True womanhood a tale |
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 | CHAPTER III. True womanhood |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
The door opened softly, and a smart English chambermaid
presented herself.
“Well, Bessie?”
“Did you ring, m'em, please?”
“No — but — come in, Bessie, and shut the door,” said Julia,
as a sudden thought flashed into her mind like inspiration. “You
may send Peter up, if you please.”
The girl opened the door, and stood curtsying and simpering,
and playing with the bows upon her apron, but did not offer to go.
“Well, Bessie?”
“I s'pose, m'em, you wouldn't mind my asking the porter,
m'em, please, or one of the waiters, to send him up?”
“No, indeed; I had quite forgotten we were not in our own
house. You will oblige me, though, by sending for him at once.
Let him know that he is wanted immediately.”
“Yes, m'em, but —”
“But what, Bessie?”
“Well, m'em, if you please, I'm rather afeard he can't be found
just now. He knows you are all a-goin' to the hopera, and so he
went off with the 'osses to give 'em their supper; he's a nice
man, is Peter; he allers looks arter the cattle himself, m'em,
please.”
“Ah! I am glad to hear it, Bessie; you may send a porter for
him.”
The moment Bessie left her, poor Julia began pacing the room
as before, stopping every few moments to listen, to compare her
watch with the clock, without seeing either, or having the least
idea of the time; or to look out of the window. It was growing
dark, the lamps were lighted, and the street was crowded as she
phantoms. The wind roared, the heavy casements rattled, the snow
came down so fast, and so plentifully, that only a feeble glimmering
of the gas lights could reach the middle of the street, and
the huge, heavy omnibuses, lumbering and pitching through the
darkness, and all white with snow, seemed a sort of shadowy
phantasmagoria, overpeopled with apparitions, and plunging on
their way with a perpetual roar, like the host of Pharaoh through
a midnight sea.
“What! only half past four!” she cried, at last, as a clock
sounded in the passage-way, and she was led to look at the watch
in her hand; “only half past four! what a dreary, dismal day! I
do hope Uncle George has not gone far, — not down to the
river, certainly.”
She shuddered, and her young heart stopped for a moment;
and then she murmured, —
“O, Heavenly Father! what would become of me! But why
give way to such dreadful apprehensions? No, no, — I will not;
I must remember God's faithfulness, and the prayers of our dear
mother; and — surely I heard a step!” — going to the door, — “no,
no, — I was deceived by the beating of my own heart, I dare say;
and yet, I almost felt a hand upon the lock outside. Who is it?
Who's there? Arthur! is that you?” she cried, setting the door
wide open, and looking out into the large empty hall. There
was nobody, not even a waiter or chambermaid, to be seen; the
ladies were dressing for dinner, and the gentlemen were but beginning
to muster on the floor below.
“Well, well,” she continued, retreating to her chamber as if
pursued, “If I must go to the opera, I must. Uncle George would
never ask me to go, but for a good reason; and I would'nt disappoint
him for the world; though, as the children say, `I would
rather take a whipping;'” and then the poor girl sat down and
cried as if heart-sick of all such dreary make-believe; and then,
mustering all her strength, as if to while away the time, she added,
wiping her eyes with a lace ruffle she had been working,
“I am sure Arthur will not lose sight of him. Ah, if he knew all!
but he knows enough, poor Arthur! to be frightened himself; but
there's one comfort, I shall not be obliged to dress for dinner
be sorry to disappoint him, and wouldn't for the world appear to
be less mindful of him — and Arthur — just because we dine by
ourselves, than I should be of strangers at a public table, or
in a private house.”
A rap at the door.
“Come in!”
The door opened, and Bessie stood in the passage-way curtsying.
“Mr. Wilson's below, m'em.”
“Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, m'em, Mr. Peter Wilson.”
“Oh, the coachman; send him up, if you please.”
“All the ladies call him Mr. Wilson here, m'em.”
“All the ladies?”
“The ladies' maids, m'em, and the chambermaids, and the waiters,
and the —”
“Well, Bessie, you have certainly got some remarkable notions
in the little time you have been here.”
“Thank you, m'em.”
“Go, if you please, and send up the coachman.”
“The coachman? yes, 'm.”
Again the poor thing pulled out her watch and compared it
with the clock, which had not moved since morning; and then
she took up a ragged newspaper and tried to fix her mind upon
that; and then, letting both hands fall into her lap, she began
rocking slowly to and fro and wondering it was no later, and why
one clock had stopped altogether, and why all the rest were too
slow; as if they all were tired out, and weary of keeping step
and time to no purpose, like stragglers on the march, trying to
overtake the main body, yet always lagging a little way behind.
