 | Chapter XXXII.
The Dying Gamester. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone |  |
32. Chapter XXXII.
The Dying Gamester.
THE school at Kolephat College had been blessed
through the months during which Margaret labored
in her vocation as teacher. Day by day, some new proselyte
from the streets—some weed plucked by the wayside—was
transplanted into the genial atmosphere of the
small room where, recompensed by constant fruit, the toiling
woman sought to nourish her young growth of souls.
“We have much for which to be thankful!” said Mr.
Granby to the seamstress, as she sat one evening in his
quiet library, with Emily Marvin, who had become a favorite
of the good old man, as well as of Mrs. George, the
housekeeper. “We have found, indeed that it is more
blessed to give than to receive.”
“I have been happier,” answered Margaret, “since the
school was opened—much happier than for years past.”
“Because you have been doing good, my child,” said
Mr. Granby, “and because the blessing of God rests
upon all that is done for humanity, in His name!”
Samson brought nearer to his master the stand, on
which, as usual, lay the open Scriptures; and the old
man, shading his eyes, read aloud, in his low but impressive
wreathing a halo in his reverend locks. A placid smile
illumined his benevolent features, in which love and seriousness
were united; indeed, his whole appearance, had
there been no Bible before him, or had his voice been
inaudible, might have reminded the most thoughtless
observer that his calm spirit was soaring in pure communion
with its Creator.
Samson sat upon a cushioned stool, his back and head
propped by a massive side-board standing near the door.
His eyes rested upon Mr. Granby's face with close attention,
his lips moving in unison with the reader's accents.
A weather-beaten, scarred, but honest and intelligent
countenance was that of the negro, with a look of childlike
confidence as he listened to the teachings of the
“Good Book.” His herculean proportions were in strong
contrast with the fragile figure of his master, and it was
an interesting spectacle to behold this type of physical
power subdued at the feeble Rabbi's feet, and tears
streaming profusely down his dusky cheeks.
“Let us pray,” said the aged man, reverently closing
the sacred volume, and sinking upon his knees. Samson
did the same, bowing his head upon his muscular breast,
and crossing his labor-seamed hands. Mrs. George knelt
at a little distance, while Margaret and her friend prostrated
themselves together.
There was no pride there, in the little circle of those
so strangely brought together but a brief space before;
no gilded seats separated rich from poor, no mummery of
forms stifled the spirit of piety; but, together, with God's
in humility for the weary and way-worn of all His family.
Master and servant—black and white—united in a heartfelt
supplication for their common humanity; for the
stranger and the alien, for the sinner and the righteous,
for the oppressed and the enfranchised; a prayer of charity—fit
oblation to the throne of Love!”
“Amen! amen!” murmured the negro, as with moist
eyes, he rose from his knees, and then tenderly assisted
his master, whose quiet features attested the inner peace
of his heart. And as they stood thus together, with
hands interclasped, one might not think that they were
other than brothers—sons of the one great and eternal
Father!
“Samson!” said the old man, as he leaned upon the
black's stronger arm, “we are journeying together to our
home!”
“Yes, massa,” responded the negro, in his broken
way. “Dat is so!—we is both berry old men, massa—
we is.”
“But not afraid to die, Samson!”
“Bress de Lord, no! Nebber 'fraid for de Lord
Jesus to call, massa. When Samson's time come, he will
pray to de Lord, and nebber fear de shadder ob death.”
“No, Samson, my old friend!” cried his master. “Little
cause to fear death have you, my boy. We have seen
danger together, and have known Heaven's mercies in
company. Samson! I trust neither of us will falter when
the Master comes. May we ever be prepared, rather, to
welcome Him.”
“Ah, Massa Granby! de Lord grant Samson be taken
fust.”
“And would you leave your old friend alone, boy?”
“No, massa!” exclaimed the negro, bursting into tears.
“Poor Samson serve you to the last! Many a time he
hol' you in his arms when you was a chile. Maybe de
Lord wills dat he hol' you when de angel comes! Samson
nebber leave you! Bress de Lord, de old boy knows
his duty.”
The negro dashed his sleeve across his eyes, brushing
away the tears which he could not restrain. His master
pressed his hand with a fervent grasp.
“You are always the same true heart, boy,” he murmured.
“No kinder breast than yours could I find
whereon to pillow my dying head. Did I not say, years
ago, that I had found in my poor slave, as then you were,
a friend who would never desert me?”
“Ah, Massa Granby, Samson nebber desarved half de
good you said about him!”
“My good boy,” replied the venerable man, “I have
found you worthier than those whom the world places far
above us both. We have been called `Master' and
`Slave,' but your bondage to me, Samson, has been that
of the heart.”
