University of Virginia Library

36. Chapter XXXVI.
Unravelment.

CHARLES RICHMOND was, indeed, dying; and
hardly could one of his companions of the gaming-house
have recognized in the glazed, despairing eye, and
sallow, haggard cheek, the features of him who had been
the gay and elegant “man of the world.” His livid forehead
was damp with the last dews; and, as he sat,
propped by the pillows of the couch, it might have
seemed to a sudden spectator that he was at the close of
a long and cruel sickness. His hand was clasped in that
of a woman, who had thrown herself upon her knees
beside the sofa, and with agonized look was gazing into
his face. His lips opened, as if with pain, and he struggled
for utterance.

“Helen!—will—you—for—give?”

“O Charles! dear love! dear Charles! you will not
leave me?”

“You will—not—hate—my memory, Hel—en,” gasped
the stricken man. “I—have in—jured you—deeply!”

“No, no! my husband! you have been kind! you
were” —

The poor wife sobbed, and bowed her head upon the

pillows. All thought of Richmond's delinquencies—of
his neglect—his abuse—was banished from her recollection.
She only saw, lying in his blood before her, the
man to whom she had plighted troth so few years ago—
whom she had cherished since, with a true wife's unswerving
affection.

“Helen!” resumed Richmond, collecting, with an evident
effort, his small remaining strength, and speaking
in a low but fearfully distinct accent—“I am going
away, and all is dark before me! I have no more to do
with mortal things. But, I have been cruel—to you,
Helen—and” — He paused, and, breathing heavily,
pronounced the name of “Margaret;” and the seamstress,
who was kneeling near to the couch, a little way from
Helen, softly approached him. “Margaret!” he repeated,
“I wronged you—in your youth—but I am punished
now.” The seamstress remained silent; and Helen, with
a strange terror creeping about her heart, looked wonderingly
into her face.

“Helen!” went on her husband, “look upon Margaret,
whom I deserted, that I might wed with you, and who
murmured not at my treachery. My wife! my wife!” he
repeated—“Promise me that—you—will protect poor
Margaret!”

Helen Richmond's sad eyes had rested on the pale,
thoughtful countenance of the seamstress. She saw the
traces of long and silent suffering; she marked the mild
light of those gentle eyes; and she recalled suddenly that
dreadful memory when, in her husband's apartment, she
had found a letter, stained with tears, and signed by the

name “Margaret.” In a moment, her perception had
mastered the entire mystery; her woman's instinct traversed
the past of this deserted one—a past enveloped in
loneliness and tears. She took Margaret's hand, very
quietly, and laid it beside that of Charles Richmond,
clasping them both with her own. “I will protect Margaret!”
she murmured, in a broken voice. “Oh! will
Margaret comfort me?”

The wife and the deserted one bowed together beside
the dying man; their tears mingled, their sobs answered
to one another.

“Helen!—Margaret!—will you forgive me?” gasped
Richmond, whose senses began once more to wander.

“Oh, Charles! I love you better than my life. I cannot
let you die!” murmured Helen, wildly. Richmond
sank back, his lips fluttered, and his eyes closed.

“O Heaven help me! he is—he is” — The wife
trembled and moaned, but could utter no more. The
physician drew near, and placing his hand on Richmond's
breast, said—

“It beats still.”

“Oh!” suddenly shrieked the dying man, starting upward,
with a wild look, made terrible by the blood which
gushed at once from his mouth. “Rebecca Kolephat!—
it is too late! Beware, Rebecca! let the old man live!”
His eyes became fixed, as if regarding some ghastly vision;
he motioned with his hand, making a gesture as of warning,
“Rebecca!” he cried, more loudly—“Rebecca!”

As that name rang through the room, the group which
surrounded the couch, made way before a female form,

that suddenly entered by the opening door. It was
Rebecca herself, who, bounding forward, caught the fixed
eye and pallid face of Richmond, and sank, like one dead,
upon the carpet. Richmond beheld her with a vacant
glance, that was but half recognition, but the apparition
had turned the current of his fancies, and he sank backward
silently upon the pillow. Helen supported his head,
and Margaret wiped the bloody froth from his lips. In a
moment afterwards, the physician placed his hand upon
his breast, and said—

“It does not beat!—he is departed.”

Thus died Charles Richmond, in the presence of his
deserted wife and the woman whom he had deserted in
his youth; whilst the unhapy object of his latest treachery
lay in a deathly swoon upon the floor beside him. And
this was the end of his scheming and heartlessness.