The door opened, and Mr. Wilson, the coachman, a short burly
Englishman, with a pleasant look, a gold band upon his hat
and a sort of badge upon his collar, stood in the doorway, bolt
upright like a milestone.
“Ah, Peter, are the horses put up?”
“Yes, Missis.”
“We shall be ready at seven.”
“Yes, Missis.”
“We are going to the opera!”
“To the hopera, — at seven!”
Julia recollected herself. The poor man was all aghast. “At the
Queen's Theatre, Lunnun, was ever such a thing heard of, as for
anybody what was anybody, goin' there much before nine or ten,
where they had a box to themselves! To be sure the snobs in
the pit, who are allers for havin' their money's worth, and get
their tickets from the tradesmen, and want to see everything, and
hear everything, sometimes go there in the middle o' the arter-noon,
just as they would to see a new piece, or a new hactor, at
Drury Lane or the Little Haymarket, and crowd the doorway,
and get their pockets emptied for their pains, jess for the sake of
a rush when the door's open, though there's allers room enough
at the hopera; while the West-enders, the real gentry, and all the
decent people what keep their carriages, and know what's what,
never think o' goin' till they have got through dinner, and only
want to hear the last of a hopera.” All which Peter thought
over as he stood waiting for Missis, though he did not say it, and
only ventured to look astonished, till he had found his way back
to the servants' room, where Bessie and he talked it all over
afresh, before the gaping Irish lasses and sneering mulattos, till
they were found to agree in every particular about the “nasty Yankees,”
and their ignorance of what's what, and their uppishness.
“Did you see Mr. Pendleton, Peter, when he left the house?”
“Yes, 'm.”
“Which way did he go?”
“Up that way, m'em,” — pointing.
“Could you find him, think you?”
Mr. Wilson thought he could, and then again he thought he
couldn't, as he remembered how long he had been gone, and how
fast the snow was falling; “but he would try.”
“Thank you, Peter. But stay; let me see.”
“Yes, 'm.”
“Well, Peter, if you should happen to meet him,” she added,
with a pleasant smile, that he might not see her anxiety, nor understand
the cause, “you may tell him that I should like to go
early, very early, if he has no objection.”
“Yes, 'm.”
“And then, too, — stop a moment, Peter. You might remind
him of the hour. We dine to-day at half past five.”
Another look of astonishment, as if he had never heard of anybody
on earth dining at half past five, and Peter withdrew, and
Julia began pacing the floor and looking out of the windows
again, wondering at every turn how so large a quantity of snow
could have managed to fall in so short a time; and then she
pulled forward the little rocking-chair, and fell to stirring the fire,
— as they do over sea, — wondering why there should be such
a difference in the result. Here, the more she stirred it, the
duller it grew, though the scorching heat continued, like that of
molten metal, long after it has been poured into a mould and lost
its brightness — poor thing! — while in England, Bessie used to
light the fire with the poker, and sometimes, by laying the shovel
and tongs a-top of the coal, or sprinkling it with cold water.
At last, having puzzled herself to no purpose, and being wholly
unacquainted with the mysteries of anthracite, she rang for Bessie,
to say that she was going to her room, and if anybody wanted
her, she wished to be informed immediately.
But she had scarcely entered her own little quiet chamber, and
begun to make some preparations for dinner, when a quick tap
at the door set her heart hurrying with indefinable terror, so
that when she withdrew the bolt, which she did with some difficulty,
— her hand shook so, — and said “come in,” she was startled
at the sound of her own voice.
“Mr. Maynard is below, m'em,” said Bessie, “and wants to
see you immediately.”
“Mr. Maynard! is he alone?”
“Yes, m'em, please.”
Julia hurried down with a misgiving that almost overwhelmed
her. She trembled, grew faint, and was obliged to lay her hand
upon Bessie's shoulder, while she locked the door.
Mr. Maynard met her on the stairs.
“Julia, dear Julia!” said he, “don't be frightened.”
“Why! Arthur! you're all covered with snow.”
“Am I? — well, well, never mind. I shall be with you in five
minutes,” — giving himself a hearty shake, as a Newfoundland
parlor, will you?”
“You do not say a word about Uncle George. Have you
found him, Arthur?”
