CHAPTER III.
THE LIVING MOURNERS.
It is a terrible thing to be alone in spirit. To feel, while surrounded by a multitude, there is not a single heart vibrating in sympathy with your own. To feel you are encompassed by cold, heartless strangers; that there is no tie to bind you to earth; no inducement for you to cling to a life already burdensome, unless it be the solemn dread of the uncertain change in throwing off this "mortal coil." How many have felt thus! How many still feel! How many have stood beside the bed of death and seen the eyes that ever looked bright on them, close; the lips which murmured in their last action naught but words of hope and comfort to them, sealed forever; the breath which seemed the Promethean spark of their own existence, cease; and the soul, which was the life of their life, wing its flight for aye beyond the shores of time, and felt that their last and only friend was eternally gone to that realm whence no mortal power can summon back. How many have felt thus, and in their anguish and despondency have sunk down and prayed that God would soon let them follow. Millions have felt thus; millions still feel; and millions unborn shall suffer yet the same. The world is full of misery. There is no such thing as unalloyed happiness here. Our very joys derive their chiefest pleasure from the strong contrast they present to our sorrows— the while our heaviest sorrows are lightened by the joys built on the hopes of the future. Perhaps it is this variety— this sunshine and storm—that gives to life its greatest zest—its fairest attractions; for it is a well established fact, we can only know pleasure from having experienced pain. It was thus, but not wholly thus, with Edgar and Virginia. They were alone in the wide world, yet not wholly alone.— They had each other to live for, each other to weep for, each other to pray for, each other to console and be in turn consoled. But still they were as lopped branches from the withered trunk. Their mother, their only parent, in whom the deepest affections of both centered, was dead; and their young hearts felt anguish-stricken and desolate. They felt and knew she at least was better for the change; and yet, though they prized her happiness above their own, they wept passionately, bitterly, their irreparable loss; for such is the selfishness of even the most unselfish of mankind. It was a sight to wring the heart of a stoic, to behold them stand, on that ill-fated, gloomy night, by the corpse of her whose whole soul in life had breathed naught but love and tenderness, and vainly implore her in touching accents to look upon them once more—to let them again hear the sound of her sweet, beloved voice— while the only answer returned was the seemingly fiercer howl of the Storm Spirit. Oh! who shall tell the anguish of that youth and maiden, as they grasped the hands of her they best loved in life, and passionately pressed them to their hearts— but found them cold and inactive—found them give no pressure in return! For a few minutes after the sufferer had breathed her last, both Edgar and Virginia occupied themselves as just described; and then, finding too truly she was dead, the latter threw herself upon the corpse, and again and again kissed her cold livid lips, and wept, and groaned, and sobbed alternately; while the former, sinking upon a seat, buried his face in his hands, and rocked to fro like a strong oak shaken by the tempest. For a time he was unable to shed a tear, and his heart crept to his throat and almost strangled him, and his brain seemed parched and withered. In this state he rose and paced the floor for some minutes, during which the working of his features showed that his soul was on the rack of agony the most intense.— At last, greatly to his relief, he burst into tears, and again seating himself, for a long time he wept freely. An hour passed, and both Edgar and Virginia had become more calm. In sooth, the latter had lain herself down by the corpse, and with one arm thrown over its breast, and her face partly buried in the clothes, had cried herself into a kind of dreamy stupor, from which she only arroused occasionally to draw a long, sobbing breath. Edgar, on regaining somewhat his former composure, approached the bed, and bending over his much loved sister, gently whispered her name; but finding she took no heed of him, he resolved not to disturb her, and reseating himself near her, he took a hand of the corpse in his own, and was soon lost in a painful revery. An hour and then another went by, and still Edgar sat as before, motionless and silent, with features so rigid, that, but for his breathing, he might naturally enough have been mistaken for one of the dead himself. Meanwhile the sobbing of Virginia had became less and less frequent, until at last her breathing announced that, for a short time, she had forgot her troubles in a quiet sleep. Again arousing himself, Edgar now arose, and collecting all the loose clothes he could find, gently spread them over his sister, and then bending down, and pressing his lips to her forehead, softly murmured: "God bless thee, thou sweet but fragile flower, and let thy sleep be long, that some misery may be spared thee!" and then taking his position as before, he remained the sad and lonely watcher of the night. Towards morning the storm abated; and though shivering with the cold, for his garments had not been changed and the fire had long since gone out, Edgar, overcome by fatigue and excitement, at last dropped off into a feverish slumber, constantly broken by sudden starts, and as constantly renewed by exhausted nature. And thus passed that eventful night. The gray of morning was just stream ing through the dingy window and crevices of the old hovel, as Edgar, arousing himself with a start and shaking off his drowsiness, turned to his sister. Much to his gratification he found her