University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE LIVING MOURNERS.

It is a terrible thing to be alone in spirit.
To feel, while surrounded by a multitude,
there is not a single heart vibrating
in sympathy with your own. To feel you
are encompassed by cold, heartless strangers;
that there is no tie to bind you to
earth; no inducement for you to cling to
a life already burdensome, unless it be the
solemn dread of the uncertain change in
throwing off this “mortal coil.” How
many have felt thus! How many still feel!
How many have stood beside the bed of
death and seen the eyes that ever looked
bright on them, close; the lips which murmured
in their last action naught but
words of hope and comfort to them, sealed
forever; the breath which seemed the
Promethean spark of their own existence,
cease; and the soul, which was the life of
their life, wing its flight for aye beyond
the shores of time, and felt that their last
and only friend was eternally gone to that
realm whence no mortal power can summon
back. How many have felt thus, and
in their anguish and despondency have
sunk down and prayed that God would
soon let them follow. Millions have felt
thus; millions still feel; and millions unborn
shall suffer yet the same. The world is
full of misery. There is no such thing as
unalloyed happiness here. Our very joys
derive their chiefest pleasure from the
strong contrast they present to our sorrows—the
while our heaviest sorrows are
lightened by the joys built on the hopes of
the future. Perhaps it is this variety—
this sunshine and storm—that gives to life
its greatest zest—its fairest attractions;
for it is a well established fact, we can
only know pleasure from having experienced
pain.

It was thus, but not wholly thus, with
Edgar and Virginia. They were alone in
the wide world, yet not wholly alone.—
They had each other to live for, each other
to weep for, each other to pray for, each
other to console and be in turn consoled.
But still they were as lopped branches
from the withered trunk. Their mother,
their only parent, in whom the deepest affections
of both centered, was dead; and
their young hearts felt anguish-stricken
and desolate. They felt and knew she at
least was better for the change; and yet,
though they prized her happiness above
their own, they wept passionately, bitterly,
their irreparable loss; for such is the
selfishness of even the most unselfish of
mankind.

It was a sight to wring the heart of a
stoic, to behold them stand, on that ill-fated,
gloomy night, by the corpse of her
whose whole soul in life had breathed
naught but love and tenderness, and vainly
implore her in touching accents to look
upon them once more—to let them again
hear the sound of her sweet, beloved voice
—while the only answer returned was the
seemingly fiercer howl of the Storm Spirit.
Oh! who shall tell the anguish of that
youth and maiden, as they grasped the
hands of her they best loved in life, and
passionately pressed them to their hearts—
but found them cold and inactive—found
them give no pressure in return!

For a few minutes after the sufferer had
breathed her last, both Edgar and Virginia
occupied themselves as just described; and
then, finding too truly she was dead,
the latter threw herself upon the corpse,
and again and again kissed her cold livid
lips, and wept, and groaned, and sobbed
alternately; while the former, sinking upon
a seat, buried his face in his hands, and
rocked to fro like a strong oak shaken by
the tempest. For a time he was unable to
shed a tear, and his heart crept to his
throat and almost strangled him, and his
brain seemed parched and withered. In
this state he rose and paced the floor for
some minutes, during which the working

of his features showed that his soul was
on the rack of agony the most intense.—
At last, greatly to his relief, he burst into
tears, and again seating himself, for a long
time he wept freely.

An hour passed, and both Edgar and Virginia
had become more calm. In sooth,
the latter had lain herself down by the
corpse, and with one arm thrown over
its breast, and her face partly buried in
the clothes, had cried herself into a kind
of dreamy stupor, from which she only arroused
occasionally to draw a long, sobbing
breath. Edgar, on regaining somewhat
his former composure, approached
the bed, and bending over his much loved
sister, gently whispered her name; but
finding she took no heed of him, he resolved
not to disturb her, and reseating himself
near her, he took a hand of the corpse
in his own, and was soon lost in a painful
revery.

An hour and then another went by, and
still Edgar sat as before, motionless and
silent, with features so rigid, that, but for
his breathing, he might naturally enough
have been mistaken for one of the dead
himself. Meanwhile the sobbing of Virginia
had became less and less frequent,
until at last her breathing announced that,
for a short time, she had forgot her troubles
in a quiet sleep. Again arousing himself,
Edgar now arose, and collecting all
the loose clothes he could find, gently
spread them over his sister, and then bending
down, and pressing his lips to her forehead,
softly murmured:

“God bless thee, thou sweet but fragile
flower, and let thy sleep be long, that
some misery may be spared thee!” and
then taking his position as before, he remained
the sad and lonely watcher of the
night.

Towards morning the storm abated; and
though shivering with the cold, for his garments
had not been changed and the fire
had long since gone out, Edgar, overcome
by fatigue and excitement, at last dropped
off into a feverish slumber, constantly broken
by sudden starts, and as constantly renewed
by exhausted nature. And thus
passed that eventful night.

The gray of morning was just stream
ing through the dingy window and crevices
of the old hovel, as Edgar, arousing himself
with a start and shaking off his drowsiness,
turned to his sister. Much to his
gratification he found her still asleep; and
again stealing a kiss and pressing his lips
to the cold cheek of his mother, he sallied
forth to procure fuel and food, and make
arrangements for the last sad rite he would
ever be called upon to perform for her who
had given him existence. By this time
the storm had ceased entirely; but still it
was cold and damp, and the pavements
slippery with ice. Only a few persons
were abroad in the street, and most of the
houses were closed and looked as cold and
cheerless as he felt at heart.

Moving on for a square and a-half, Edgar
came to a small, miserable looking grocery,
(numbers of which can be seen at
all times in all parts of New York, where
a little of every thing is kept and doled
out to the poor in any quantity, from the
value of a cent upwards,) the owner of
which was just taking down his shutters,
preparatory to his morning's sale. Here
Edgar knew he could procure every thing
he desired at present, even to a few sticks
of wood, or a small measure of coal; and
approaching the grocer, a rough, coarse
looking Dutchman, he said, blandly:

“I wish to purchase a few necessary articles,
and in the course of the day will
call and settle for them.”

The Dutchman shrugged his shoulders
and gave him a contemptuous look, as he
replied:

“I never trusts nopodys, and den nopodys
don't never sheats me.”

“But, my good sir,” pursued Edgar, reddening,
“I do not intend to cheat you. I
will call, I pledge you my honor, and pay
you every cent between this and night. I
have a check about me for a large amount,
which, so soon as business opens in Wall
street, I will have cashed, and then I can
settle for a thousand times the value of all
I now require.”

“Vare you lives?” querried the Dutchman;
and as Edgar informed him, he continued:
“Vy you has der sheck and not der
moneys?”

“I only procured it last night, and have

not since had an opportunity of disposing
of it.”

“What for den you wants der trusts
now?” asked the still unsatisfied grocer.
“Vy you don't vaits till you sells him, and
comes mit der cash?”

“Because,” answered Edgar, humoring
him, in the hope he would grant his request,
“it is necessary I should have a few
articles now. My home is entirely deyoid
of every thing one needs. My poor mother
(and here in spite of himself his eyes
became filled with tears, and his voice faltered
and grew husky,) last night breathed
her last in this abode of wretchedness,
without fire, food, or medicine—for our last
cent had been expended and its purchase
exhausted—and now my poor sister, whom
I have left alone with her, will sorely suffer,
unless I procure something immediately.”

The Dutchman shook his head with a
frown, as he rejoined:

“It won't do. You tells a goot story—
quite petter ash nopody else; but it ish all
a tam lie, mit der sheck and all. You
tries agin, and somepody ash don't know
much, you makes believe him. You shust
go, mit your dead motter and shister, and
your great sheck, vich you han't got more
nor as I, mitout you stole him;” and saying
this, the hard-hearted grocer turned
his back on Edgar, and coolly proceeded
to finish taking down his shutters.

For a few moments, Edgar stood as one
stupified with amazement, at the gross insult
to himself, coupled as it was with
such cool indifference. Then his hand
clenched, his teeth closed tightly, his lips
quivered, his eyes flashed fierce indignation,
and he took a step forward, with the
full determination of punishing the other
for his insolence; but then, bethinking
himself he would only become involved in
a quarrel—which, to say the least, would
now be most imprudent—he turned away,
muttering:

“Such is the selfish, uncharitable world
—and why should I quarrel with what I
cannot alter! Oh, why was I born to come
in contact with such base spirits! God
of the orphan and friendless, protect and
direct me! for wild thoughts are busy in
my brain, and my heart seems turning to
stone, like those of the wretches around
me.”

In a few minutes Edgar had entered another
of these miserable groceries, where
he met with the same success as before,
with the exception that the owner simply
refused to trust, without farther insulting
him. Sadly dispirited and chagrined, he
tried another, and still another, but in each
met the same cold reply—all refused to
credit his tale—and he slowly retraced his
steps to his desolate abode, overwhelmed
with grief, crushed in spirit and nearly
heart-broken.

“I must perforce wait,” he said, bitterly,
“till I can procure the means to satisfy
their uncharitable, avaricious natures.
But poor, poor Virginia! how she will suffer;”
and he groaned at the thought.

As he said this, he felt for his check, to
be certain he still had resources to depend
upon. To his surprise it was not where
he expected to find it. Alarmed at this,
he made an eager search of his garments;
and then, who shall judge of his dismay
and horror, when he discovered it was
missing—that his last and only stay of support,
in this his most trying hour, was gone!

“Oh, God!” he groaned, “if that be
lost, what will become of us?” and almost
maddened with excitement, he hurried back
to his wretched abode, in the hope he might
there find it.

The door was slightly ajar, and as he
rushed into the chamber of death, he found
Virginia bending over the corpse of her
mother, wringing her delicate hands and
weeping bitterly, while beside her stood a
female, but a few years her senior striving
by gentle words to console her.

“Do not weep and take on so, fair girl!”
he heard uttered as he crossed the thresh-hold.

“Oh, Edgar, my dear brother!” cried
Virginia, as she heard his step; and springing
forward, she threw her arms around
his neck, buried her face upon his bosom,
and sobbed grievously.

“My poor, sweet Virginia!” murmured
Edgar, tenderly, straining her to his heart,
while his eyes grew dim with scalding
tears.

“I heard her cry of agony, sir,” said the
strange female, apologetically, “and thinking
it some person in sore distress, I hurried
to her relief, which accounts for my
presence here.”

“For which God bless you!” returned
Edgar, in that deep, earnest, passionate
tone which carries with it the unmistakable
evidence of sincerity.

The visiter, gave him one heartfelt look
of gratitude, and then, much to his surprise,
covered her eyes with her hands,
sunk into a seat, and burst into tears. Before
Edgar could ask for an explanation of
this singular conduct, she rose, and hastily
wiping her eyes, as if ashamed of her
emotion, said, in a sad, earnest, tremulous
voice:

“You are surprised to witness this to
you strange ebulition of feeling; but, sir,
it is a long time since I have heard God's
blessing invoked upon my guilty head;”
and again, in spite of herself, the tears
pressed through her eyelids.

Edgar looked kindly but sadly upon her
ere he made a reply, and even Virginia for
the moment forgot her own grief, and turning
her head, beamed upon her guest a curious
but tender expression from her soft
blue eyes, which touched the other to the
very soul. Both she and her brother now
instantly became aware that their guest
belonged to that class of poor unfortunates
whom the world takes pride in despising,
rather than reclaiming, the while it harbors
and pampers the damnable villains
that make them what they are.

She had once been a lovely creature,
but though scarcely turned of twenty
years, there was a sad look of grief, and
care, and heart-desolation in her appearance.
Her once fine, noble looking features
were pale and almost haggard, and
her bright dark eye had lost some of its
wonted brilliant luster. Still she was
handsome, though in a measure the wreck
of what she had been. Her features were
fine and regular, and there predominated
over all an expression of feeling—of sympathy
with the sorrows of others, and a
kind benevolence—which rendered her an
object of interest and pity to such as could
properly appreciate these high-born quali
ties. Her compexion was an olive, and
her hair, black and shiny as the raven's
plume, was neatly parted and arranged
with care, though the loose wrapper she
wore, told she had just risen and had not
yet completed her morning toilet.

“And you, too, fair lady, have felt the
wrongs of mankind most bitterly!” said
Edgar, in a soothing, sympathetic tone, accompanied
with an expression in keeping
with the words he uttered.

“Suffered!” returned the other, shuddering
at the thought; “yes, I have indeed
suffered, and God only knows how much.”

“Then,” rejoined Virginia, tenderly,
“we can the better sympathise with one
another, for we have felt the bitterest
pangs of wo.”

“Oh, no, not the bitterest, I trust!” returned
the other, with energy; “not the
bitterest. You have felt not the excruciating
pangs of a guilty conscience; for I can
see, by your open, generous countenance,
you have suffered innocently—that the oppressive
weight of guilt is not on your
stainless soul, weighing you down to the
lowest depths of degradation.”

“No, thank God!” returned Virginia,
“I have as yet been spared that.”

“And well may you thank God,” rejoined
the other, with spirit; “for all the other
ills of this life are nothing in compare
with it. Once, sweet lady, I was as good
and pure, perhaps, as yourself; but the
tempter came, and—(here her voice grew
tremulous, and she turned away her head
to conceal her emotion—) and in an unguarded
moment I fell, and now—” She
paused, and then suddenly added; “But of
what am I thinking, to trouble you with
my sorrows, when you have such weighty
griefs of your own to contend with;” and
she glanced mournfully toward the bed,
where still lay the corpse of Mrs. Courtly,
as she had breathed her last the night
before.

“My mother!” burst from Virginia,
while the tears gushed forth afresh; and
approaching the bed, she knelt on the floor,
took one of the cold hands of the corpse
in her own, pressed it to her lips, and then
seemed lost in prayer.

Both Edgar and the stranger gazed upon

her in solemn silence, each busy with painful
thoughts, till at length she arose, and
turning to her brother, in a calmer mood
than she had hitherto exhibited, said:

“And why did you leave me, Edgar,
without telling me you were going? and
where have you been? I awoke, and not
finding you here, and seeing my dead mother
by my side, I felt so wretchedly desolute,
that in my anguish of spirit I uttered
the cry of agony which brought this
kind lady to me.”

“I thought I should return ere you
awoke,” answered Edgar; “and I went for
fuel and food. But I failed to get either,”
he continued, bitterly, “because the cold-hearted
wretches to whom I applied would
not sell to me without the money, and that
you know I had not. And that reminds
me,” he added, with a start, “that I have
missed the check of my uncle, my sole dependence
now, without which we must
starve. Did I not drop it here on the floor
last night? Have you not seen it, Virginia?”
and he began an eager search of
the apartment, assisted by his trembling
sister.

“Alas! what will become of us now!”
he groaned, as, after a fruitless search, he
gave up in despair, and sinking hopelessly
upon a seat, covered his face with his
hands, as if to shut out the dread contemplation.

“If it be money you need,” said his
guest, “thank Heaven! I can assist you,
and will, if you will accept my poor offering.
Here! here!” she pursued, with vehemence,
drawing forth her purse, “here
is gold; take it, take it, I beg, I implore of
you! for it will be a relief to my conscience
to feel I have done one good act.”

“No, no! I dare not take it,” returned
Edgar, mournfully, motioning her back
with his hand, “for I might never be able
to repay you.”

“The deed will repay itself,” pursued
the other, energetically, thrusting it upon
Edgar. “The gold is valueless to me; and
if it will ease one sorrow of yours, I shall
deem myself tenfold rewarded.”

“God bless you, lady!” cried Virginia,
springing forward and seizing her hand,
which she bathed with grateful tears:
“God bless you! for whatever your faults
may have been, you still possess some of
the holiest attributes of the angels.”

“There, there!” rejoined the other, affected
to tears; “say no more!—you praise
me far beyond my deserts.”

“It may possibly be in my power at
some future time,” said Edgar, rising, and
speaking in a voice made husky by deep
emotion, “to repay this overwhelming
debt of kindness; and if so, rest assured
that my very life will be at your command.
Your generosity—”

“Enough! enough!” interrupted the
other. “Say no more, I beg of you! for
you have more weighty matters to think
of at present, and I am fitter for the scoffs
and jibes of mankind than such words as
these. Your mother must be laid out and
interred; and then you must leave this
wretched, filthy abode, which is no place
for such as you. I will send those to you
who will rightly perform the last sad offices
to her mortal remains. Meanwhile, procure
such things as you need, and if you
desire more money, let me know. My
quarters are just over the way, in yonder
brick building. Adieu, for the present. I
will soon be with you again, and superintend
the laying out of the corpse myself.
Here is my card;” and placing it in the
hand of Virginia, which she pressed with
warmth, she hurried out of the apartment,
as if fearful of being detained by farther
expressions of gratitude.

Both Edgar and his sister turned to the
card, and beheld simply the name of Ellen
Douglas, written in a plain, neat hand.

It is unnecessary for us to longer dwell
upon this painful scene. Suffice it, therefore,
that Ellen kept her word with regard
to the funeral arrangements of Mrs. Courtly,
and that ere the sun had sunk to rest,
her remains were followed to their last
resting place by a small group, composed
principally of the clergyman, Ellen and
the chief mourners, the latter of whom
bedewed her humble grave with tears, as
she was being buried forever from their
sight.