University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE HOUSE OF DEATH.

In a dingy, filthy street, known to those
familiar with New York as Mott, there
stood, among a great many others of the
same class, an old, dilapidated, wooden
structure, which, though it could scarcely

bear the title of dwelling, was used as such,
or rather as an abode, by a few miserable
tenants, whose poverty precluded the possibility
of their seeking one more pleasant
and commodious. Since its erection,
the street whereon it stood had been somewhat
raised, which gave to the building
the appearance of having sunk into the
earth some two or three feet. Its windows
could hardly boast a sound pane of glass—
in some cases not any—and the door of
entrance was broken from its hinges.
There was no fear of thieves here, for the
simple reason there was nothing within
worth the trouble of stealing; and hence the
tenants lived less in dread of their neighbors
than the elements, whose cold penetration,
on such a night as we have described
in the opening chapter, was any
thing but agreeable. Between this building
and a similar one on the left, ran a
narrow, filthy alley, communicating with
a miserable hovel in the rear, containing
only two apartments, badly ventillated and
worse lighted. To this latter we must for
the present direct our attention.

In the front apartment—or at least in
that apartment nearest the street, for neither,
strickly speaking, could be called
front—on the night our story opens, there
were two occupants—a mother and daughter—the
former lying upon a rude bed,
worn down almost to a skeleton, and in
the agonies of a disease which was fast
bearing her to a world that knows no sorrow,
and the latter kneeling by her side on
the damp floor, clasping her thin hand, and
weeping the bitterest tears a mortal can
feel. The elder was a woman slightly
turned of forty, but bearing the marks of
sixty years—the third score being added
by trouble rather than time. Although,
as previously stated, sadly wasted by sorrow
and disease, yet the outlines of her
pale, sunken features and a glance of her
deep blue eye, which was scarcely shorn
of its wonted luster, showed she had once
been a very beautiful being—beautiful by
reason of intellect as well as person. In
sooth, what is beauty of person without
intellect, but the cold expressionless wax
figure, or the equally inanimate doll?

The features and form of the daughter
bore a strong resemblance to those of her
mother in her palmiest days. Her skin
was fine and clear, and her deep blue eyes
beamed with a soft and tender light, showing
a soul full of all the sweetest, purest
and holiest feelings of humanity. Her
hair was a light brown, and parted over a
smooth, handsome forehead, which gave to
her a noble and benevolent appearance.
In fine, combine the whole features—
which to define singly would almost be impossible,
as the strong points for which
the painter would seek were every where
wanting—and you beheld one of those angelic
creatures that seem formed to convey
to us an accurate conception of beings
too lovely to dwell in a place so cold and
heartless, unless for a brief period, to soften,
as it were, by the sunshine of their
presence, the dark and cheerless aspect
which must otherwise surround us.
Her form, not above medium, was airy and
graceful as that of sylph; while her tiny
feet and white delicate hands would have
won favor from the most fastidious connossieur.
Add to this, that her age was
just eighteen, and with a little imagination
you can place her accurately before
your mind's eye.

Lovely as she was in person, not less
so was she in those virtues which most
adorn her sex. There was nothing in her
disposition of a cold, haughty, repulsive
nature; but, on the contrary, she was ardent,
mild and affectionate, forgiving to a
fault, and full of all those sweet and holy
sympathies which sometimes make us
pause and wonder why earth is permitted
to contain a being so illy suited to its jars
and discords. But a little reflection will
show us that this is a wise ordination of
that Great Being who set the wheels of
creation in motion—for what would our
world be without occasionally such spirits
to produce a harmony with the rough
chords of life? Without such gentle spirits,
what would earth be but pandemonium
—a darkened sphere of gloom and sorrow,
illumined by no ray of happiness?

The apartment where these two beings
were, was unfurnished, or at least so scantily
as to be unworthy of the name. A
few rough chairs, an old worm-eaten bureau,

a deal table, on which stood a sickly,
tallow candle, sending forth a dismal light,
that rather served to show than dispel the
darkness, together with the bed and a few
of the most common articles in use, completed
the list. In the fire-place lingered
a few embers, fast going out for lack of
fuel to renew the flame.

And this cold, dismal, dungeon-like place,
was the present abode of those whose
every look and gesture, to say nothing of
their language, told that to them it was a
new life, or rather a living wretchedness
to which they had never been accustomed.
Oh, what a gloomy scene was this! what
a terrible trial for those to undergo who
had heretofore been used to wealth, ease
and refinement! What are the sufferings
of the miserable wretches who have never
known aught but poverty, compared with
those who feel it for the first time? In
any case such condition is hard enough to
be borne, Heaven knows; but the horrors
thereof are increased ten-fold, when it falls
upon such as have been born and bred in
the halls of wealth. How the sensitive
soul shudders and shrinks within itself, and
even longs to escape its frail tenement of
clay, and soar to that world of bliss where
sorrow never enters, and all is bright and
glorious sunshine forever!