still asleep; and again stealing a kiss and pressing his lips to the cold cheek of his mother, he sallied forth to procure fuel and food, and make arrangements for the last sad rite he would ever be called upon to perform for her who had given him existence. By this time the storm had ceased entirely; but still it was cold and damp, and the pavements slippery with ice. Only a few persons were abroad in the street, and most of the houses were closed and looked as cold and cheerless as he felt at heart. Moving on for a square and a-half, Edgar came to a small, miserable looking grocery, (numbers of which can be seen at all times in all parts of New York, where a little of every thing is kept and doled out to the poor in any quantity, from the value of a cent upwards,) the owner of which was just taking down his shutters, preparatory to his morning's sale. Here Edgar knew he could procure every thing he desired at present, even to a few sticks of wood, or a small measure of coal; and approaching the grocer, a rough, coarse looking Dutchman, he said, blandly: "I wish to purchase a few necessary articles, and in the course of the day will call and settle for them." The Dutchman shrugged his shoulders and gave him a contemptuous look, as he replied: "I never trusts nopodys, and den nopodys don't never sheats me." "But, my good sir," pursued Edgar, reddening, "I do not intend to cheat you. I will call, I pledge you my honor, and pay you every cent between this and night. I have a check about me for a large amount, which, so soon as business opens in Wall street, I will have cashed, and then I can settle for a thousand times the value of all I now require." "Vare you lives?" querried the Dutchman; and as Edgar informed him, he continued: "Vy you has der sheck and not der moneys?" "I only procured it last night, and have not since had an opportunity of disposing of it." "What for den you wants der trusts now?" asked the still unsatisfied grocer. "Vy you don't vaits till you sells him, and comes mit der cash?" "Because," answered Edgar, humoring him, in the hope he would grant his request, "it is necessary I should have a few articles now. My home is entirely deyoid of every thing one needs. My poor mother (and here in spite of himself his eyes became filled with tears, and his voice faltered and grew husky,) last night breathed her last in this abode of wretchedness, without fire, food, or medicine—for our last cent had been expended and its purchase exhausted—and now my poor sister, whom I have left alone with her, will sorely suffer, unless I procure something immediately." The Dutchman shook his head with a frown, as he rejoined: "It won't do. You tells a goot story— quite petter ash nopody else; but it ish all a tam lie, mit der sheck and all. You tries agin, and somepody ash don't know much, you makes believe him. You shust go, mit your dead motter and shister, and your great sheck, vich you han't got more nor as I, mitout you stole him;" and saying this
, the hard-hearted grocer turned his back on Edgar, and coolly proceeded to finish taking down his shutters. For a few moments, Edgar stood as one stupified with amazement, at the gross insult to himself, coupled as it was with such cool indifference. Then his hand clenched, his teeth closed tightly, his lips quivered, his eyes flashed fierce indignation, and he took a step forward, with the full determination of punishing the other for his insolence; but then, bethinking himself he would only become involved in a quarrel—which, to say the least, would now be most imprudent—he turned away, muttering: "Such is the selfish, uncharitable world— and why should I quarrel with what I cannot alter! Oh, why was I born to come in contact with such base spirits! God of the orphan and friendless, protect and direct me! for wild thoughts are busy in my brain, and my heart seems turning to stone, like those of the wretches around me." In a few minutes Edgar had entered another of these miserable groceries, where he met with the same success as before, with the exception that the owner simply refused to trust, without farther insulting him. Sadly dispirited and chagrined, he tried another, and still another, but in each met the same cold reply—all refused to credit his tale—and he slowly retraced his steps to his desolate abode, overwhelmed with grief, crushed in spirit and nearly heart-broken. "I must perforce wait," he said, bitterly, "till I can procure the means to satisfy their uncharitable, avaricious natures. But poor, poor Virginia! how she will suffer;" and he groaned at the thought. As he said this, he felt for his check, to be certain he still had resources to depend upon. To his surprise it was not where he expected to find it. Alarmed at this, he made an eager search of his garments; and then, who shall judge of his dismay and horror, when he discovered it was missing—that his last and only stay of support, in this his most trying hour, was gone! "Oh, God!" he groaned, "if that be lost, what will become of us?" and almost maddened with excitement, he hurried back to his wretched abode, in the hope he might there find it. The door was slightly ajar, and as he rushed into the chamber of death, he found Virginia bending over the corpse of her mother, wringing her delicate hands and weeping bitterly, while beside her stood a female, but a few years her senior striving by gentle words to console her. "Do not weep and take on so, fair girl!" he heard uttered as he crossed the threshhold. "Oh, Edgar, my dear brother!" cried Virginia, as she heard his step; and springing forward, she threw her arms around his neck, buried her face upon his bosom, and sobbed grievously. "My poor, sweet Virginia!" murmured Edgar, tenderly, straining her to his heart, while his eyes grew dim with scalding tears. "I heard her cry of agony, sir," said the strange female, apologetically, "and