As for Israel, he remained in that statue-like
position for at least two minutes, gazing alternately
at the face of the sick woman, and at
the hand which he had clasped. Then he
looked at his own hand — the hand which had
been in contact with the hand of the sleeper —
and began to rub it, in an absent way, against
the sleeve of his coat, trembling all the time,
and white as chalk.

After a moment, he turned to the door with
tottering steps, and left the room, leaving his
cane upon the floor. Never in thirty years
had Israel Bonus forgotten his cane. He did
not close the door behind him, but made the
best of his way down stairs, rubbing his hand
against his sleeve, and muttering to himself.

And down stairs, with his head against the
door, crouched John Cattermill, listening intently
for the sound of Israel's steps, and holding
back his wife, who wished to ascend to the
third story, and warn Israel of his danger.

“Stand back, Nance, I say; you sha'nt go
up, you sha'nt,” he grumbled, as he held her
back by the wrist. “He'll get more than he
bargains for; I know that! Gold — gold —
lots of it! Hush your noise, will you, an'
keep that brat still, or I'll dash it through the
winder! Hush! he's comin' — he's comin'—”

“John, you are not yourself,” whispered
the wife, in a tone whose instinctive horror is
beyond the power of description, “let me go
up stairs. Do, John — oh! you have hurt
my wrist!”

The baby began to cry within the tattered
covering which bound it to the mother's breast,
and Nancy muttered, as she caught a glimpse
of her husband's fiery eyes and distorted face,
“It is the delirious tremens —” poor Nancy!
her knowledge of words was not altogether
perfect — “or, it's the manny-poker!”

These exclamations will no doubt provoke
laughter, but had you seen the terrified face of
the wife — or heard the accent in which she
spoke — laughter would be the last thing in
your thoughts. It was in some measure true;
her husband exhausted and diseased by a boundless
indulgence in poisons of various names,
was now attacked by that fearful avenger of
violated nature — the delirium tremens.

“He's comin,' he's comin',” growled John,
“and here he is!”

From the opened doorway, appeared Israel
Bonus, still rubbing his hand against his sleeve,
his face still chalky white, his step irregular
and tottering.

He did not speak, but endeavored to gain the
door, leading into the street, without a moment's
delay,

But John arrested his progress — seized
him by the arm — and began a kind of mad
dance before the face of the bewildered man.

“You wanted money, did you? Hello!
You're pale, my old boy, you're pale — bah!
you look like a corpse! Did you find the
money” — his voice dropped to a whisper, as
he made a low bow — “Did you find it, I say?”
his voice rose into an unearthly yell. “You're
a nice Quaker, to go and sell a man out
by the Sheriff, and mad him so, that he only
lives, when he drinks fire and brimstone! Aint
you now?” (another bow!) “You kin build
your Court, and heap the poor into narrow
rooms, and grind the blood out of their hearts,
to make up your rent. You kin stow 'em
away, in the damp and cold — and treat 'em
worse than you would a mad dog. You're
jist the man for that! Who keers how the
poor man lives, so long as he pays his rent?
You don't, I guess. Nobody does. Away
with 'em all, the poor devils — let 'em live in
a room, not big enough for a grave — don't let
'em have sunshine, or air, or comfort — they
are poor. That's enough. But sometimes,
Isr'el, these poor devils, livin' in dirt and damp,
are swept off by a disease, that's born and
bred in your very Court, among its filth and
rottenness — you don't keer, do you? Who
does? This pestilence takes wife, and children,
and rots a livin' bein' afore death, so that
his own mother wouldn't know him. Who
keers? But, Isr'el, 'spose this disease gets hold
o' th' one as planted it — get's hold o' you,
and settles up old scores with you, and digs
into your heart, as it has dug into the hearts of
these miserable vagabones in your Court —
what then? 'Spose it's called Small-pox, the
worst kind, too — black, and foul, and horrible—
what then? Small-pox, I say — d'ye hear?”
The wretched man, as he whispered and
screamed and howled, kept his hold on the
bewildered Israel, dancing and bowing before
him, while he prevented him from reaching the
front door.

Israel said never a word. He looked like a

p254-042 [figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

man who has been overtaken by some overwhelming
calamity. Still rubbing his hands,
he tried to pass the raving man, while his face,
yet white and apathetic in its very terror, received
a kind of spectral radiance, now and
then, from the embers on the hearth.

“Let him go, John, let him go,” cried
Nancy, seizing her husband's arm. “Don't
you see that he is frightened to death?”

John, however, kept his hold, grinning until
his set teeth were visible, between his distorted
lips.

“Small-pox, Isr'el, small-pox! You hear
me! The poor man's pestilence they call it—
now it's yours! You can't get rid of it—
it won't be shuk off —” he burst into a wild
fit of laughter — “Now go! And the poor
man's pestilence, go with you!”