And here were these unfortunate beings,
alone by themselves, on a dismal night,
when the storm without was howling in
fury, shaking their frail abode even to its
foundation, as it whistled and moaned
through the crevices with a wail like the
voices of imprisoned spirits seeking to
escape their bell of torture. And why
were they here on such a night as this?
Let the wrongs of humanity answer. Let
the crimes of those who sit in high places
answer. Let him, no matter who nor where,
who has robbed the widow and the orphan
of their last mite, answer—ay, answer before
that Great Tribunal where Justice
alone sits Judge, and Power and Wealth
and Position stand but as chaff before the
gale. As this poor widow and her daughter
were on the night we introduce them,
so have thousands been both before and
since; and from the same cause, the wrongs
of those who have occupied, and do occu
py, a high place in the eyes of the worldly
wise. But look to it, ye Wrongers, and
tremble! for surely as the sun shines at
noon day, that the stars are above us in
the night, or that death will overtake you,
so surely will there come a day of retribution—of
fearful reckoning—when your
canting hypocrisy will avail you not—
when the “silver vail” will be stripped
from your vile features, and you will stand
forth before the eye of Almighty God in
your own natural, hideous deformity! Look
to it, we repeat, and tremble! for it will
be a fearful, a terribly fearful moment to
you.

For a few moments mother and daughter
remained as introduced, with hands
clasped in each other's, while the quick
breathings of the invalid, the sobbings of
the younger, and the raging of the storm,
were the only sounds audible. It was a
damp, cold night, and yet they were almost
without fire, and both so thinly covered
that they shivered in spite of their
efforts to the contrary.

“Do not weep, my child!” said the invalid
at length; “do not weep, Virginia!
for your tears make my sufferings intense.”

“Oh! how can I help it, mother?” returned
the other, lifting her soft, wet eyes
to her parent, with a fresh burst of grief.
“How can I help it, mother, when I behold
you thus, on a bed of sickness and
pain, and—and—perhaps death, (she shuddered
at the last dreadful word,) without
even the ordinary comforts of life to relieve
in part your sufferings? Oh! it is
too much—too much!” and she again sobbed
aloud with grief.

“It is hard, my daughter, I know,” rejoined
the other; “very, very hard; but
then, my sweet Virginia, we should remember
it is the will of God, who does all
things for the best.”

“So I try to think, dear mother; and so
I do think, and know; and I have struggled
long and hard to be composed, and
not excite you with my grief—but in vain.
My cup of bitterness seems over full, and
these tears will come in spite of all my
efforts to the contrary When I think of
how we were once, and what we now are,

and to what we owe our misfortunes, it is
impossible for me to restrain myself, and
it seems as if my brain were on fire and I
must go mad.”

“But,” pursued the other, “you must not
give way, my child! I feel certain our afflictions
are all for the best, if we, poor,
weak, short-sighted mortals, could but see
into the great futurity. We are chastened,
and most severely, but it is by the hand
of our Maker, and for some good end—
perhaps that we may wean our thoughts
and affections from the world, and place
them on more holy things.”

“Ah! dear mother,” returned the daughter,
affectionately, “it is gratifying to hear
you talk thus—you who have suffered so
much—to see you so resigned to the will
of Him who holds our destinies in his
hands; for did you indeed repine, I am sure
my reason would desert me. But still,
for all, dear mother, I cannot restrain
these tears—tears that come to relieve
the overcharged soul—and I thank my
God I can weep. You are sick, dear mother—you
are suffering, perhaps with the
pangs of death—and yet without aught to
relieve you—with no kind friends but
your own unfortunate children to shed a
tear or feel an emotion for your fate.—
And we, alas! cannot assist you. Look
round this desolate apartment, and say,
can I help but weep? It is cold, and dismal,
and our scanty fire is going out. Oh!
mother,” she cried, with a new burst of
grief, “you are dying for want of the ordinary
comforts of life!”

“But I trust all will be better soon,
my sweet Virginia! Edgar, you know,
has gone to see his uncle, who, however
unmindful of our necessities he may
have been, will surely not reject his petition
when he learns our present condition.”

“Hope for nothing there, mother—hope
for nothing from him!” rejoined the other;
“for he who was so base as to rob us of
all we had, and then so shamefully deceive
us, is devoid of all pity.”

“Well, well, my child, do not despond,
for God is good, though man be base. Is
it not most time for Edgar to return? I
wish he would come—for I—I—feel—very
—very weak;” and her voice died away to
a whisper.

Virginia sprang to her feet, with a look
of alarm.

“Oh, mother!” she cried, wildly, observing
a marked change in the features of
the invalid—a kind of deathly sinking
about the eyes, and a lividness on the
lips: “Oh, mother! dear mother! you
surely are not dying?”

For a few moments Mrs. Courtly vainly
struggled to speak. At last she gasped,
rather than said:

“I—I—trust not, Vir-gin-ia; but—I—
am very—we—weak—and—and—feel
strangely.”

