The Night Bell.
My night-bell was pulled very hastily, it was about two o’clock, the
night was bright, it was autumn, and, as I hastened to see who wanted me
in such a hurry, I saw two young girls sitting on my house-door steps:
both had been running very fast, the case was urgent, and the little
rest they took before the door was opened would enable them to return
all the faster. I had hardly opened the door when both commenced to beg
me in the most imploring manner to go at once with them to see a young
woman who, as they thought, must be in great distress.
I put on my outer garments, took the street and number of the house, as
the party was entirely unknown to me, and then accompanied them on their
way, which led us through Craig street East, past a beautiful field--the
same where Viger Garden is now. A few more crossings were passed, and we
arrived at the scene where my help was wanted. In front of the house
was a policeman walking to and fro. The house was medium size, built of
wood, was gray, freshly painted, and so were the green blinds. On the
road going the two girls had told me that the house where I was wanted
was not a very good one, but, if I had a heart and was a mother, for
Gael’s sake not to refuse but to go with them. The presence of the
guardian of the peace encouraged me; and if I felt a little chilly at
entering a den of vice as this was it must be excusable as, till then, I
only knew of them by name and what little I had heard of them.
I was at once ushered into a little bed-room, from where the shrieks of
a female voice had come as if in great agony and in great pain. I found
a young girl not past her seventeenth year, yet in the last state of
labor,--it was a sight I shall never forget as long as I live: years
have past since then but it is as fresh in my memory as if it were
yesterday, and in my ears are the sound of her voice to help and protect
her from the inhuman abuse which another inmate of the house showered
down upon the poor victim.
I discovered that the poor young creature--we will call her Martha--had
only come to Montreal, the day previous, and, on, inquiring for a
boarding house, was driven by a carter to this den. The house being full
of occupants the landlady had made her occupy the same room with another
bad character, a great bony female about forty years of age, with
painted face, and attired in disgusting finery. This great, big,
hardened creature then gave the greatest trouble, would have me remove
my patient out of her room, even at the risk of her life, and I was
obliged to call the assistance of the policeman to have her quieted.
After a while all was quiet except the feeble cry of a little girl who
had been born. Born in a house of vice, what will became of it and its
child-mother? I such were my thoughts then, and now, after many years,
I can tell the reader what has become of them, of some of the inmates
anyhow.
The woman who kept this house I must, in truth, confess was a
good-hearted person herself, being led astray when quite young, had
never thought of the wrong she was committing by keeping a place of
this sort. She had a widowed mother living in the States and a family of
smaller brothers and sisters who depended mostly on the ill-gotten money
this unfortunate eldest sister would send them for their support. This
_Madam Flora_, then, was very kind in her way to Martha, and offered to
take the baby and bring it up if I was willing to place it out to nurse
with a respectable woman until such a time that she could take the child
herself, as she intended to give up this life of shame.
Martha was a girl well brought up, had been in school till shortly
before this episode of her life, but it was not her mother who had been
her companion during the last two years.
Her mother who was too much occupied with her smaller children and
other household affairs had thought it better to send her daughter to a
boarding-school to finish her education, and this was the end of it. If
all mothers would only take the care of their girls when fourteen years
old into their own hands a great deal of trouble might be spared to
them. The three years from the 14th to the 17th is such a critical time
for most girls, and should be passed under the care of the mother and
under her care alone, and every mother ought to try to become the best
friend of her daughter, not the stern mother who has forgotten that she
herself was young once, and who finds it too much trouble to listen to
her daughter’s little tales, by which she alone is able to guide her
child, and save her in many instances from eternal destruction. Thus
poor Martha had no mother who would listen to her girlish stories. She
found plenty companions in school and very bad advisers. When the truth
of her misfortune dawned upon her, she thought of nothing but to fly
from the place to where she did not know, till the destroyer of her
virtue advised her to go to Montreal, where he would in short join and
marry her. To confess to her mother she could never, and her father she
knew would never look at her again, so she followed his advice, left her
home under some pretence, and came to the place where I found her. She
was very glad to get somebody to take the child from her, for she was
fully resolved to lead a better life, and how could she ever do it with
a baby; she was hardly fit to earn her own living. She told me that an
aunt of hers was living in Halifax, the wife of a sea captain who had
no children, and who had often written to her mother to send one of her
children to her. So she resolved to visit this aunt if some kind person
would help her to get there. I consulted with some of my wealthy and at
the same time charitable Christian friends, who have been, always ready
to help me when I had some needy patients, and with their assistance she
was sent for some weeks after her recovery, to a nice widow lady in the
country, and after receiving satisfactory information about her aunt
in Halifax she was sent there, and has, so far as we have ascertained,
never overstepped the bounds of morality again but was married four
years later to a friend of her uncle, also a sea captain. She has a
large family now, and whenever she writes to me she always prays that
God may forgive her and guide the little girl she parted so easy from
some years before.
