a roseate light, transfiguring the distant spire, lingered late in the
west. When it grew dark Mrs. Manstey drew down the shades and proceeded,
in her usual methodical manner, to light her lamp. She always filled and
lit it with her own hands, keeping a kettle of kerosene on a
zinc-covered shelf in a closet. As the lamp-light filled the room it
assumed its peaceful aspect. The books and pictures and plants seemed,
like their mistress, to settle themselves down for another quiet
evening, and Mrs. Manstey, as was her wont, drew up her armchair to the
table and began to knit.
That night she could not sleep. The weather had changed and a wild wind
was abroad, blotting the stars with close-driven clouds. Mrs. Manstey
rose once or twice and looked out of the window; but of the view nothing
was discernible save a tardy light or two in the opposite windows. These
lights at last went out, and Mrs. Manstey, who had watched for their
extinction, began to dress herself. She was in evident haste, for she
merely flung a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress and wrapped her
head in a scarf; then she opened her closet and cautiously took out the
kettle of kerosene. Having slipped a bundle of wooden matches into her
pocket she proceeded, with increasing precautions, to unlock her door,
and a few moments later she was feeling her way down the dark staircase,
led by a glimmer of gas from the lower hall. At length she reached the
bottom of the stairs and began the more difficult descent into the utter
darkness of the basement. Here, however, she could move more freely, as
there was less danger of being overheard; and without much delay she
contrived to unlock the iron door leading into the yard. A gust of cold
wind smote her as she stepped out and groped shiveringly under the
clothes-lines.
That morning at three o’clock an alarm of fire brought the engines to
Mrs. Black’s door, and also brought Mrs. Sampson’s startled boarders to
their windows. The wooden balcony at the back of Mrs. Black’s house was
ablaze, and among those who watched the progress of the flames was Mrs.
Manstey, leaning in her thin dressing-gown from the open window.
The fire, however, was soon put out, and the frightened occupants of the
house, who had fled in scant attire, reassembled at dawn to find that
little mischief had been done beyond the cracking of window panes and
smoking of ceilings. In fact, the chief sufferer by the fire was Mrs.
Manstey, who was found in the morning gasping with pneumonia, a not
unnatural result, as everyone remarked, of her having hung out of an
open window at her age in a dressing-gown. It was easy to see that she
was very ill, but no one had guessed how grave the doctor’s verdict
would be, and the faces gathered that evening about Mrs. Sampson’s table
were awe-struck and disturbed. Not that any of the boarders knew Mrs.
Manstey well; she “kept to herself,” as they said, and seemed to fancy
herself too good for them; but then it is always disagreeable to have
anyone dying in the house, and, as one lady observed to another: “It
might just as well have been you or me, my dear.”
[Illustration: [Woman]]
But it was only Mrs. Manstey; and she was dying, as she had lived,
lonely if not alone. The doctor had sent a trained nurse, and Mrs.
Sampson, with muffled step, came in from time to time; but both, to Mrs.
Manstey, seemed remote and unsubstantial as the figures in a dream. All
day she said nothing; but when she was asked for her daughter’s address
she shook her head. At times the nurse noticed that she seemed to be
listening attentively for some sound which did not come; then again she
dozed.
The next morning at daylight she was very low. The nurse called Mrs.
Sampson, and as the two bent over the old woman they saw her lips move.
“Lift me up—out of bed,” she whispered.
They raised her in their arms, and with her stiff hand she pointed to
the window.
“Oh, the window—she wants to sit in the window. She used to sit there
all day,” Mrs. Sampson explained. “It can do her no harm, I suppose?”
“Nothing matters now,” said the nurse.
They carried Mrs. Manstey to the window and placed her in her chair. The
dawn was abroad, a jubilant spring dawn; the spire had already caught a
golden ray, though the magnolia and horse-chestnut still slumbered in
shadow. In Mrs. Black’s yard all was quiet. The charred timbers of the
balcony lay where they had fallen. It was evident that since the fire
the builders had not returned to their work. The magnolia had unfolded a
few more sculptural flowers; the view was undisturbed.
It was hard for Mrs. Manstey to breathe. Each moment it grew more
difficult. She tried to make them open the window, but they would not
understand. If she could have tasted the air, sweet with the penetrating
ailanthus savor, it would have eased her; but the view at least was
there—the spire was golden now, the heavens had warmed from pearl to
blue, day was alight from east to west, even the magnolia had caught the
sun.
Mrs. Manstey’s head fell back, and smiling she died.
That day the building of the extension was resumed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
STORIES FROM SCRIBNER
❦
STORIES OF
NEW YORK
[Illustration: [Woman]]
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1893
In this series of little books, issued under the general title “Stories
from Scribner,” the purpose has been to gather together some of the best
and most entertaining short stories written for Scribner’s Magazine
during the past few years, and to preserve them in dainty volumes
grouped under attractive subjects and decorated by a few illustrations
to brighten the pages.
The set as arranged consists of six volumes, the first two appearing
together and the other four at intervals of about a month, as follows:
Stories of New York.
Stories of the Railway.
Stories of the South.
Stories of the Sea.
Stories of Italy.
Stories of the Army.
The books are furnished in three bindings, the paper being the same in
all. Each edition is prepared with great care, and every effort has been
made to secure an example of book-making as dainty and perfect as
possible.
The paper edition is enclosed in a transparent wrapper, fastened by a
gold seal which should remain unbroken until the book reaches the hands
of the reader. Price, 50 cents a volume.
The cloth edition has gilt top and rough edges. Price, 75 cents a
volume.
The half calf edition is bound in the best leather and in two
colors—blue and claret—gilt top. Price, $1.50 a volume.
_Orders for the entire set may be sent to the publishers or to any
bookseller._
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, New York.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.