CHAPTER TENTH. BONUS COURT. SCENE THE SECOND.
Up two pair of stairs, into the third story,
where a tallow candle, burning fast toward the
socket, reveals an interesting scene. The
room — the only room in the third story — has
two windows, one looking out into the court,
and the other affording a view of a yard about
ten feet square, and a blank wall, whose dreary
bricks rising above the roofs of the Court, fill
its chambers with half-twilight even at noonday.
The furniture of the room is very simple.
A chair with three legs, a table of unpainted
pine, on which the light is placed, a
bed with a ragged coverlet, and a small sheet-iron
stove, without a spark of fire.
Resting one hand upon the table, the young
girl whom we beheld some few moments since
in the street, gazes steadily from the shadow
of her hood, upon the wretched bed. The
place is very cold and damp, and you can see
the tremor which agitates her limbs. Although
you cannot look upon her face, the whiteness
of her neck and hands seem to accord but illy
with her dress, whose every fold speaks of
poverty and endurance.
And as she looks upon the bed, her bosom
swells and falls, even beneath the poverty-stricken
dress, and a sigh disturbs the dead
stillness.
“Mother!” she whispers — but there is no
answer. The occupant of the bed, whose
form you may dimly trace beneath the folds
of the coverlet, is asleep or — dead. The
young girl shudders as the latter thought
crosses her mind. And yet she is afraid to
cross the narrow room, and lift the quilt which
conceals the face of the sick woman.
After some moments of hesitation, she bends
to the floor, and with her hands trembling all
the while from the cold, unties the bundle,
which she carried in the street, when we first
beheld her. The faded apron which envelopes
this bundle, falls aside, and we can discover its
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precious contents — four sticks of oak wood,
mingled with a piece or two of lath. That is
all.
“They were bought with the last penny,”
murmurs the girl, as she proceeds to build a
fire in the sheet-iron stove — “But where
bread for us, or medicine for my mother, are
to come from, God alone can tell.”
She has built the fire; and a ruddy light
streams from the mouth of the little stove.
The candle is by her side as she crouches on
the floor, spreading forth her hands to catch
the sudden warmth. Thus, you will observe,
her form alone is illuminated, while all the
rest of the narrow room is wrapped in twilight.
And the ray of the candle, mingling with the
light from the stove, steal beneath her faded
hood, and give us a glimpse of her face.
It is a young face, which we can but imperfectly
describe. There were eyes dark and
lustrous, glimmering between half closed lids,
whose long fringes only increased their brightness.
There were lips, red and pouting, as
with the warmth of maidenhood, and cheeks
pale as marble or death, yet with a single
glimpse of color glowing from the very centre
of their pallour. Eyebrows too, distinctly lined,
and black as the hair, which lay in glossy
masses beneath the hood, and around the white
forehead. Altogether, that young face, encircled
by the hood and the black hair, wins
you with its dazzling loveliness — loveliness
which even poverty has not completely chilled.
She is kneeling there, and spreading her
hands in the light of the sheet-iron stove, while
her lip begins to quiver, and her eyes, brightening
every instant, suddenly flash with tears.
“Why not?” she says, in a low voice —
“Why not? I am no better than anybody
else, and it is very hard to support oneself and
a sick mother, on sixteen cents a day. It is
indeed.”
We cannot guess the meaning of these words,
but the face of the girl grows paler as she
speaks them, and her bosom heaves and falls
with a wilder motion.
You will observe once for all, that we have
set out in our task with the intention to paint
human beings. We have nothing to do with
heroes or heroines. We have not time for that
kind of thing. So much Reality lies along
our path — Reality, vivid and appalling — Re
ality as palpable as is the corpse whose very
touch chills you from the hand to the heart —
that we have no time and not much inclination
for Fiction. The young girl is no heroine;
only a poor weak woman, whose divinest instincts
have been battling for some ten years
or more — from very childhood — with the
dread realities of poverty.