“Yes, massa! what harm in de word `slave,' when my
heart only be chained in lubbing a kind massa? Samson
rather be slave ten thousand times, dan part from Massa
Granby.” He bent his head, as he spoke, kissing the old
man's hand.
“And have you never, indeed, regretted the choice
and competence?—never repented following your old
friend?”
“Nebber! nebber!” sobbed the negro. “Samson hab
a white heart in his black bosom, and close down dere is
de face ob massa, jes' like a lookin'-glass, forebber and
ebber. Bress de Lord, dat put sense in de nigger's head.”
He raised his glance upward, while tears rolled plentifully
down his dark cheeks. Mr. Granby hastily wiped
his own eyes and glanced at the young girls and Mrs.
George. They, too, were weeping, and the stately housekeeper
had even crept close to her sable friend, clinging
to him as if in sympathy. At this moment, the sharp
report of a pistol, in the street without, broke upon
their silence, and whilst they yet listened, there came a
loud and prolonged knocking at the house door. Samson
started quickly, to answer the summons, followed into
the hall by Mr. Granby and the alarmed housekeeper.
Ere the door could be reached, however, another peal of
the knocker shook the whole building, followed by a
succession of shrill whistles, and the dull concussion of a
club upon the pavement—the signal rap of the night
policemen.
The night was dark, and had set in with gusty rain,
beating through the hall when Samson cautiously opened
the door, but the hanging lamp shed its gleams outward,
showing two men standing upon the steps, and supporting
in their arms the drooping figure of a third, whose eyes
were closed, and whose face was covered with blood,
which also saturated his clothing.
“Merciful heaven!” ejaculated Mr. Granby, “what is
this?”
“My friend, here, has been attacked, and wounded,”
returned the voice of one who stood nearest. “I fear he
is mortally hurt, and the hospital is far.”
“An' we want his deppysition,” said another voice, which
Mr. Granby recognized as as that of an elderly guardian
of the night, whose patrol was on neighboring streets.
“Come in, at once!” cried Mr. Granby. “The front
room!” continued he, opening a door upon the right,
while Samson proceeded to assist in sustaining the insensible
stranger, upon whose face the lamp-light now fell
directly, revealing features of manly beauty, overspread
by a greyish shade, and showing thick curly hair matted
with blood, where it clustered about the forehead. Mr.
Granby had but an instant to note this, ere he was startled
by a sudden cry from the library door, where the
females had remained. The next moment, Margaret
Winston darted past him, paused, with clasped hands,
before the wounded stranger, perusing his lineaments, and
then sank beside him on her knees, sobbing brokenly:
“It is he!—it is he!”
“Oh, sister!” cried Emily Marvin, who had followed
her friend. “It is Mrs. Richmond's husband!”
Margaret only responded by hollow murmurs, scarcely
audible, as she passed her hand under the head which
rested immovable upon the cushions of the couch whereon
the wounded man had been laid.
“Do you know him?”
Emily looked up, and met the glance of a young gentleman,
injured stranger.
“Do you know Mr. Richmond?” Emily was about to
answer, when Mr. Granby interposed—
“Whoever he be,” said the old gentleman, “it is plain
that he should at once have medical aid. Samson, run
for a physician!”
The negro needed no second mandate, but at once
pressed his way through the throng of spectators, residents
of the neighborhood, who, alarmed by the report
of firearms, had by this time, gathered from all quarters,
in front of Mr. Granby's house. Interrogatories regarding
the affray were propounded from a dozen tongues at
once, but the aged watchman could only relate how he
had heard the cry of murder, and, speeding towards it
through the darkness, had suddenly encountered the
wounded stranger, supported by the young gentleman
now present, in whose hand was a pistol which he had
just discharged at a carriage that was driven off at a
furious rate, and to the box of which three men were
clinging.
“And the young gentleman!—could he give any information?”
None, save that he had been drawn by the cry of murder,
and, beholding a single man contending with three
ruffians, discharged his pistol immediately; the assailants
then mounting a coach which stood near, and driving
furiously away.
While the young man was speaking, Margaret Winston
had arranged the pillows under Richmond, and now gazed
man. It was apparent to Mr. Granby, who observed her
with a troubled look, and marked the shivering sigh which
agitated her whole frame, that she cherished some strange
interest in him who lay before her. He glanced at Emily
Marvin, but the orphan seemed as much perplexed as himself,
in regarding her adopted sister, who, after wiping
the blood from Richmond's cheeks and brow, murmured,
in an appealing tone—
“Oh, will not assistance come? He is—dying!”
The throng outside divided, at this moment, to admit
Samson. He was followed by three policemen, and accompanied
by a physician, who proceeded at once to an investigation
of Richmond's hurts, his every movement
anxiously watched by the spectators.
“There is but a flicker of life,” said the doctor, after
probing the wounds, and staying the flow of blood. “I
fear the patient is mortally injured.”