All remained still for a space within that place of death.
Mrs. George entered noiselessly, and spoke a few words to
Mr. Granby, who followed her to the library. Samson
was there, and beside him an old gentleman, whom the
master greeted as Mr. Kolephat. He silently returned
Mr. Granby's salutation, but without removing his anxious
gaze from a form which reposed in the large arm-chair.
It was Ninetta, still insensible. Mrs. George hurriedly
gathered her restoratives, applying them, in rapid succession,
to the fainting child; but long and fruitless were
her efforts to revive suspended animation. At last, the
physician, summoned from the outer room, where his
services were, alas! no longer needed, decided to open a
vein—an operation that, in a little while, induced the

flow of life's current through the little one's frame. Her
dark eyes soon opened, and her lips moved in faint
murmurs.

“Monna Maria!” she articulated, “the fire will burn
us! Monna Maria! let us escape! let us fly!”

Alas! the poor child was dwelling upon that fearful
prison of fire from which she had been rescued; and the
thought of her wretched god-mother's safety was mingled
with the thought of her own. But Monna Maria—bigot
and fanatic—had found no guardian angel in the moment
of her peril; and no human hand had interposed to save
her from the doom she had invoked for another.

Tears fell from Mordecai Kolephat's eyes—the first
tears that had watered his heart during years of lonely
misery. The drops fell upon Ninetta's brow, and she
looked up wonderingly. The revelation of Monna Maria
suddenly stole across her memory, and she murmured, in a
simple, childish way—“Are you my father?”

The Hebrew bowed himself, with a low moan, and
clasped the child in his arms. He spoke no word, but
held Ninetta in that close embrace, as a mother would
clasp her new-born babe. Memories of the past were
busy in the old man's bosom—“God is good to me!” he
murmured. “God is good to me!” Then, releasing his
hold of Ninetta, he laid her gently back in the arm-chair,
and knelt, gazing upon her face. As he did so, a hand
was laid upon his arm, and turning, he started, and
uttered a feeble cry. A dark-featured man, of middle
age, stood behind him, and looked steadfastly into his
eyes.

“Almighty Father!” ejaculated the Hebrew, raising
his eyes upward, and then letting them fall once more
upon the other man, with a wondering look, while his
hands were unconsciously outstretched.

“Speak! who are you?”

“I am he who saved this child from the flames!”
returned the stranger, who was no other than the guest
of Dobbs the inventor.

“And you are” —

“I am—I was—your son!”

“God is merciful!” cried the Hebrew, extending his
arms, and clasping the stranger to his heart. “My boy!
my boy! whom I drove forth, with my curse! Is it,
indeed, thou who art returned to mine age?”

“Father! I sinned against your will; but my offence
was in loving one who was worthy of all love!”

“And she—your wife, Samuel?”

“She is in heaven!” answered the son, with a deep sigh.

“O Samuel! my boy! I have sinned against heaven!”
cried Mordecai Kolephat. “But, with the help of Almighty
God, my life shall yet atone for all. My poor
boy!” he continued, holding his son's hand, whilst he
clasped Ninetta to his side—“God is good to me—a sinner!
In an hour He has restored my daughter, by the
hands of my long-lost son!”

The negro Samson, who had looked on silently during
the affecting scene, now turned his shining eyes towards
his master. Mr. Granby seemed to understand the expression
which was in them, for he knelt at once in the midst
of that group, and said in an earnest voice—

“Let us pray!”

And the prayer arose! for the departed who lay amid
mourners in one apartment—for the living and restored,
who were clasped to happy hearts, in the other! It was
a simple, but impressive prayer, touching upon the confines
of life and death—mingling supplication with thanksgiving—a
prayer such as might ascend from every lip,
could all the inscrutable purposes of Divine Providence, in
all their beautiful symmetry, be made as clear unto human
comprehension as were the scenes of sorrow and of joy
blent together that night in Mr. Granby's house.

Ere the prayer was ended, other ears listened to its
tender lessons. Helen Richmond came in, sorrowing but
resigned—her cheek bowed upon the breast of Margaret
Winston. Emily Marvin followed, led by Harry Peyton,
who, as he clasped her hand, looked upon her beautiful
face, and dreamed, for the first time since he had lost
Helen Ellwood, of love and, perchance, happiness yet in
store for him. And, as he stood beside the young girl,
and heard, with her, the words of Christian prayer, there
were softness and moisture in his heart, and the good seed
fell quietly into it, displacing the tares that had been
sown in his worldly past.

