"It won't do, it won't do, Nannie," said the poor woman, wildly, as the
accumulated drops streamed like a rivulet down the steps of their
cellar; "we must manage to arouse your father, or the morning'll never
see him alive!" and she pushed and shook the inanimate clog that lay in
the corner, while the torrent still flowed on, until fear for the
child's safety made her quit her efforts with its father, and snatching
the infant from the cradle, and bidding Nannie follow her, she rushed
hastily out to seek help in order to remove her miserable husband. Not a
creature was stirring, for the bitterness of the storm had driven every
breathing thing under shelter. Still undaunted, she moves on, folding
her thin and drenched garments around the babe, until a watchman stops
her with a rude demand as to what calls her forth in the pitiless night?
She heeds not his roughness, but pulls him by the coat, while he vainly
endeavors to shake her off, and entreats him to aid her helpless
husband.
"Where is he, woman? and what do you want?" asks the besieged man, as
she continues to drag him along with a maniac's strength.
It is a long time that has elapsed since she left her threatened home,
and the waves have found their victim. They are not affrighted at the
hideous spectacle of a brutish and disfigured one, but they leap
caressingly about him, gliding over his pillow and hushing him into a
deep and lasting sleep. The empty cradle, and the stool, and the rough
board table with the flickering light upon it, float above the flowing
tide as the watchman enters the dismal cellar with the agonized woman
and her children. She springs to the corner, and while he feels for the
heavy mass with his club, she raises it with her tender hands, and
supports the drooping head upon her loving breast, while a cry of
anguish goes out from the heart that could never spurn him, even in his
lowest moments.
It is not of any use to chafe the cold temple, nor to try to bring back
the departed life! You'll be better without him, poor soul, though it is
dreadful to feel that he has gone hence in his sins! No wonder Nannie
shrinks away as the watchman, with the aid of one of his fellows whom a
spring of his rattle brings to the spot, bears their father out on their
way to the dead-house. He had never been kind to her since she can
remember, and his coming has occasioned only a terrible fear and dread
from day to day, yet she sobs out of sympathy for her mother, whose
grief is fearful to witness.
They follow the corpse, and all night long the poor woman keeps her
widowed vigils around the place where they have deposited her husband.
She thinks not of the child upon her bosom, nor does she heed nor
resist Nannie as she takes it gently away and runs back to the region of
the overflowed cellar. The morning has dawned in serenity and
loveliness, but there are signs of a late devastation all about. Broken
limbs of trees are strewn hither and thither, while now and then one
wholly uprooted lies prostrate across the street. Busy men are working
hurriedly to extricate a poor family whose house a land-slide has quite
buried. The mother and father have escaped the catastrophe, but their
boy and girl are crushed in the fallen ruins. Deep gullies in the hill
above her home show Nannie how fearful was the storm, and a mass of
stones and rubbish that fill the sluice, that should have turned the
water from their door, tell her the reason of their dreadful inundation.
She is trying to think whether it _is_ dreadful to her or not, when a
kind voice accosts her. "What's the matter here?" says Mr. Bond; "and
what are you and the baby out for in this soaking condition? Isn't your
mother in the house, and haven't you a dry rag to put upon that poor
child? 't will get its death, and you, too; come in here, quick, and
let's see what can be done."
"If you please sir, father's drowned in the rain last night, and my
mother's up by the dead-house, and me and baby haven't any home any more
to go to, nor any dry clothes to wear," said Nannie, wringing the little
frock that clung to the shivering infant, and following her friend
half-way down the steps to the cellar.
"Just as I feared!" said he, looking into the room and quickly
retreating; "the poor wretch has met a sudden and awful doom, the Lord
preserve us all!" and, telling Nannie to keep up with him, he led the
way to a higher and more healthy quarter of the street, and stopped at a
tidy-looking house, where a neatly clad woman answered his rap. "You
have lodgings to let?" asked he, glancing with an evident pleasure upon
the white floor of the entry that showed no spot nor stain.
"Why, yes, sir," returned she with an uneasy look at the forlorn child
and baby on the step; "there's a room and bedroom in the attic to let to
respectable people as has no followers, nor drinkings, nor carousings,
nor such like about 'em."
"Let me see them, my good woman," said Mr. Bond; "I'll make all right if
they suit," and he went puffing up the three flights of stairs, while
Nannie pattered after him with the infant, drabling her wet garments
over the clean floors, to the no small annoyance of the landlady.
"These'll do, these'll do," said Mr. Bond, with a gleesome tone, as he
looked from the windows upon the blue waters, where the boats were
gliding busily back and forth, and whence the pure fresh breeze came up
even into the rooms, giving them a healthful air. "This is to be your
home now, Nannie, and you may be sure I'll help you to be somebody if
you'll help yourself;" and, turning to the woman, he told her the reason
of the child's pitiable condition, and payed her in advance a quarter's
rent, giving her also some money with which to procure a dry suit for
the children; and then he departed to send the few articles of furniture
from their former abode, to which he added a bedstead and bedding, a
nice cooking-stove, a couple of chairs, and a few other conveniences.
Nannie was almost beside herself for joy as she surveyed the snug and
cheerful apartment, and the new goods as they stood in their respective
places. The chairs were by the windows, and the stool occupied a
prominent position before the new stove; the old table was covered with
an oil-cloth, and a brass candlestick and snuffers were upon it. There
was a pound of crackers, and a loaf of bread; and a pint of milk, and a
new tin cup and pewter spoon for Winnie, and Nannie hastened to give the
starving child some of the fresh milk, while she sat beside the pleasant
window wondering if Mr. Bond was one of the angels that her teacher used
to tell her about--and then she laid the baby upon the soft bed in its
cradle, and put a new blanket over it, and peeping into the bedroom
again to see if she hadn't been dreaming there was a real bedstead
there, all nicely furnished and dressed, she went off to seek her
mother, locking the door carefully after her as her kind friend had
directed.