“Why not?” she murmurs once again —
and from the very accent, you can gather a
vast deal of meaning. In the very flame of
the sheet-iron stove, her eye is drawing a picture
of a most tempting future. No more
cold, no more hunger, no more miserable attire;
but a life of rich garments, luxurious rooms,
and endless enjoyment.
You will bear in mind that the young girl
has just expended the last Two Cents of the
store of Sixteen, which she made yesterday,
by working from daybreak until candle-light, on
“a fashionable shirt.”
So deeply is she absorbed in the train of
thought which follows her muttered “Why
not?” that she does not hear the stealthy opening
of the door, nor heed the stealthier footstep.
It is Ralph who stands near her, in his miserable
attire — stands with his finger on his lip—
gazing in dumb wonder at his sister's face.
The candle, flashing upward, reveals his visage,
and gives it a sinister expression. The mouth
is wide, the nose firm and aquiline, the forehead,
more remarkable for its marked outline
than for its height, is surmounted by masses
of tangled hair, and the eyes have a vacant
leaden glare, which imparts to the whole countenance
an aspect of precocious misery — altogether
that face, as the light flits over it, makes
a dark and uncomfortable impression on your
fancy.
And yet the rude fellow seems spell-bound
by the singular expression of his sister's face.
“Fanny, don't you look that ar way, fur
cuss me if it don't make my blood get cold all
through my body. Don't — I say — don't!”
he exclaims, sinking by her side, and taking
one of her little hands in his bony fingers —
“Keep a stout heart, Fan, and I'll get work tomorrow,
or go an' drown'd meself. There
now —”
While a rude sympathy pervades his harsh
features, he keeps his sister's hands within his
own, and continues:
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“It's hard — I know it! Mother sick these
seven weeks, and I doin' nothin' and you
workin' your fingers into sticks for all of us.
It's cussed hard — it is. But you know Fan,
that I left my Boss-six weeks to-morrow, 'cause
he didn't give me narey money, wittles nor
clothes, and since then — why since then —”
He stopped abruptly, rubbing his hand
among the mazes of his tangled hair — “I don't
know 'xactly what I have been doin' and what
I haint. Worked a week in a printin' offis
where they pay boys half-price for doin' the
work o' grown up men. But my fingers was
too stiff fur that — besides I can't narey read
nor write, which makes it bad. Don't it Fan?
By Julius Cee-ser if you go on a-cryin' this
here way, if I don't drown'd meself afore you
can say Jack Robinson” —
Fanny's cheeks were bathed in tears. Grasping
her brother's hand, she said in a very low
voice —
“Never mind, Ralph. I've been thinking
of something that will bring bread and shelter
to all of us. You couldn't help it if there was
no work to be had — could you?”
She looked into his face, with her eyes
flashing through their tears.
“Yes, but I needn't a run so much with
the Injine,” muttered Ralph, adding with a
glance toward the bed — “How's mother?
Any better Fan?”
At this question, all the remaining firmness
and self-possession of the girl, gave way.
“I haven't the heart to look in her face,”
she said — “Maybe she's asleep, and may be
she's dead. If she's asleep, I am only afraid
that she will awake too soon, and ask for bread
and medicine, when we have none to give her.
And if she's dead — and if she's dead” — a fit
of sobbing choked the words.
Then we haint got money enough to bury
her. That's it, Fan? Never you mind, I've
got somethin' in my head too, as 'ill bring
us lots of money.”
He rose, went to the bed, and in a moment
was back again, kneeling by Fanny's side.
“Sleep, Fan. There aint as much fever on
her hand, as there was a while ago, when she
asked me to go and git a Preacher.”
Fanny did not reply, but gazed vacantly into
the fire, while her brother looked with a kind
of rugged interest into her face.