The wife of a private soldier in the Canadian rifles, named Rice had at
the same time lost her own baby only six weeks old, and as her quarters
at the barracks were good and healthy I proposed to send the child
there, Madame Flora offering to pay all necessary expenses. I made
arrangements accordingly, and little Emma (the baby) was soon an inmate
of the barracks. But now a new trouble arose. Mrs. Rice was a sobre,
clean, industrious woman, who with the pay she received for nursing the
baby could make herself and place very comfortable. This made the less
fortunate soldiers’ wives jealous, and their thoughts were bent on
nothing else for awhile but how to get the poor little waif out of
barracks. The baby thrived well under Mrs. Rice’s care, but cried
at times, as all healthy babies will; but as the babies of the other
soldiers’ wives never cried--so their mothers said--they would not
suffer a crybaby in the room, and such a mysterious child where nobody
knew where it came from, and could not find it out either. The larger
rooms in the barracks were in general occupied by different families,
and the one where Mrs. Rice had her quarters was a very large one. It
was called the ship, and was occupied at this time by forty different
families. Each had a certain space, say about 12 by 14 feet, allotted to
them, and it was indeed a surprise to me how neat it was kept, and how
one woman would try to have her place in better order than the other.
Their packing boxes were converted into dressing tables, a little muslin
curtain pinned around it, a looking glass in the centre, and a few
ornaments, sea-shells or East Indian curiosities gave the whole a nice
appearance. The washing or cooking had to be done in out-houses, and
at night each family had a large curtain drawn around their respective
place, and it was really astonishing how little sickness existed
among so many men, women and children. Every morning at 10 o’clock the
officers on guard accompanied by a sergeant on duty had to visit each
respective home, and report any irregularities; and so it happened that
my baby was reported as being a great disturber of the peace. Poor Mrs.
Rice was in great trouble. She had learned to love the child, and was
afraid she would have to part with it. What was to be done? She was
ordered to appear the next morning at 12 o’clock before the commanding
officer to receive sentence for her offence. I had attended a great many
officers’ ladies in this regiment, also the Colonel’s lady, and was well
acquainted with that gentleman and his kind heart, so I bid Mrs. Rice
to keep quiet but dress the baby (it was then three months old) in
its little white fur jacket and cap, and bring it with her before the
officers, and promising that I would meet her there also.
On my way I met the Doctor of the Regiment, a very kind-hearted
gentleman who, on seeing me, enquired what mischief I had done. I told
him of our trouble, and begged of him to intercede for the poor baby, if
possible, and, as he was well aware that the health of Mrs. Rice was so
much improved by nursing the infant, he thought he would be able to help
us.
Mrs. Rice entered the room, the infant in her arms, the Doctor and
myself following. The colonel, on seeing such a procession enter, could
not help smiling, and as the Doctor with all his eloquence stated our
case and of the necessity for Mrs. Rice’s health to nurse the baby, and
the danger to the little baby’s life in changing its nurse, the Colonel,
as a father, and a true-hearted gentleman, gave not only consent for the
baby to stay in barracks, but ordered other quarters to be given to
Rice and his wife,--a whole room to themselves, where the baby could not
annoy anybody.
But my story is growing too long, I will hasten to end it. The new
quarters into which Mrs. Rice moved were near the rooms occupied by the
armor sergeant and his wife who had been long in service, and had saved
quite a little fortune, but children they had none. Both became soon so
attached to their little neighbor that they offered quite a sum of money
to Madame Flora if she would give the child over to them for adoption.
I used all influence in my power to persuade Madame Flora to give the
child up, to which she at last consented. I felt a heavy burden lifted
off my heart and conscience when the papers were lawfully made out which
gave the dear little baby into the hands of good Christian people. Now
the child had full rights to live in barracks, but its adopted father’s
time was in, and he retired with a good pension which, along with his
savings, enabled him to buy a house and garden in New London, where the
baby has grown up into a fine young woman, not knowing to this day that
her dear father and mother are not her natural parents.
Madame Flora has retired from her life of shame, trying to bring up her
younger sisters in the path of virtue. One of the young girls who had
summoned me on that eventful night in such haste has also reformed, and
is living with a family as helpful servant a good many years, and she
has often told me that the events of that night were the first cause to
her for reflection. The other inmate of the house whom I mentioned, who
was so cruel and disgusting, fell lower and lower,--nothing could we do
for her--she would listen to nothing, and a sudden death ended her life
of shame.
May the Lord have mercy on her and guide me, the narrator of these
incidents, in His ways, so that when the last bell will be rung to
summon me before Him I need not hesitate but answer joyfully: I am
ready, I am ready to go.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg’s The Mysteries of Montreal, by Charlotte Fuhrer