Israel released from the grasp of the madman,
went straight to the door, and disappeared
without a word.

“Nance,” said John with a grotesque grin,
as he pulled his wife near the hearth — “Don't
you remember last summer, how old Isr'el told
us there was only one disease as he was afraid
of? He'd never been waksinated — you mind,
gal? And his high livin' and his wines, and
his rich old Bonus blood, jist fits him for that
disease, and now he's got it.”

Let us draw a veil over this scene.

The maddened drunkard sank down upon
the hearth, like a beast on its haunches, and
began to pitch the coals from the fire, tossing
them from one hand to another, until they
burn huge blisters on each palm, while his
features distorted from all natural shape, caught
glimpses of red light from the smouldering
embers.

The poor wife stood gazing upon this miserable
wreck — gazing without a tear — her
eyes surrounded by a red circle, and her lips
parched and blistered.

“There goes Bonus,” whined the Drunkard
fixing his lack-lustre eyes upon the fire — “see
how he jumps! Mortgages at his heels, and
Sheriff's sales around his neck — look! look!
How they hunt him down, and choke him as
he runs! And” — his voice sank — “did not
he tell us last summer that it was the only
disease he was afraid of?”

Again we enter the room on the third story,
and take up the scene, which was enacted in
that miserable chamber, as Bonus was hurrying
from the house.

“Why do you stand there, starin' like a
stuck pig?” cried Ralph with a ruffianly scowl,
as Hannah shrunk back from the sight of the
sick woman's face — “Did you never see a
sick woman afore? A purty Preacher's daughter
you are to be sure!”

Fanny was by his side, whispering in his
ear. “Ralph don't behave like a brute. Hannah
has been very kind to us. And then you
must remember that she never saw anything
so bad as —” she could not say as my
mother's face — “as this before.”

Hannah mastering her fears — or rather that
instinctive horror which impresses persons of
a peculiar temperament at the sight of a loathsome
and infectious disorder — drew near the
bed, and gazed steadily, although shuddering,
into the face of the sick woman.

Do not ask us to describe that face. It is
encircled by dark hair, amid whose masses
appear threads of silver, but we dare not picture
that visage, on whose linaments Pestilence
had set its loathsome seal. The hand too —
it may have once been white and delicate, but
now —

There are some sights which are beyond
the compass of description. Before us, on this
wretched bed, is stretched a miserable and
wasted wreck of humanity. We dare not
picture the features of the dying woman —
let us draw a veil over that face. Well might
Hannah start back appalled, and Hannah in
her father's home, has seen every shape of
disease and wretchedness, come begging to the
Poor Preacher for relief.

While these spectators of the dying woman
were grouped about the bed, a faint moan from
those disfigured lips, pierced every heart with
pity and with fear.

And then starting up in the bed, like a horrible
embodiment of Poverty and Pestilence,
the dying woman, flung her loosened hair back
from her face, and the coverlet fell from her
gaunt and wasted form. Once perchance she

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

was beautiful, but now, even Ralph, rude and
callous as a life of hardship had made him,
shrank back and turned his eyes away from
the sight of his Mother's Face.

Fanny alone, brave with the instinct of moral
courage, such as is oftentime embodied in the
most fragile forms — Fanny alone came to the
bed — took the pestilence-stricken hand within
her own, and whispered a word of hope in the
ear of the dying one.

“Mother, I am here. Fanny — your child.
Don't you know me?”

Around the whole room, from window to
window, and from ceiling to floor, roved the
strange, unnatural gaze of the Mother. It was
very bright, that wandering look, but its brightness
was of the charnel. This time Fanny hid
her face in one hand, (the other still clinging
to her Mother's) while her lips murmured
faintly, “God have mercy upon us all!”

Hannah kneeling by the bed, was praying
in a low voice, her mild eyes upturned, as with
her hands clasped she framed those trembling
syllables of supplication.

“Mother — who calls me Mother?” the
voice of the dying woman now was heard,
every accent thick and husky, yet strong with
the very nerve of Death — “I have no right to
the name. Go — go — bring me a Priest. I
cannot die with this — this — upon my soul.”

The emphasized words, were accompanied
with a sullen look, and a hand pressed hard
and sternly against her heart.

“Go, or my curse shall blight you forever,”
whispered the dying woman, “I know you
Fanny — know that my time is short. I must
speak with a Minister — you won't refuse me
this request. Go!”

She flung the hand of her daughter from her,
and fixed her maddened eye upon her face,
with a look half imploring, half defiant.

“You had better obey your mother,” whispered
the Millerite's daughter, “You may find
my father at St. Simon's. You can see him
before Church begins. It is but a step from
here, and — 'tis strange that I have forgotten
it until now — he told me that he would stop
there on his way home.”

Not another word was spoken. Winding
her faded shawl about her shoulders, and
placing her hood upon her dark hair, Fanny
cast one glance toward the face of her Mother,
and hurried from the room.