“Can't he be brought to the 'ospital?” asked a policeman,
whose accent betrayed his English birth. “We'll
want his deppysition, you know.”
“An' who'd be afther takin' a dead man to the hospital,
sure?” rejoined another of the officials.
“Mein Gott! is der man dead?” inquired the third
guardian of the public, who was a short and very plethoric
German.
“He cannot be removed,” said the physician; “the
utmost quiet must be preserved; and I would recommend
the immediate departure of all whose presence here is not
necessary.”
The crowd, which had penetrated from the outer door
to the very edge of the couch, gave way before Samson's
courteous energy, and in a short time, the room was comparatively
cleared of intruders. Meantime, the physician
applied such immediate restoratives as Mrs. George's medicine
chest could furnish, and, ere long, succeeded in recalling
animation to the insensible sufferer. Richmond again
opened his eyes upon life, but there was no assuring light
in those orbs, already blurred with the film of approaching
dissolution. There, indeed, with the last dews heavy
upon his brow, lay all that would soon be of the gay and
fashionable man, the reckless, unprincipled schemer; there,
with livid lips painfully parting, as he essayed to utter
some disconnected words, reclined upon his last earthly
couch the husband of a neglected wife—the deceiver of a
trusting maiden. Margaret Winston moistened his mouth
with a few drops of reviving cordial.
“I'll—play—no more!” An almost inaudible whisper
revealed that the dying man's thoughts were upon the
gaming table; then his wandering sense shifted suddenly,
and he muttered—“The Jew—is old—must die;” after
which darkness fell once more over Richmond's countenance—darkness
which awed into silence the lookers on;
all, save Margaret, who, bending over the wretched man,
murmured, in a low, thrilling tone—“Charles—Char-lcy!”
The mournful tenderness with which the name was spoken
last appeared to affect Richmond strangely. His quivering
lips became still, his glance lost its fixedness, and, as
if responding to a call, he cried—“Margery! where are
you?”
Mr. Granby and Emily marvelled to behold the brightness
which flashed for an instant over Margaret Winston's
pale face, as, with heaving bosom and yearning look, she
stooped forward, till her cheek almost touched the damp
and bloody curls upon Richmond's brow. Their looks at
that moment met, a gleam, apparently of full recognition,
lighting over the man's ashy face, followed by an expression
of bitter recollection and inward torture.
“Charles!” murmured the seamstress, clasping Richmond's
hand. “Is it thus we meet—at last?”
“Ah!” gasped the dying man, “'tis Margaret—deserted
Margaret!” He stared wildly upon her face,
moaned bitterly, and closed his eyes once more. They
feared he had relapsed into unconsciousness, but it was
not so; for he started up immediately, crying loudly—
“Helen—Rebecca! it is too late!”
Peyton and the physician, who stood at the back of the
couch, endeavored to restrain the paroxysm; but Richmond
struggled fiercely in their arms, the blood gushing
from his wound, as he uttered fearful groans.
Some minutes elapsed ere excitement gave way to
debility, and the sufferer's hollow words became intelligible.
He was understood to ask for his tablets, which
Samson soon discovered in a pocket of his coat that
had been removed. Then, with feeble hand, Richmond
traced a few words upon the ivory, and turning his
glassy eyes upon Peyton, gasped—
“To—the—to—Mordecai Kolephat.”
“That's the rich Jew,” said a policeman.
“I know,” said Mr. Granby. “Samson shall go at
replied affirmatively, and proceeded to depart at once,
while Peyton, stooping over his friend, said softly—
“Richmond—your wife!”
“I will go for her!” here exclaimed Emily Marvin, to
whose thought the image of that unhappy wife had been
presented constantly, as she regarded the dying husband.
“Samson will accompany me. Ah! Mrs. Richmond might
die, if too abruptly told of this.”
Tears gushed from the orphan's brilliant eyes, as she
spoke, and Peyton, turning towards her, thought he had
never beheld such expressive female features. He had
looked once before upon that countenance, while it reclined
in the immobility of a swoon, and thought it
beautiful indeed, but now, irradiated with the eloquence
of deep feeling, it seemed well-nigh angelic in its loveliness.
“Let me go with you, Miss!” he cried, involuntarily
stepping forward. “I, too, am acquainted with Mrs.
Richmond, and — Nay!” he continued, interrupting
himself—“you cannot go out in this storm! Let me be
the messenger!” Emily Marvin's eyes fell beneath Peyton's
glance, and her cheek burned under the tears that
bedewed it; but the young man lost no time in departing
on his sad mission, and the orphan, wondering at the
interest in herself which his manner had seemed to manifest,
turned towards Margaret Winston, who still knelt
beside the dying Richmond.
| Chapter XXXII.
The Dying Gamester. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone | |