THE strange, almost incredible, and yet evidently truthful
confession of old Peter, fell upon the heart of Mr. Mordecai with a
weight that broke its stubbornness, and at once softened his wrath
toward his unhappy and unfortunate daughter.
The thought that she was alone in the world, alone since the
mysterious disappearance of her husband from his Cuban home-alone
and undoubtedly struggling with life for existence, grew upon him
with maddening intensity. His heart became tender, and he resolved
to seek her face, and once again assure her of his love. Immediately
carrying out this good resolve, he sought her, first in Cuba, but
did not find her; and to his bitter disappointment, all his
subsequent efforts proved unavailing. Months passed, and grieving
from day to day over the unfilled hope of meeting her and atoning
for his severity by a manifold manifestation of tenderness, Mr.
Mordecai lived on in sorrow as the months slowly passed by.
He little dreamt that, not many leagues from his door, his lovely
daughter was performing, in weakness, in sorrow, even
broken-hearted, the wearisome task that gave daily bread to herself
and child.
And yet Leah had often seen her father, so changed by sorrow since
she last embraced him; seen him only to creep away into deeper
obscurity, dreading to confront his anger, and determined not to
meet his coldness. And so changed indeed was she, that not a single
soul among the scores she often passed, and who were once friends,
had ever suspected her identity. Such were the workings of sorrow
and misfortune.
In quiet Bellevue street in the Queen City, still stood the only
monument erected there during the war, that was worthy of
perpetuation. It was the Bellevue Street Home for the Friendless.
During the war, this institution was known as the Bellevue Street
Hospital, and there many brave soldiers perished, and many recovered
from ghastly wounds under the kindly care and attention of its
efficient managers.
After the first shock of her grief was passed, Eliza Heartwell
Marshall had been called to the position of matron in this
institution of mercy.
It should be mentioned that, by the death of a maternal uncle during
her married life, this noble woman had inherited a handsome estate,
consisting largely of valuable lands upon some of the fertile
islands adjacent to the coast.
Much of this land the government had appropriated to its own uses,
during the war; but upon the restoration of peace, by dint of
skilful negotiation the rightful owner had regained possession of
the confiscated property.
Thus Mrs. Marshall was enabled to carry on her noble work of
charity, after the carnage had ceased and the hospital was no longer
needed for the soldiers. So, endowing the Bellevue Hospital from her
own private funds, she transformed it at once into a Home for
receiving those who, by reason of misfortune, were unable to help
themselves.
Here, during the two years of peace that had smiled upon the
desolate waste left by the war, she had toiled, prayed, and wept
over the sufferings of humanity, till she was deemed, and rightly
so, an angel of mercy.
Time passed on. Though the Queen City had not regained its former
prosperity the Home prospered. Its charitable walls were full,
crowded even to their utmost capacity; its business pressing, its
necessities great.
"Miss Lizzie," said Maum Isbel one day, as the vigilant matron was
performing her accustomed round of duty, "Mrs. Moses, de lady who do
de small washin', have sent word that she is sick an' can't do it
dis week. De chile who came said she were wery sick, an' would like
to see you."
"Do you know where she lives, Maum Isbel?"
"No. 15 Market street, ma'am, de chile said; please remember."
"Get me another woman, Maum Isbel, to fill her place; the work
cannot stop. I will go at once to see her. Poor creature! She has
looked pale and delicate ever since she sought work at the Home."
Without delay, Mrs. Marshall hurried out on her mission of charity,
and tarried not until she stood confronting a low, miserable looking
tenement house on Market street. Her knock at the designated door
was answered by an untidy, rough-looking woman, who came into the
narrow dingy entry, and after eyeing the matron sharply, said
coarsely:
"What do you want?"
"Does Mrs. Moses live here?"
"Yes; but she's very poorly to-day; ain't been up at all. Indeed
she's been poorly for a week or more."
"Can I see her?"
"Yes, come in; she's in thar," pointing to a small room cut off from
the end of the narrow hall-way.
Mrs. Marshall approached the small room, and answered the summons of
a feeble voice that said, "Come in."
On entering the room, she found the woman prostrated on a low,
comfortless bed; pale, feeble, and exhausted. By the bed-side, on a
chair, were a phial and a Hebrew prayer-book.
"I am so glad you have come," said the sick woman, "I am so weak
this morning. You see I coughed all night. I felt that I must see
you. I hope it gave you no trouble to come."
"None whatever. Why have you not sent for me before?"
"I hoped, from day to day, to be strong enough to do the washing for
the Home again. But instead of growing better, I have grown worse
daily. Heaven only knows what I'll do when I cannot work."
"Where is your little daughter?"
"Gone to the baker's, to get me a warm bun. She fancied I could eat
one, dear child!"
Touched by these surroundings of poverty and distress, Mrs. Marshall
could scarcely repress her tears; but said:
"If you will allow me, I'll give you some brandy; that will revive
you."
"Indeed, I have none; I used the last drop yesterday."
"Then I beg that you will allow me to remove you to the Home till
you are recovered. There, under Dr. Gibbs's kind care, you may
convalesce rapidly. Here, you are suffering for every comfort, and
cannot hope to recover soon. I beg you to go."
For a moment, the sick woman made no reply, but her lips trembled
with emotion, and at length she said sadly:
"I fear I shall never be well again."
"Oh, yes; be cheerful. I promise that you shall want for nothing at
the Home."
"Can my child go with me there?"
"Yes, you will need her there, as you do here."
"But I have no money."
"There is none needed. Just promise to go, and I'll see that you are
removed at once."
Reluctantly and tearfully Mrs. Moses at last yielded to the matron's
entreaties, repeatedly assuring her that she would endeavor to pay
her, when she should regain her health and strength.
Mrs. Marshall remained a while, awaiting the return of the little
child. At length she came bounding in with a bright, happy face,
holding aloft the coveted bun, and exclaiming wildly, "See, mamma!
here it is, nice and warm. Eat it, mamma!"
The matron then departed, promising to make immediate preparations
for the mother's speedy removal.