Shall she ever behold that face in life again?

As for Ralph, cold, hungry and stricken with
stupor, he sank down near the bed, placing his
bony hands upon his knees, and fixing his eyes
blankly upon the floor. He did not seem to
have the power of speech or motion. And the
eyes of the dying woman, wandering about the
room, rested at last upon the ragged Outcast,
who crouched near her bed, with the upper
part of his face hidden by his matted hair.

“You are crying, Ralph —” there was
something less of harshness in her voice —
“Crying for me. Don't deny it. I see your
tears. Don't you know that I've been your
worst enemy?”

“I haint a cryin' — growled Ralph — “I'm
jist a thinkin' how we've all scraped on together,
and how that it 'ud be a cussed sight
better if we would all kick the bucket together,
and be done up in one coffin. That's all.
You don't think old woman, I'm sich a
spooney as to cry a-cause my Mother's a-dyin'—
do you?”

And he hung his head, and the tears from
his shadowed face dropped one by one upon
his knee.

“Where's Fanny?” cried the Mother with
a changed voice, as she looked vaguely at
Hannah — “You aint Fanny. No you aint.
You have not her purty black hair. Where's
Fanny I say?”

She stretched forth her pestilence-smitten
arm, and made a fierce gesture as though she
was about to start from the bed, and spring at
the throat of the frightened girl.

“She has gone for a Minister —” faltered
Hannah.

“A Minister — ha, ha,” cried the Mother.
“What have I to do with your Ministers? A
Priest, a real Priest — of the Church — of the
Church — d'ye hear? Ralph, Ralph, I say —
here —”

The son started up, alarmed by the quick
tones of his mother's voice. She laid her hand
upon his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“A Catholic Priest,” he muttered, “Yes,
I'll go and be back in a minnit. I know where
he lives.”

The Mother followed him with her eye,

p254-044 [figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

until he found his cap and rested a gaze of unutterable
yearning upon him, until his ragged
form disappeared through the doorway.

Shall he ever behold that face in life again?

“He'll not be long, he'll not be long. Then
I can die in peace. So much to say, so much
to say, and — take away that curtain from the
window. I can't see the sun any more. Go—
go — a Priest I say — a real Priest, of the
Church; the Church you mind! Do you
think I'd tell a thing like that to any of your
beggarly impostors?”

With incoherent sentences like these, uttered
slowly and with painful distinctness, although
in a very low voice, the wretched woman sank
back in her pillow, picking at the tattered quilt
with her wasted hands. Her memory soon
wandered into the scenes of a long past day;
she talked, she sang, she uttered frightful blasphemies.
At last, in a voice low and tremulous,
she uttered a broken prayer from the
ritual of the Catholic Church —

“Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!” These
words were often repeated —“Through my
fault, through my most grievous fault!”

And in that dreary room, where a Soul was
trembling in a body terribly changed by Pestilence—
trembling ere it went forth into Eternity—
Hannah on her knees, poured from the
fountains of her heart, a simple, child-like
prayer, whose accents ascended with the moans
of the dying.

—It was now about eight o'clock — and at
the moment, you will remember, when the
Unknown is in his room, No. 92 at the great
Hotel.—

“The poor woman is indeed very sick,”
said a voice remarkably mild and musical.
Hannah raised her eye, and beheld the intruder,
who had entered unperceived.

It was a Quaker woman, attired very neatly
in the garb of the sect, and with extremely
brilliant eyes, glancing from the shadow of her
white bonnet. A Quaker woman of some
forty years, or more, who carried a basket on
her arm, and riveted the gaze of Hannah by
the peculiar expression of her face. The forehead
was bold — bold, almost to masculinity—
the lips at once sad and winning in their smile,
and the eyes, intensely black, shone with dazzling
brightness under the arching brow. In a
word, it was such a face as you might see only
for an instant, and yet wear in your memory
for a life-time.

“Martha Lott!” cried Hannah, with something
of distrust clouding her face. For in the
Quaker woman she recognized a terrible Personage
of whom she had heard a great deal —
whose very name, in fact, was coupled with
many scoffs and scorns, and uttered with a
shudder by the Orthodox Friends. She was
an Infidel — maybe an Atheist — her daily
walks of life, it is true, defied, even sanctified
scandal, but her belief, O! the belief of Martha
Lott was terrible. It was even whispered
she had said, that it was much better to feed
the bodies of the Poor, before you attempted
to save their souls.

And still, as she stood on the threshold, basket
in hand, Hannah, the Millerite's daughter,
was won in spite of herself, by the expression
of that Quaker woman's face; and, trembling
forward, she took that Infidel by the hand,
saying at the same time, “God bless you, Martha
Lott!”

Before we gaze upon the sequel of this
scene, we must return to St. Simon's.