrs. Grant spoke slowly and with emphasis.
"Oh! Ah! Yes. I was asleep." Mary drew her hand across her eyes two or
three times, and then suffered Mrs. Grant to lead her to the table,
where she sat down, leaning forward heavily upon one arm.
"Take some of the toast," said Mrs. Grant, after pouring a cup of tea.
Mary helped herself, in a dull way, to a slice of toast, but did not
attempt to eat. Mrs. Grant looked at her narrowly from across the
table, and noticed that her eyes, which had appeared large and
glittering when she came home, were now lustreless, with the lids
drooping heavily.
"Can't you eat anything?" asked Mrs. Grant, in a voice that expressed
concern.
Mary pushed her cup and plate away, and leaning back, wearily, in her
chair, answered--
"Not just now. I'm completely worn out, and feel hot and oppressed."
Mrs. Grant got up and came around to where Miss Carson was sitting. As
she laid her hand upon her forehead, she said, a little anxiously, "You
have considerable fever, Mary."
"I shouldn't wonder." And a sudden cough seized her as she spoke. She
cried out as the rapid concussions jarred her, and pressed one hand
against her side.
"Oh dear! It seemed as if a knife were cutting through me," she said,
as the paroxysm subsided, and she leaned her head against Mrs. Grant.
"Come, child," and the kind woman drew upon one of her arms. "In bed is
the place for you now."
They went up stairs, and Mary was soon undressed and in bed. As she
touched the cool sheets, she shivered for a moment, and then shrank
down under the clothes, shutting her eyes, and lying very still.
"How do you feel now?" asked Mrs. Grant, who stood bending over her.
Mary did not reply.
"Does the pain in your side continue?"
"Yes, ma'am." Her voice was dull.
"And the tightness over your breast?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What can I do for you?"
"Nothing. I want rest and sleep."
Mrs. Grant stood for some time looking down upon Mary's red cheeks; red
in clearly defined spots, that made the pale forehead whiter by
contrast.
"Something more than sleep is wanted, I fear," she said to herself, as
she passed from the chamber and went down stairs. In less than half an
hour she returned. A moan reached her ears as she approached the room
where the sick girl lay. On entering, she found her sitting high up in
bed; or, rather, reclining against the pillows, which she had adjusted
against the head-board. Her face, which had lost much of its redness,
was pinched and had a distressed look. Her eyes turned anxiously to
Mrs. Grant.
"How are you now, Mary?"
"Oh, I'm sick! Very sick, Mrs. Grant."
"Where? How, Mary?"
"Oh, dear!' I'm so distressed here!" laying her hand on her breast.
"And every time I draw a breath, such a sharp pain runs through my side
into my shoulder. Oh, dear! I feel very sick, Mrs. Grant."
"Shall I send for a doctor?"
"I don't know, ma'am." And Miss Carson threw her head from side to
side, uneasily--almost impatiently; then cried out with pain, as she
took a deeper inspiration than usual.
Mrs. Grant left the room, and going down stairs, despatched her servant
for a physician, who lived not far distant.
"It is pleurisy," said the doctor, on examining the case.--"And a very
severe attack," he added, aside, to Mrs. Grant.
Of the particulars of his treatment, we will not speak. He was of the
exhaustive school, and took blood freely; striking at the inflammation
through a reduction of the vital system. When he left his patient that
night, she was free from pain, breathing feebly, and without
constriction of the chest. In the morning, he found her with
considerable fever, and suffering from a return of the pleuritic pain.
Her pulse was low and quick, and had a wiry thrill under the fingers.
The doctor had taken blood very freely on the night before, and
hesitated a little on the question of opening another vein, or having
recourse to cups. As the lancet was at hand, and most easy of use, the
vein was opened, and permitted to flow until there was a marked
reduction of pain. After this, an anodyne diaphoretic was prescribed,
and the doctor retired from the chamber with Mrs. Grant. He was much
more particular, now, in his inquiries about his patient and the
immediate cause of her illness. On learning that she had been permitted
to remain all day in a cold room, with wet feet and damp clothing, he
shook his head soberly, and remarked, partly speaking to himself, that
doctors were not of much use in suicide or murder cases. Then he asked,
abruptly, and with considerable excitement of manner--
"In heaven's name! who permitted this thing to be done? In what family
did it occur?"
"The lady for whom she worked yesterday is named Mrs. Lowe."
"Mrs. Lowe!"
"Yes, sir."
"And she permitted that delicate girl to sit in wet clothing, in a room
without fire, on a day like yesterday?"
"It is so, doctor."
"Then I call Mrs. Lowe a murderer!" The doctor spoke with excess of
feeling.
"Do you think Mary so very ill, doctor?" asked Mrs. Grant.
"I do, ma'am."
"She is free from pain now."
"So she was when I left her last night; and I expected to find her
showing marked improvement this morning. But, to my concern, I find her
really worse instead of better."
"Worse, doctor? Not worse!"
"I say worse to you, Mrs. Grant, in order that you may know how much
depends on careful attendance. Send for the medicine I have prescribed
at once, and give it immediately. It will quiet her system and produce
sleep. If perspiration follows, we shall be on the right side. I will
call in again through the day. If the pain in her side returns, send
for me."
The pain did return, and the doctor was summoned. He feared to strike
his lancet again; but cupped freely over the right side, thus gaining
for the suffering girl a measure of relief. She lay, after this, in a
kind of stupor for some hours. On coming out of this, she no longer had
the lancinating pain in her side with every expansion of the lungs;
but, instead, a dull pain, attended by a cough and tightness of the
chest. The cough was, at first, dry, unsatisfactory, and attended with
anxiety. Then came a tough mucus, a little streaked with blood. The
expectoration soon became freer, and assumed a brownish hue. A low
fever accompanied these bad symptoms.
The case had become complicated with pneumonia, and assumed a very
dangerous type. On the third day a consulting physician was called in.
He noted all the symptoms carefully, and with a seriousness of manner
that did not escape the watchful eyes of Mrs. Grant. He passed but few
words with the attendant physician, and their exact meaning was veiled
by medical terms; but Mrs. Grant understood enough to satisfy her that
little hope of a favorable issue was entertained.
About the time this consultation over the case of Mary Carson was in
progress, it happened that Mrs. Wykoff received another visit from Mrs.
Lowe.
"I've called," said the latter, speaking in the tone of one who felt
annoyed, "to ask where that sewing girl you recommended to me lives?"
"Miss Carson."
"Yes, I believe that is her name."
"Didn't she come on Monday, according to appointment?"
"Oh, yes, she came. But I've seen nothing of her since."
"Ah! Is that so? She may be sick." The voice of Mrs. Wykoff dropped to
a shade of seriousness. "Let me see--Monday--didn't it rain?--Yes, now
I remember; it was a dreadful day. Perhaps she took cold. She's very
delicate. Did she get wet in coming to your house?"
"I'm sure I don't know." There was a slight indication of annoyance on
the part of Mrs. Lowe.
"It was impossible, raining and blowing as it did, for her to escape
wet feet, if not drenched clothing. Was there fire in the room where
she worked?"
"Fire! No. We don't have grates or stoves in any of our rooms."
"Oh; then there was a fire in the heater?"
"We never make fire in the heater before November," answered Mrs. Lowe,
with the manner of one who felt annoyed.
Mrs. Wykoff mused for some moments.
"Excuse me," she said, "for asking such minute questions; but I know
Miss Carson's extreme delicacy, and I am fearful that she is sick, as
the result of a cold. Did you notice her when she came in on Monday
morning?"
"Yes. I was standing in the hall when the servant admitted her. She
came rather late."
"Did she go immediately to the room where she was to work?"
"Yes."
"You are sure she didn't go into the kitchen and dry her feet?"
"She went up stairs as soon as she came in."
"Did you go up with her?"
"Yes."
"Excuse me, Mrs. Lowe," said Mrs. Wykoff, who saw that these questions
were chafing her visitor, "for pressing my inquiries so closely. I am
much concerned at the fact of her absence from your house since Monday.
Did she change any of her clothing,--take off her stockings, for
stance, and put on dry ones?"
"Nothing of the kind."
"But sat in her wet shoes and stockings all day!"
"I don't know that they were wet, Mrs. Wykoff," said the lady, with
contracting brows.
"Could you have walked six or seven squares in the face of Monday's
driving storm, Mrs. Lowe, and escaped wet feet? Of course not. Your
stockings would have been wet half way to the knees, and your skirts
also."
There was a growing excitement about Mrs. Wykoff, united with an air of
so much seriousness, that Mrs. Lowe began to feel a pressure of alarm.
Selfish, cold-hearted and indifferent to all in a social grade beneath
her, this lady was not quite ready to stand up in the world's face as
one without common humanity. The way in which Mrs. Wykoff was
presenting the case of Miss Carson on that stormy morning, did not
reflect very creditably upon her; and the thought--"How would this
sound, if told of me?"--did not leave her in the most comfortable frame
of mind.
"I hope she's not sick. I'm sure the thought of her being wet never
crossed my mind. Why didn't she speak of it herself? She knew her own
condition, and that there was fire in the kitchen. I declare! some
people act in a manner perfectly incomprehensible." Mrs. Lowe spoke now
in a disturbed manner.
"Miss Carson should have looked to this herself, and she was wrong in
not doing so--very wrong," said Mrs. Wykoff. "But she is shrinking and
sensitive to a fault--afraid of giving trouble or intruding herself.