“No, can't say I have; but I know where he is, Julia. Don't
look so troubled, I pray you. I am on his track; and have only
left it for five minutes, to tell you that if we are not back by half
past five, you must not wait for us.”
“Not wait for you, Arthur! As if I could sit down to a dinner
by myself!”
“And I say, Julia, dear Julia,” taking both her hands into his,
“if we don't come back before you get through, you must not be
unreasonable, — there, there, — go to dinner, will you, and try to
eat something, — there's a dear girl!”
“Eat, Arthur!”
“Yes, Julia, eat, for it is well enough to do such things, now
and then.”
Julia saw through the kindly motive, and tried to smile, but
her eyes filled, and she hurried away to the parlor, with a choking
sensation, which entirely overmastered her.
“Good-bye, Cousin Julia!” said Arthur, soon after this, coming
down stairs three steps at a time, with a shaggy outside coat
buttoned up to his chin, a fur cap, and a heavy bludgeon, which
he tried to conceal behind him, as he stood in the doorway.
“Where's your umbrella?” asked Julia.
“Umbrella! in such a snow-storm! Why, Julia, you might as
well try to carry a lamp. Good-bye, — cheer up, — I shall not
be gone long.”
“Arthur Maynard! — Arthur! come in for a moment, I pray
you!”
Arthur entered.
“Shut the door, please.”
“Why, what is the matter, Julia, you are pale as death.”
“What is that club for, Arthur?”
“Club? O, yes, I didn't mean you should see it, Julia, you
are so nervous, and so unlike yourself just now; but you know
it is hardly safe these times to go abroad after dark, without being
prepared.”
“Prepared! — prepared for what, Cousin Arthur?”
“Oh, for these gentlemen who go about seeking whom they
may devour, like him of old.”
“Arthur! I do wish I could prevail upon you to —”
“Well! Out with it! why don't you finish? I know you
have got something for me.”
“I am afraid to have you go abroad with such a weapon; you
are so dreadfully quick and rash, you know, and certainly at this
early hour of the evening, when the streets are thronged, there
can be no danger.”
“No danger, Julia!” exclaimed Arthur, somewhat nettled;
and forgetting himself, and poor Julia too, in his anxiety to vindicate
his manhood from all suspicion. “Why! when people
are garroted at their own doors in the Fifth Avenue, and knocked
down and robbed within half-pistol shot of the station-house,
night after night, while the watchmen are abroad, no man, who
values life a pin's fee, ought to go unarmed, along the outskirts
or solitary squares of the city.”
“Cousin Arthur, I am not much frightened, you see; but
if you are going to such places, why not take somebody with
you?”
“I intend to do so, Julia.”
More and more astonished, Julia stood looking at him, in silence,
till he sprang away with an air of uncommon cheerfulness,
telling her he must go; that she must keep her courage up, whatever
might be the nature of her apprehensions, — watching her
countenance carefully, — and that he should not return without
Uncle George, — dead or alive.
“Arthur Maynard! What do you mean?”
“God forgive me, Julia; I meant nothing at all; I only wanted
to cheer you up, and get away without further explanation,” said
Arthur, appalled at her unearthly paleness.
“Without further explanation! What am I to understand by
such language? What explanation is there needed? What is
the dreadful mystery you are trying to conceal? you are, — you
are, — I see it in your eyes, Arthur!”
“Julia, be patient, I have no dreadful mystery to communicate;
I have only a vague apprehension; but Julia, dear Julia, unless
you can command yourself, I dare not leave you, though I have
no time to lose, not a moment, I fear,” looking at his watch.
“Go, Arthur, go! I will command myself. Something has
happened, I am sure, and you know it, and are afraid to tell me.
You turn away your face, and I am keeping you here, when you
ought to be, as you say, on the track; go this moment, I beseech
you!”
“I dare not leave you alone, Julia, — touch the bell for Bessie,
and I'm off, — there! I have done it for you, — good-bye.”
The sound of hurrying feet was heard below, — Arthur stopped
on his way, — Julia stood listening at the door, as they came
up the broad stairway, and when Bessie, followed by Peter, with
something in his outstretched hand, like a note, passed Arthur,
and came directly toward her, she felt, in advance, that some dreadful
mystery was about being cleared up, and her worst apprehensions
verified. Clutching the door with one hand, she made a
sign with the other for Arthur to take the note, and then staggering
to the sofa, and covering her face with her hands, waited
for him to speak.