“Oh, God!” burst from the terrified Virginia.
“Dying, and no one by! Heaven
help me! Oh, Merciful Father, help me!
Oh, you must not die, mother!” she continued,
wildly. “Pray take something to
revive you! Here,” she cried, seizing a
small tin cup that rested on the table, and
hurriedly applying it to the lips of the
other, “take a draught of water!”

Poor creature! God help her! it was all
she had to give.

With a slight motion of the hand, the
invalid waved it away, saying, in a feeble
tone:

“I wish Edgar would come. Ah! how
dark it grows! Has the candle gone out,
Virginia?”

“No, mother, it is still burning, but
feebly.”

“Then my sight must be failing, for I
can hardly see.”

“Oh, this is terrible!” shrieked Virginia,
sinking upon her knees and burying
her face in the miserable covering of the
bed.

A groan from the sufferer made her
again spring to her feet. “Are you dying,
mother?” she asked, wildly; “really
dying, think you?”

“Alas!” sighed the other, “that is more
than I can say. I feel strangely—perhaps
the hand of death is on me.”

Virginia instantly caught hold of her
hands. They felt cold. She then tried
her temples and feet. They were cold also.
Then she began chafing different
parts of her body, while her own bosom

heaved with emotions too deep for language
to express. While thus occupied,
there came a rap upon the door.

“Ha!” exclaimed Mrs. Courtly, with
something like returning animation, “God
grant it be Edgar!” and as Virginia sprang
forward to give him admittance, she added,
in an under tone: “for I would see
him again ere I depart to return no more.”

“And how is mother now?” were the
first words Edgar spoke as he crossed the
threshold.

“Alas! I fear she is dying,” whispered
his sister.

“Dying?” cried Edgar; and with one
bound he stood beside the bed of his mother,
and would have embraced her, only that
he remembered in time his garments
were dripping water.

“I am glad you have come, Edgar,”
spoke Mrs. Courtly, in a very weak, husky
tone, “for I was afraid I should never
behold you again.”

“Are you then much worse, dear mother?”
inquired Edgar, in a tremulous voice,
striving to master his feelings so as not to
appear agitated.

“Yes, Edgar,” was the reply, “mortal aid
I fear can avail me nothing now. I feel
the hand of death upon me. My sight has
already failed me. I cannot see you.—
Give me your hand. And now yours, Virginia;”
and as they both silently complied,
she continued:

“My dear children, you must not weep
and mourn for my loss, for you know I
shall be better off in the land to which I
am hastening. True, I could have desired
to live longer, to comfort you with my
counsel in these your darkest hours of adversity—but
it is not permitted, and I will
not murmur. You know what is right and
proper; and I trust, when I am gone, you
will not swerve from the path of duty and
rectitude. However sorely you may be
tried, and God alone knows to what extent
that will be, I beseech you, with a dying
prayer, never to do wrong! never to be
led from the path of virtue into that of
vice! I know you will have many temptations
before you—will have examples of
how the wicked prosper—but still be firm
to your dying mother's injunctions, and
all will in the end be well. My children,
I charge you, with my last breath, to value
honor and virtue more than life! I
would say more, but my strength is failing
me so fast I cannot.”

While speaking, both Edgar and Virgina
stood gazing upon the countenance
of their dying parent in silence, but
with breasts heaving with feelings too
deep and potent for the pen to record. As
she ceased, Edgar exclaimed:

“Oh! mother! do not say your are dying!
Perhaps it is only a faintness—a
want of food—or of some reviving cordial.
Cheer up, dear mother! you shall have
every thing. I am rich now, dearest mother.
I succeeded in my errand. See
here! I have my uncle's check for a thousand
dollars;” and he held the paper up before
her.

“Then you will not starve, my children,
God be thanked!” cried Mrs. Courtly, fervently,
with energy. “I can die happier
now for the thought. But it comes too
late for me—for already I stand on the
brink of death.”

“Nay, mother, perhaps net. Stay!
something must be done! I will run for a
physician. I know I shall not be refused
when I show this.”

As he spoke, he turned hurriedly away
and darted to the door to execute his purpose,
but the feeble voice of his mother
arrested his progress.

“Stay, Edgar,” she said, “stay, I implore
you! for if you leave me now, you
will never behold me again on earth. I
am more and more convinced every moment
that I am dying—that I shall
speedily pass away.”

Edgar slowly returned, and again taking
her hand, the manly tears he could no
longer restrain followed each other mournfully
down his anguished features; while
his sister, placing her head on her mother's
pillow, sobbed aloud. It was a heart-rending
and dismal scene.

For a few moments no voice broke the
cheerless monotony of the driving storm.
Then the invalid feebly said:

“Kneel, my children, and pray!”

Both silently obeyed; and as they arose
from their knees and bent over their mother,
each drew back with a start. The
next moment a wild shriek from Virginia
told the fearful tale.

Their mother was dead. During that
prayer her spirit had passed away—gone
from earth—returned to God who gave it.