_It is our place, I think, when strangers come into our houses, no
matter under what circumstances, to assume that they have a natural
delicacy about asking for needed consideration, and to see that all
things due to them are tendered_. I cannot see that any exceptions to
this rule are admissible. To my thinking, it applies to a servant, a
seamstress, or a guest, each in a just degree, with equal force. Not
that I am blameless in this thing. Far from it. But I acknowledge my
fault whenever it is seen, and repenting, resolve to act more humanely
in the future."
"Where does Miss Carson live?" asked Mrs. Lowe. "I came to make the
inquiry."
"As I feel rather troubled about her," answered Mrs. Wykoff, "I will go
to see her this afternoon."
"I wish you would. What you have said makes me feel a little
uncomfortable. I hope there is nothing wrong; or, at least, that she is
only slightly indisposed. It was thoughtless in me. But I was so much
interested in the work she was doing that I never once thought of her
personally."
"Did she come before breakfast?"
"Oh, yes."
"Excuse me; but at what time did she get her breakfast?"
There was just a little shrinking in the manner of Mrs. Wykoff; as she
answered--
"Towards nine o'clock."
"Did she eat anything?"
"Well, no, not much in particular. I thought her a little dainty. She
took coffee; but it didn't just appear to suit her appetite. Then I
offered her tea, and she drank a cup."
"But didn't take any solid food?"
"Very little. She struck me as a dainty Miss."
"She is weak and delicate, Mrs. Lowe, as any one who looks into her
face may see. Did you give her a lunch towards noon?"
"A lunch! Why no!" Mrs. Lowe elevated her brows.
"How late was it when she took dinner?"
"Three o'clock."
"Did she eat heartily?"
"I didn't notice her particularly. She was at the table for only a few
minutes."
"I fear for the worst," said Mrs. Wykoff. "If Mary Carson sat all day
on Monday in damp clothes, wet feet, and without taking a sufficient
quantity of nourishing food, I wouldn't give much for her life."
Mrs. Lowe gathered her shawl around her, and arose to depart. There was
a cloud on her face.
"You will see Miss Carson to-day?" she said.
"Oh, yes."
"At what time do you think of going?"
"I shall not be able to leave home before late in the afternoon."
"Say four o'clock."
"Not earlier than half past four."
Mrs. Lowe stood for some moments with the air of one who hesitated
about doing something.
"Will you call for me?" Her voice was slightly depressed.
"Certainly."
"What you have said troubles me. I'm sure I didn't mean to be unkind.
It was thoughtlessness altogether. I hope she's not ill."
"I'll leave home at half past four," said Mrs. Wykoff. "It isn't over
ten minutes' walk to your house."
"You'll find me all ready. Oh, dear!" and Mrs. Lowe drew a long,
sighing breath. "I hope she didn't take cold at my house. I hope
nothing serious will grow out of it. I wouldn't have anything of this
kind happen for the world. People are so uncharitable. If it should get
out, I would be talked about dreadfully; and I'm sure the girl is a
great deal more to blame than I am. Why didn't she see to it that her
feet and clothes were dried before she sat down to her work?"
Mrs. Wykoff did not answer. Mrs. Lowe stood for a few moments, waiting
for some exculpatory suggestion; but Mrs. Wykoff had none to offer.
"Good morning. You'll find me all ready when you call."
"Good morning."
And the ladies parted.
"Ah, Mrs. Lowe! How are you this morning?"
A street meeting, ten minutes later.
"Right well. How are you?"
"Well as usual. I just called at your house."
"Ah, indeed! Come, go back again."
"No, thank you; I've several calls to make this morning. But, d' you
know, there's a strange story afloat about a certain lady of your
acquaintance?"
"Of my acquaintance?"
"Yes; a lady with whom you are very, very intimate."
"What is it?" There was a little anxiety mixed with the curious air of
Mrs. Lowe.
"Something about murdering a sewing-girl."
"What?" Mrs. Lowe started as if she had received a blow; a frightened
look came into her face.
"But there isn't anything in it, of course," said the friend, in
considerable astonishment at the effect produced on Mrs. Lowe.
"Tell me just what you have heard," said the latter. "You mean me by
the lady of your intimate acquaintance."
"Yes; the talk is about you. It came from doctor somebody; I don't know
whom. He's attending the girl."
"What is said? I wish to know. Don't keep back anything on account of
my feelings. I shall know as to its truth or falsehood; and, true or
false, it is better that I should stand fully advised. A seamstress
came to work for me on Monday--it was a stormy day, you know--took cold
from wet feet, and is now very ill. That much I know. It might have
happened at your house, or your neighbors, without legitimate blame
lying against either of you. Now, out of this simple fact, what
dreadful report is circulated to my injury? As I have just said, don't
keep anything back."