After seeing that the entry was clear, and both servants within
call, he shut the door, and begging her not to give way, promised
to read the note for her, if she would only try to command
herself.
“Read it, read it, Arthur!” she exclaimed, with a gesture of
impatience; “why don't you read it?”
“I will, as soon as you can bear it,” glancing hurriedly over
the half dozen lines which were written with a pencil upon what
appeared to be a fly-leaf, torn from a printed book.
“Arthur Maynard! I can bear anything but this; you will
drive me distracted!”
By this time, Arthur had made himself sufficiently master
of the contents to see that he had nothing to fear; and after
assuring her that she would soon be ashamed and sorry for
giving way to such preposterous terrors, — taking her hands from
her face, and speaking cheerfully, — he read as follows: —
“Go to the opera, dear children, — go early, and be patient.
I shall certainly be there, unless prevented by something serious,
though I may not be with you at dinner, as I hoped, nor
stay long at the opera. Don't be troubled; I am about my
Father's business.”
“Arthur!”
“Julia! what did I tell you?”
“But you do not know all, Cousin Arthur,” she continued,
lifting her eyes to Heaven, with tears of thankfulness; “if you
did, perhaps, you would not so much wonder at my unreasonable
anxiety, as you call it; nor at my nervousness.”
“What on earth do you mean, Julia?”
“I mean just this, — but stop a moment, allow me to collect
my thoughts. Perhaps before I say another word, I ought to
know what you were so much troubled about, where you were
going, and what you feared.”
“Not now, dear Julia, for my own mind is not made up.
With me it is all a sort of shadowy guesswork; but with you it
must be otherwise, for I know your strength of mind, your
unexaggerating truthfulness; and when you say to me, that if I
knew all, I should not so much wonder at your unreasonable
anxiety, or nervousness, — I take it for granted, — I know, indeed
such is my faith in you, as if I had seen it with my own
eyes, that something has happened to justify your apprehensions.”
“Well, Cousin Arthur, I have not much to tell; and when I
have told you all I know, and all I fear, I may not be able to
give any good reasons for that fear. You may see things differently,
and perhaps grieve at my childishness, or call it hallucination,
arising from the sorrows I have had to bear, and the
mysterious warnings we have had in our household, year after
year, and you may even pity me.”
“I do pity you, dear Julia.”
“Thank you, Cousin Arthur; I love to be pitied, but I cannot
bear to be laughed at.”
“Laughed at, Julia!”
“You are always in such good health, you know.”
“Well.”
“And how could I hope to have you understand the feelings
of a weak, wayward, silly thing like me?”
“Julia! Julia! I must know the meaning of this.”
“My meaning, Arthur! Why, is it not clear enough? You
are a man — a young man — rejoicing in the strength of manhood.
Heavenly Father, all at once upon the care of strangers.”
“Of strangers, Julia!”
“Of comparative strangers. What knew I of Uncle George,
or of Aunt Elizabeth, or even of you, till I was motherless and
homeless, and almost helpless? When shadows fall about me —
and to the strong man, substances are but shadows, while to the
disheartened, and faint, and weary, shadows are substances —
where shall I go for strength? Only to thee, my Father!
Where look for sympathy? Only to those who, while they pity
my weakness, and see my folly, are always ready to make the
proper allowances for bad health.”
“You cannot believe, dear Julia, — you do not believe, I am
sure, that we fail to make such allowances for you.”
“I did not know, Arthur, — I have had my fears, I acknowledge;
but never till to-day have I been so much troubled, — I did
not know but you and Uncle George might have misunderstood
me; but,” — wiping her eyes, — “no more of this. I am not
the weak, helpless creature I sometimes appear, and the best
way of showing it, perhaps, will be to communicate all I know,
and something of what I fear, on account of Uncle George.”
Arthur had been growing more and more serious, and more
and more thoughful, and was now all ear.
“In a word, then, I am quite sure that something has happened,
or that something is about to happen; something, I know
not what, which weighs like the hand of death upon poor Uncle
George; something from which there may be no escape; overwhelming,
and I fear, in his judgment, inevitable. The shadow
of impending calamity, like that of another world, is upon our
path. I am sure of it; for if it only concerned himself, he is a
strong man, and a Christian, and we all know what he is capable
of enduring without a murmur; he would throw it off, and we
should never hear a syllable of the matter, till it was all over,
nor even then, perhaps.”
Arthur nodded acquiescence, and Julia continued.