As Mr. Granby rose from his knees, at the close of his
devotion, and while the broken “Amen!” yet trembled on
Samson's lips, a new group was added to the circle. A
tottering step was heard upon the threshold, and the
murmur of childish voices. Mr. Granby turned, and saw
the old man Mallory, holding little Fanny by the hand,
while Rob Morrison and Harry Winston pressed forward

together. Behind was a figure blackened with smoke—
with garments scorched and tattered. His singed hair
straggled back from his charred forehead, and he seemed
to shrink from observation. Clasping this man's hand,
was a little child. Mr. Granby looked inquiringly at
Mallory, who, led forward by Fanny, essayed to speak;
but his voice was choked by emotion.

“Please, sir,” said Bob the Weasel, “there ain't no
more Kolephat College.”

“What do you mean, Robert?”

“Kolephat College is burnt down, sir!—but Fanny's
saved—Fanny's all safe!”

Kolephat College was, indeed, no more! But its
owner, richer than ever, clasped to his bosom his recovered
children, and murmured—

“My dead one alive again!—my lost one found!”

Charles Richmond had passed away! But the hearts
he had wronged, now soothed and made holy in suffering,
were drawn near to each other in a kindred of tender
memories. Helen and Margaret became friends, mingling
their prayers, their tears, and their good works, in a life
of charity to others.

The spendthrift, Henry Peyton, will borrow no more
money from the Jobsons and other speculators on the
luxuries or necessities of others; for he has become rich
again, by an uncle's will, and is withal a wiser and a happier

man, and will be yet happier when Emily Marvin, the
poor widow's orphan, shall lay her hand in his, and call
him “husband!” So says good Mrs. Dumsey, whose
favorite Peyton is, and who avers that she knew, from the
first, they were “made for one another, as sure as two
peas is in a pod.”

There is one who, though apparently less happy than
others of our story, thanks Heaven, by day and by night,
that she was prevented from committing a great crime.
Her passionate nature has been subdued; she looks back
upon her love-dream, as upon a dark shadow; and she
kisses Ninetta, the Hebrew's daughter, when the child is
sleeping, dropping tears upon her fair brow. But Rebecca
keeps her fearful secret, and prays to be forgiven.

It was but a few months after the burning of Kolephat
College that a wretched youth was arrested for
mortally wounding a comrade in an affray. He had been
an undertaker's apprentice, but previously one of those
outcast children that swarm about tenant-houses, growing
up adepts in vice and crime. He was condemned and
executed, and confessed, under the gallows, to the murder
of Charles Richmond.

The restored son of Mordecai Kolephat, who had fled,
years before, from his father's malediction, and, after long
sojourn in a foreign clime, had buried his wife, and returned
desolate to his native land—there to become,
bruised and bleeding, the guest of Hubert Dobbs—had

not listened to “Walter's Book” without imbibing the
spirit of its philosophy. Henceforth, in wielding the
revenues of his millionaire father, he knew how to provide
for Poverty's wants, and to consider Poverty's sorrows.

“Kolephat College is destroyed,” said he to Walter,
“but upon its ashes shall arise a house that will be fit
for human beings to enter—a habitation and a HOME for
tenants!”

“There ought to be a Tenant-House School-room in
it!” said Rob Morrison; and Mr. Granby replied—

“Yes! for the tenant-house children are still to be fed
and taught.”

And upon the ruins of Kolephat College, the foundations
of a Model Dwelling for the Poor have been already
laid. In this new Tenant-House there are to be allowed
no damp and dark cellars; no confined passage-ways; no
steep staircases; no gloomy, unventilated bedrooms; no
inflammable partitions; no crowding together of hundreds
in an area scarce capable of accommodating scores. Near
this new dwelling, the poison-dealing grocery will not be
revived; nor the unlawful office of a policy dealer be
permitted to approach; nor the triple balls swing in
luring temptation of poverty. But children's voices in
play, and in singing, and in praise to God; and the plash
of cool water from the hydrants; and the chime of a
church-bell shall be heard by contented Industry. Neither
Ferret nor Jobson shall draw nigh; but the owners will
behold their tenants, face to face, and landlord and tenant
shall be happier in mutual confidence and respect.

Thus ends the chronicle of the Tenant-House; haply
to be read by thoughtful men and women; perhaps to
stir the Human Heart of society, in at least a little
degree, so that it may beat in sympathy with virtuous
poverty, struggling amid the darkness of its low estate.

O Human Heart! O Christian Soul! the little book
goes humbly but prayerfully forth to you!