1. THE TWO CLERKS,
—OR, THE—
ADVENTURES OF HENRY FOWLER AND RICHARD MARTIN.
1. CHAPTER I.
THE DEATH-BED.
And who may feel a mother's woe,
And who may read a mother's heart,
And tell me why no tear may flow?
—Allen.
It was a bitter night in December. The
wind howled round the streets and lanes of
Boston, entering every crevice, and penetrating,
with cutting severity, the frail abodes of
poverty, making the shivering tenant draw
closer round the dim fire, or crawl beneath
the thin covering of his miserable bed. The
rich felt it, too!—it swept down the Backbay,
and whistled round the trees of the Common—it
murmured hoarsely as it blew adown
Beacon Street, and rattled the windows, and
caused the vanes to creak.—Yes, the rich felt
it,—but they felt it, as we perceive the acid
in our food, only to enjoy the sweetness more.
Stretched on their downy beds, or dozing
over their sea-coal fires, they thought not of
the houseless and the wanderer, or, if they
did, 'twas but to mutter “Poor wretches,”
and turn again to their downy slumbers.
But the poor felt it—the famished—the dying—and
every blast that rattled the windows
of the North-end, struck like the chill of
death to the heart of some houseless creature.
The scanty fire sogged dismally on the
cheerless hearth,—the last crust of bread lay
untasted on the pine table,—the children
had crept together and were folded in each
other's arms, and ever and anon they cast
fearful glances to the spot where, on a miserable
bed, lay their sick and dying mother!
A knock came to the door, and the children,
with noiseless care, unfastened it. It
was a poor but charitable neighbor, come to
render the last offices of friendship to her dying
friend. She bore in her hands a few simple
delicacies, purchased with her own hard
earnings, to tempt the appetites of the suffering
children.
Blessed Charity! when thou art banished
from the rich and the powerful, thou art seen
with the lowly and the poor, and when the
glare of fashion and folly hideth thee, thou
shinest forth in thine own light, by the dying
bed of the world-forgotten:
“Mary, are you better?” said Mrs. Martin,
bending over the sufferer.
The widow raised her eyes, and recognised
the visiter. “Yes!” she murmured,
“I am better—but—but—” and the mute
look that she east at the trembling children,
struck the heart of her friend, for she, too,
was a mother.
“I am not long for this world—but I dread
not death. Mine has not been a flowery
path—”
“Nay, you are young,” said Mrs. Martin,
“and your children—”
“Yes, tis they—Oh, this is death's bitterness.
Must I leave them without a father's
care, a mother's watchfulness? Must I—”
She cast one look at her children, who,
clasped together, were seated by the dim
fire. It was but one glance, but it was
enough; it spoke whole volumes of sorrow,
of doubt, of deep and dark regret; it told
the whole misery of a mother's mind, the
agony with which she thought of the last
pang of separation—to leave them alone—
alone—in a wide world of sin and misery.
The eye of the good Samaritan followed
the mother's glance—the workings of the
mother's heart—and taking her thin white
hand within her own, she called the children
to the bedside; then, clasping the cold
fingers of the orphans, she held them up,
and, with a voice which the scene, the silence,
and the deep heart-feeling, rendered
peculiarly solemn and impressive, she spoke,
“Mary, I am poor, and labor hard for
bread,—but you have befriended me when I
was friendless, and now, in the presence of
the God who knows our hearts, I promise
that, while my hands and strength are left
me, your children shall have a home,—and I
will be their mother.”
The truthful sincerity of these tones, and
the holy charity which beamed from her
eyes, gave to the lowly woman, an appearance
almost divine. The mother's features
lighted up with a smile of peace and satisfaction.
Her fingers closed firmly around the
hand of her friend,—and she sank gently
back to her last sleep, with the hope of a
tranquil spirit.
Mrs. Martin stooped over the body, from
which the last breath had departed; then
taking the hushed and wondering children
by the hand, she sat down, and wiping her
eyes with the corner of her coarse check
apron, she addressed them,—
“My children,”—but the good woman's
tears flowed faster than her words, and the
eldest child, a thin, sickly boy of twelve, comprehended,
with the instinct of affection, the
dreadful truth. Uttering a wild cry, he flung
himself upon the bed, and throwing his arms
around the neck of his dead parent, pressed
his lips to hers. The awful chill of death
struck fearfully through him, and he gazed
wildly upon the corpse. The eyes were
open, and fixed, but the smile still played on
the lips, and he could not believe that it was
death. His heart felt stifled and choked—
deep sobs came thick and fast from his bosom,
and he groaned in the bitter loneliness
of his young soul. But no tear fell. He
thought of all his past life. Every little act
of disobedience, every slight,—all that he
had done to wound his mother's heart, came
with terrible distinctness before him. What
would he not have given, if for one moment
he could hear her voice, if she could speak
but one word to him, to say that he was forgiven!
He had not believed that she would
die—he could not—and he had looked forward
to that event as a thing afar off. But
it had come; it was here in all the awful
truth of reality; she was dead—dead, and
he was alone in the world, for what would
the world be to him without his mother? He
hid his face in the scanty coverlid, and sobbed
as if his little heart would break.
His sister's grief was calmer; tears, soothing
tears, came to the relief of her young
spirit, and poured like rain down her cheeks;
she buried her face in the bosom of the kind
neighbor, and gave way to the sorrow that
will not be comforted. And the kind-hearted
woman was but little fitted to soothe her,
for the tears streamed plentifully from her
own eyes, as she witnessed the grief of the
orphans.
But the last rites must be performed, and
the last offices of friendship rendered. With
difficulty the sobbing boy was led from his
mother's bed; for he clung to her body as if
he still fancied life was there; and with his
little sister he followed the friendly neighbor
to her abode. It was humble enough; but
the kindliness that makes a hovel seem a
palace was there, and the children soon forgot
in slumber the grief that was to come
again, to-morrow, and to-morrow, for many
a long day!