“You heard him say to-night, that he does not sleep very
well. If he had acknowledged that he does not sleep at all, it
would be nearer the truth, except when he falls asleep in his
him; or sits looking steadfastly into the fire, till he loses himself
for a few minutes.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes, Arthur, and I happen to know that long after we
believe him to be abed and asleep, he is wandering about, and
trying, first one chair and then another, — and we have managed
to have two or three, of different size and shape, smuggled into
his parlor within the last week or two; and, listen when I may,
in the dead of the night, I hear footsteps in his room, and when
he is not walking the floor, as you see him below, sometimes
with his hands over his face, and sometimes clasped and lifted
high up in the air, and sometimes with his arms folded over his
chest, as if struggling with himself; his man tells me that he
is constantly jumping up in a hurry, and going from the sofa
to the bed, or from the bed to the sofa, and talking to himself,
and that, when utterly exhausted and worn out, he loses
himself for a few minutes, he never appears to sleep soundly,
but is always restless and uneasy, and shifting about from side to
side, or muttering to himself, or praying; and yet, so unwilling
is he to trouble even poor Jerry, that he never calls him, nor
allows him to be disturbed, in the night. You have seen him
start up suddenly, perhaps, and go to the window or the piano,
or begin stirring the fire, till he recollected himself, or had overmastered
the first impulse, and then go back to his chair, and
shut his eyes, and not speak perhaps for half an hour, in the
vain hope of persuading us, or me rather, — for I see most of him
in these moods, — that he is truly asleep.”
“I have seen something of all this, dear Julia; but I never
thought much of it, nor allowed it ever to trouble me.”
“Because you are not with him so much, Arthur, and because,
to say all in a word, you are not a woman.”
Arthur smiled; but a tear came into his eyes.
“All make-believe, then, is it, Julia? even the cheerfulness
we see?”
“All, Cousin Arthur, all.”
“And then, too, Jerry and Bessie both tell me, that go into
his room when they will, they find him leaning back in a chair,
by that large table, with a pile of letters and old newspapers
before him, lying there day after day, untouched; or leaning
upon both elbows with his hands covering his face, just as you
saw him to-night, as if trying to lose himself. And when he
gets a letter, did you ever watch him? how his hand shakes,
and how he trembles and turns pale, as if afraid to open it.”
“Never! but how do you know that the papers you speak of
are left lying there, day after day, untouched?”
“The chambermaid says so. When she dusts the room, she
spreads a cloth over them, and has been charged, over and over
again, to let them lie as they are, undusted and untouched.”
At this moment there was a great bustle below, and the
trampling of many feet, bearing a heavy burden up the broad
stairway, with the dreary whispering and noiseless tread, which
after nightfall are so much to be feared, coming nearer and
nearer every moment, and stopping at last by the door, as if a
crowd were in consultation.
“Julia! Julia! Merciful God! What ails her?” cried Arthur,
as he saw her eyes fixed upon the slowly opening door, and
her outstretched hands trembling, as if she saw spectres in the
passage-way.”
Arthur sprang to the door and shut it, and turned the key,
without looking at the person whose hand was on the lock; but
before he could reach the table and pour out some water, Julia,
who had fallen back upon the lounge, with her arms hanging
lifelessly over the side, began to come to herself.
“No, no, don't call Bessie,” said she. “I am better; thank
you, — they didn't stop at the door; and I am so happy!” tears
of joy and thankfulness filling her eyes, and her locked hands,
half lifted in silent prayer, telling the whole story.
Arthur shuddered; for although the crowded trampling, and
the heavy burden, and the subdued whispering did not stop
long at their threshold, but went further on, it was by no
means certain, though he was afraid to say so, or to betray
any curiosity or uneasiness, that something dreadful had not happened.
“Yes, yes; much better now; thank you,” she added, in
door and unfastened it, while pretending to listen.
“Oh! if you knew all, Cousin Arthur! If you knew how
much and how long I have suffered; the sleepless nights I have
passed; if you had seen dear Uncle George as I have, when he
had no idea that I was watching him, sitting hour after hour,
with his eyes shut, or his face turned to the wall; now talking
to himself, and now starting up suddenly and hurrying away to
the window, before he recollected where he was, or that he was
not alone; and then, after a short struggle, which I could see in
his changing color, throwing himself upon the sofa at full length,
and allowing me to arrange a chair for his feet, and to throw a
shawl over him, and then, perhaps, before I could get back to
my chair, springing up and looking wildly about, as if somebody
had been trying to smother him; his chest heaving, and the cold
perspiration standing upon his forehead, with a trembling about
his mouth, and such a look of loneliness and sorrow, that your
very heart would ache for him.”