"The story," replied the friend, "is that she walked for half a mile
before breakfast, in the face of that terrible north-east storm, and
came to you with feet soaking and skirts wet to the knees, and that you
put her to work, in this condition, in a cold room, and suffered her to
sit in her wet garments all day. That, in consequence, she went home
sick, was attacked with pleurisy in the evening, which soon ran into
acute pneumonia, and that she is now dying. The doctor, who told my
friend, called it murder, and said, without hesitation, that you were a
murderer."
"Dying! Did he say that she was dying?"
"Yes, ma'am. The doctor said that you might as well have put a pistol
ball through her head."
"Me!"
"Yes, you. Those were his words, as repeated by my friend."
"Who is the friend to whom you refer?"
"Mrs. T----."
"And, without a word of inquiry as to the degree of blame referable to
me, she repeats this wholesale charge, to my injury? Verily, that is
Christian charity!"
"I suggested caution on her part, and started to see you at once. Then
she did sit in her wet clothing all day at your house?"
"I don't know whether she did or not," replied Mrs. Lowe, fretfully.
"She was of woman's age, and competent to take care of herself. If she
came in wet, she knew it; and there was fire in the house, at which she
could have dried herself. Even a half-witted person, starting from home
on a morning like that, and expecting to be absent all day, would have
provided herself with dry stockings and slippers for a change. If the
girl dies from cold taken on that occasion, it must be set down to
suicide, not murder. I may have been thoughtless, but I am not
responsible. I'm sorry for her; but I cannot take blame to myself. The
same thing might have happened in your house."
"It might have happened in other houses than yours, Mrs. Lowe, I will
admit," was replied. "But I do not think it would have happened in
mine. I was once a seamstress myself and for nearly two years went out
to work in families. What I experienced during those two years has made
me considerate towards all who come into my house in that capacity.
Many who are compelled to earn a living with the needle, were once in
better condition than now, and the change touches some of them rather
sharply. In some families they are treated with a thoughtful kindness,
in strong contrast with what they receive in other families. If
sensitive and retiring, they learn to be very chary about asking for
anything beyond what is conceded, and bear, rather than suggest or
complain."
"I've no patience with that kind of sensitiveness," replied Mrs. Lowe;
"it's simply ridiculous; and not only ridiculous, but wrong. Is every
sewing-girl who comes into your house to be treated like an honored
guest?"
"We are in no danger of erring, Mrs. Lowe," was answered, "on the side
of considerate kindness, even to sewing-women. They are human, and have
wants, and weaknesses, and bodily conditions that as imperatively
demand a timely and just regard as those of the most honored guest who
may sojourn with us. And what is more, as I hold, we cannot omit our
duty either to the one or to the other, and be blameless. But I must
hurry on. Good morning, Mrs. Lowe."
"Good morning," was coldly responded. And the two ladies parted.
We advance the time a few hours. It is nearly sundown, and the slant
beams are coming in through the partly-raised blinds, and falling on
the bed, where, white, and panting for the shortcoming breath, lies
Mary Carson, a little raised by pillows against which her head rests
motionless. Her eyes are shut, the brown lashes lying in two deep
fringes on her cheeks. Away from her temples and forehead the hair has
been smoothly brushed by loving hands, and there is a spiritual beauty
in her face that is suggestive of heaven. Mrs. Grant is on one side of
the bed, and the physician on the other. Both are gazing intently on
the sick girl's face. The door opens, and two ladies come in,
noiselessly--Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Wykoff. They are strangers there to all
but Mary Carson, and she has passed too far on the journey homeward for
mortal recognitions. Mrs. Grant moves a little back from the bed, and
the two ladies stand in her place, leaning forward, with half-suspended
breathing. The almost classic beauty of Miss Carson's face; the
exquisite cutting of every feature; the purity of its tone--are all at
once so apparent to Mrs. Lowe that she gazes down, wonder and
admiration mingling with awe and self-accusation.
There is a slight convulsive cough, with a fleeting spasm. The white
lips are stained. Mrs. Lowe shudders. The stain is wiped off, and all
is still as before. Now the slanting sun rays touch the pillows, close
beside the white face, lighting it with a glory that seems not of the
earth. They fade, and life fades with them, going out as they recede.
With the last pencil of sunbeams passes the soul of Mary Carson.
"It is over!" The physician breathes deeply, and moves backwards from
the bed.
"Over with her," he adds, like one impelled by crowding thoughts to
untimely utterance. "The bills of mortality will say pneumonia--_it
were better written murder_."
Call it murder, or suicide, as you will; only, fair reader, see to it
that responsibility in such a case lies never at your door.