And silence prevailed in that home of poverty
and disease, while they crouched together on
the floor, the Sister looking into the fire, as a
singular thought increased the brightness of
her gaze, and the Brother gazing into her face,
a purpose as singular, began to flash in his
leaden eyes.
“Why not?” murmured Fanny, as if speaking
to herself.
“An' to-morrow whether anybody's dead
or alive, we'll all be pitched into the street,”
was the murmur of Ralph.
Look at the picture for yourselves, as silence
gathers deeper over this desolate home. A boy
hardened by years of suffering and a girl battling
for the last time, with temptation, crouching
together, before a miserable fire, while the
low breathing of the dying mother is heard
through the stillness. If it does you any good,
cherish the thought that this picture is only
imaginary — cherish the thought, and go to
Church, and thank God that you are not as
bad as other people — especially writers of
Novels. But if there is one pulse of humanity,
yet moving in your veins, go out into the City
of Philadelphia, and survey thousand scenes
like this; and ten thousand worse than this.
A footstep broke the stillness, and a mild
face was gazing upon the Brother and Sister.
“The Millerite's daughter,” ejaculated
Ralph — “You ain't a-goin' to pray yourself,
are you? Mother want's a rale Preacher, and
no mistake —”
Fanny looked up, and saw the form of
Hannah Marvin, and felt the sympathy which
flowed from her eyes.
“My friends,” she said, coming to the stove—
“I cannot tell what delays my father, but —”
she cast a glance around the desolate room;
“Can I do anything for you? I — I — am
poor like — like —” she hesitated — “like
yourselves, but —”
Fanny rose and put forth her hand —
“Thank you,” she said quietly, her eyes
saying more than her words.
She placed the candle on the table, and in a
moment, Ralph, Fanny and Hannah formed a
circle about the stove. It was an interesting
contrast — the pale mild features of
the Millerite's daughter shaded by neatly
parted brown hair, the younger and blooming
face of Fanny, looking altogether lovely amid
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her raven tresses — the hard visage of Ralph,
with great masses of tangled hair, hiding his
forehead, even to the eyes.
For a few moments they looked in silence
into each other's faces.
“This is very good in you,” said Fanny,
“You're poor as we are, and yet you would
help us if you could.”
“Takes three to raise a muss, and four to
make a crowd,” muttered Ralph: “Wonders
how many poor people it takes to make a
poor-house?”
“Your mother has been sick very long?”
said Hannah, still looking around the room —
“I do wish that Father would come home! I
left word on his slate, and the moment he arrives
he will come up here.”
“The Doctor told us this afternoon that
there was no use of his coming any longer,”
said Fanny, surprised at the evident uneasiness
of the Millerite's daughter.
“What's this? Hello! Do you always
travel with your baggage with you?” cried
Ralph, as he beheld a huge basket, standing on
the floor, behind Hannah, with its contents,
whatever they were, concealed by a check
apron.
A blush stole over Hannah's pallid face.
“Why I thought — you know —” she
hesitated — “that you might —” she came to
a sudden pause, and ended by lifting the basket
on the table, while Fanny and her brother
stood spell-bound by surprise.
“There,” cried the Millerite's daughter,
“You may blame me if you please, but —”
she uncovered the basket and burst into tears.
Ralph uttered an oath, coupled with a rude
ejaculation of joy, while Fanny drawing near
the table, contemplated the contents of this
mysterious basket.
“May God bless you, our only friend,” said
the poor girl solemnly, her heart beating wildly
and her eyes filling with tears, when —
When a low knock resounded at the door.
“It's father!” cried Hannah. “I am so
glad —”
“No it aint nayther,” said Ralph, clenching
his fists, “I know who it is, and on a Sunday
night too, when the very devil hisself goes to
sleep.”
Who the visiter was will be made known,
after we have witnessed a scene which took
place a few moments previous, in another room
of the house.
Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1849], Memoirs of a preacher: a revelation of the church and the home ["second edition" on front cover] (Jos. Severns and Company, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf254].
