University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Anon.

Let us retrace our steps; let us walk again
amidst that sea of hearts, the city. It is midnight.
How solitary are the streets. The houses stand,

like a certain class of mankind, with their souls
shut up in them, and their iron arms laid across
their breasts as if to say, “we have tender feelings,
we do sympathize with poor suffering mortals — yes
— we feel it here.” That is, they feel it safe within,
and there they mean to keep it. In traversing the
streets of a city at midnight, when the lamps are
burning very dim, the stars very clear, and the
watchmen are very scarce, what odd fancies crowd
upon the brain. At such an hour it seems as
though the houses had taken the town, devoured
the inhabitants, and now stood in the most perfect
regimental order, ready to “forward, march,” as
soon as their old commander, the State House,
should give the word. Did we say that odd fancies
came at such an hour? They are gone. Yonder
is the prison; fancy flies like a bird before such
dreadful realities as are suggested by yon ironbeaked
cormorant. There she stands watching by
the sea of misfortune, waiting impatiently to catch
whatsoever the waves may cast up. The darkest
billow of that ocean has burst at the prison foot,
and its burden is poor Mary. The keys are grating
in the iron locks, the doors swing heavily on their
hinges, and rude hands thrust the poor creature
forward — forward into the darkness. She reels
against the wall and sinks upon the hard oaken
seat; while her eyes, like those of a little child,
turn instinctively their steady gaze toward the
dim ray of light that flickers through the grating
from a neighboring lamp. There she shall rest
to-night. Where is Edith? still is she pacing that
little apartment. She hears every approaching
footfall; stands breathless to listen; but the night-walker
passes on. The watchman's cry startles
her with a shudder — “past one o'clock!” Again
and again has she put on her bonnet, and wrapped
a shawl about her shoulders; but the night is dark
and still, fearfully still, and she shrinks back afraid.
But soon she hears a noise at the street door; her
heart leaps for joy; perhaps 't is Mary returned!
The maiden grasps the lamp and hurries down,
to encounter the fierce, scowling countenance of
Munson.

“O, I'm so glad!” exclaimed Edith, scarcely
knowing what she said, “where is Mary?”

“Where she should be!” growled the Quaker,
between his teeth.

“Do tell me, where? where?” said the girl, in
the most supplicating manner.

“Out of my way,” cried Munson, lifting his
clenched fist; “out of my way, or I 'll strike thee!”
Edith in her terror, dropped the lamp to the floor,
and the miser and the maiden were both deluged
in darkness.

“What did thee do that for?” screamed the
Quaker, as he hurried up the stairway; she made
no answer, but stood paralyzed on the spot.

“Halloa!” cried the Quaker again, from the
top of the second flight of stairs. “Edith, thee jade,

bring me a light!” The poor girl hurried away
for another lamp, but long before she found one,
Munson screamed out again,

“Bring me a light, I say, a light! I'll not stay
here in the dark!” But the fire was out, the
matches misplaced, and no light appeared.

“I'll not stay in the dark!” cried the old man
again, “to play with devils and ghosts! no! no!”
And rushing down stairs he fled through the entry,
and the front door slammed loudly at his back.

Edith sought her chamber again, and flinging
herself on the bed, wept all night. The morning
came and brought with it nothing welcome but the
light. Again she put on her bonnet and shawl, and
now hurried out into the streets. Hopes and fears
nerved her step; and with a loud beating heart she
sought Fitful's chamber; the door was open, she
passed in, but the room was vacant! There were
papers strewed over the floor, the little table and
chairs were upset, the brass clock that of late ticked
so mournfully on the mantel-piece now lay broken
on the hearth; all of which were marks of the
cowardly Quaker's malice. Poor little Edith stood
in the midst of this confusion, and covering her
face in her hands, wept afresh.

“What! must I encounter the fiends everywhere?”
screamed a shrill voice at her back;
Edith started with affright, and beheld again the
bloodshot eyes of Munson glaring upon her. His
eyebrows were clenched, a malicious smile was

playing around his mouth, and his skinny fingers
were working nervously against his thumbs.

“O, my father!” cried Edith, falling upon her
knees and clasping her hands in the most imploring
manner, “Tell me! tell me! what is the matter?
where is Mary?” Old Munson dropped his chin
deep into his neck-cloth, and gazing down into the
sorrowful face of the maiden, laughed hideously.

“Please — father — father!” continued Edith,
whilst the tears streamed down her pale face.

“I'm not your father!” cried the Quaker,
laughing more maliciously than ever. “I'm not
your father, I never was! ha, ha! You're a
beggar, an outcast! You belong to the poor-house;
go home, go where you belong, to the
poor-house! he, he!”

At the end of this unfeeling speech, Edith hid
her face in her hands, and remained in that attitude
for a long time, overwhelmed with confusion, grief,
and disappointment. When, with timid eyes, she
ventured to look up, she found herself alone. Yes,
she thought, alone in every sense of the word —
poor Mary had disappeared in the most mysterious
manner, and her father would no longer acknowledge
her. Now cast off, whither should she go?
The last words of Munson still rung in her ear like a
funeral knell,—“the poor-house! the poor-house!”
and drawing a chair to the window, she sat gazing,
she knew not how long, upon the quiet sky.
Hour after hour swept away, but she knew it not,

and she was only awakened from her melancholy
reverie by feeling the pressure of a hand upon her
shoulder. There was something sympathetic in
the touch; her heart leaped, and gladness thrilled
her frame ere she well knew why; but an instant
more found her arms encircling the neck of poor
Mary! The woman returned the impassioned
caress of the girl, and Edith felt once more that
she was not an outcast — that there was still one
heart that cherished her. Poor Mary, with a
dozen others, had been arraigned, that morning,
before the police court, but no accuser appearing
against her she was released, and her first impulse
was to return to Fitful's apartment, where she
happily discovered Edith, as we have just described.
When the latter had related, as well as she could
between sobs and tears, her father's cruel treatment,
the other heaved a heavy sigh, and kissing
Edith on the brow, drew the maiden's little hand
through her own arm and led her away. Their
steps were directed to the house of Munson, which,
fortunately for their own quietude, they found did
not contain its master.