“All nervousness, or a disturbed condition of bodily health, I
should say, Cousin Julia, were it any other living man; but with
his character, and great bodily strength, and correspondent
strength of mind, there must be something; it cannot be otherwise,
Julia, there must be something very serious bearing upon
him; shall I go to him, at once like a man, and ask him what it
is, Julia? and whether we can be of use to him?”
“Not until we have weighed the question well, Arthur. He
knows where to go for comfort, strength, and consolation.”
“True, Julia, but —”
“And when it comes to the worst, he knows where to look for
sympathy below.”
“Very true.”
“We shall not fail him, Arthur Maynard, come what may.
You will not, I am sure; and I think I can answer for myself.”
“But you must watch him by the help of others, or you will
break down, yourself. And you must not only give up the
charge to others, who are stronger and in every way better prepared
for such labor, but, instead of watching him, you must
watch yourself, and not give way to these terrors, if you desire
you do upon him.”
Julia shook her head mournfully.
“He does, indeed, Julia. I know it for a truth; and it may
be that his concern for you” — keeping his eyes upon the door,
and trembling with a secret fear, whenever a step was heard
in the passage-way.
At last, finding Julia tranquillized, he reminded her of the
hour, and begging her to be ready for dinner, — it was already
six, — hurried away, determined to know the worst, and to overcome,
by a walk through the blinding snow-storm, the terrible
misgivings that haunted him, if he failed to satisfy himself by
inquiry below.
In the hall, he met Bessie and Peter, and telling them to wait
there, and allow nobody to see their mistress till he returned,
was about ordering the dinner up, when something strange —
almost fearful — in the expression of their countenances filled
him with new terror; for the moment all were speechless.
“Oh, Sir, why didn't you allow me to go into the room! Why
did you shut the door in my face, when poor Miss Julia wanted
me so much?” sobbed the poor girl.
“Yes, Sir, and why not say a word to a poor fellow, — just a
word of comfort, Sir, to keep his spirits up, instead of leaving us
out here in the cold a whole hour,” added Peter, with a whimper.
“And then, Sir, when they carried him up to his room, poor
gentleman, — more like a dead body, than like a live man, — to
think there was nobody about him but strangers, and poor
Jerry; and when he asked for Arthur, Sir, callin' you his dear
Arthur, and we told him you was with Miss Julia, he wouldn't
allow us to go for you, but insisted on your having the dinner
served, and tellin' Mr. Wilson there, how't he must have the
carriage up at seven o'clock, and be ready for the hopera, without
sayin' a word to Miss Julia.”
“God forgive me! Not a word of all this to your mistress,
for your life. Go below, Peter, and be out of the way till you
are wanted. And as for you, Bessie, do you stay here, and
don't allow anybody to see Miss Julia; but you may tell her, if
she rings, that Uncle George has got back and gone to bed, not
more, if you can help it, until I get back,” springing up stairs,
two or three steps at a time, and arriving all out of breath,
in his vague terror and secret misgiving, at Mr. Pendleton's
door.
After waiting till he had recovered himself, and was prepared
in a measure for the worst, he tapped, — no answer, — he listened,
— a low, whispering consultation followed, just within, as
if somebody were reconnoitering through the keyhole, the door
opened slowly, inch by inch, and first a pale hand with a lifted
finger appeared, and then a strange face that startled him, and
then, as he entered on tiptoe, the room appeared full of shadows,
motionless and speechless in the subdued light, and there
came a low, faint moaning from the bed, on the outside of
which something like the body of a man, partly stripped, appeared
to be lying, outstretched in the stillness of death.
By and by, among these many silent crowding shadows, two
or three of which began to move, with a noiseless and very slow
step, toward the foot of the bed, he was able to distinguish two
policemen, with their badges, — a surgeon, with his assistant,
carrying a bowl and a sponge, — a nurse, and poor Jerry, holding
another bowl, and trembling from head to foot, so that his teeth
chattered, and he was just ready to drop, when Arthur took the
bowl and pointed to a chair, growing faint himself as he did so,
for the surgeon shook his head and made a sign to the nurse to
relieve him.
| CHAPTER III. True womanhood | |