thinking it some person in sore distress, I hurried to her relief, which accounts for my presence here." "For which God bless you!" returned Edgar, in that deep, earnest, passionate tone which carries with it the unmistakable evidence of sincerity. The visiter, gave him one heartfelt look of gratitude, and then, much to his surprise, covered her eyes with her hands, sunk into a seat, and burst into tears. Before Edgar could ask for an explanation of this singular conduct, she rose, and hastily wiping her eyes, as if ashamed of her emotion, said, in a sad, earnest, tremulous voice: "You are surprised to witness this to you strange ebulition of feeling; but, sir, it is a long time since I have heard God's blessing invoked upon my guilty head;" and again, in spite of herself, the tears pressed through her eyelids. Edgar looked kindly but sadly upon her ere he made a reply, and even Virginia for the moment forgot her own grief, and turning her head, beamed upon her guest a curious but tender expression from her soft blue eyes, which touched the other to the very soul. Both she and her brother now instantly became aware that their guest belonged to that class of poor unfortunates whom the world takes pride in despising, rather than reclaiming, the while it harbors and pampers the damnable villains that make them what they are. She had once been a lovely creature, but though scarcely turned of twenty years, there was a sad look of grief, and care, and heart-desolation in her appearance. Her once fine, noble looking features were pale and almost haggard, and her bright dark eye had lost some of its wonted brilliant luster. Still she was handsome, though in a measure the wreck of what she had been. Her features were fine and regular, and there predominated over all an expression of feeling—of sympathy with the sorrows of others, and a kind benevolence—which rendered her an object of interest and pity to such as could properly appreciate these high-born quali ties. Her compexion was an olive, and her hair, black and shiny as the raven's plume, was neatly parted and arranged with care, though the loose wrapper she wore, told she had just risen and had not yet completed her morning toilet. "And you, too, fair lady, have felt the wrongs of mankind most bitterly!" said Edgar, in a soothing, sympathetic tone, accompanied with an expression in keeping with the words he uttered. "Suffered!" returned the other, shuddering at the thought; "yes, I have indeed suffered, and God only knows how much." "Then," rejoined Virginia, tenderly, "we can the better sympathise with one another, for we have felt the bitterest pangs of wo." "Oh, no, not the bitterest, I trust!" returned the other, with energy; "not the bitterest. You have felt not the excruciating pangs of a guilty conscience; for I can see, by your open, generous countenance, you have suffered innocently—that the oppressive weight of guilt is not on your stainless soul, weighing you down to the lowest depths of degradation." "No, thank God!" returned Virginia, "I have as yet been spared that." "And well may you thank God," rejoined the other, with spirit; "for all the other ills of this life are nothing in compare with it. Once, sweet lady, I was as good and pure, perhaps, as yourself; but the tempter came, and—(here her voice grew tremulous, and she turned away her head to conceal her emotion—) and in an unguarded moment I fell, and now—" She paused, and then suddenly added; "But of what am I thinking, to trouble you with my sorrows, when you have such weighty griefs of your own to contend with;" and she glanced mournfully toward the bed, where still lay the corpse of Mrs. Courtly, as she had breathed her last the night before. "My mother!" burst from Virginia, while the tears gushed forth afresh; and approaching the bed, she knelt on the floor, took one of the cold hands of the corpse in her own, pressed it to her lips, and then seemed lost in prayer. Both Edgar and the stranger gazed upon her in solemn silence, each busy with painful thoughts, till at length she arose, and turning to her brother, in a calmer mood than she had hitherto exhibited, said: "And why did you leave me, Edgar, without telling me you were going? and where have you been? I awoke, and not finding you here, and seeing my dead mother by my side, I felt so wretchedly desolute, that in my anguish of spirit I uttered the cry of agony which brought this kind lady to me." "I thought I should return ere you awoke," answered Edgar; "and I went for fuel and food. But I failed to get either," he continued, bitterly, "because the cold-hearted wretches to whom I applied would not sell to me without the money, and that you know I had not. And that reminds me," he added, with a start, "that I have missed the check of my uncle, my sole dependence now, without which we must starve. Did I not drop it here on the floor last night? Have you not seen it, Virginia?" and he began an eager search of the apartment, assisted by his trembling sister. "Alas! what will become of us now!" he groaned, as, after a fruitless search, he gave up in despair, and sinking hopelessly upon a seat, covered his face with his hands, as if to shut out the dread contemplation. "If it be money you need," said his guest, "thank Heaven! I can assist you, and will, if you will accept my poor offering. Here! here!" she pursued, with vehemence, drawing forth her purse, "here is gold; take it, take it, I beg, I implore of you! for it will be a relief to my conscience to feel I have done one good act." "No, no! I dare not take it," returned Edgar, mournfully, motioning her back with his hand, "for I might never be able to repay you." "The deed will repay itself," pursued the other, energetically, thrusting it upon Edgar. "The gold is valueless to me; and if it will ease one sorrow of yours, I shall deem myself tenfold rewarded." "God bless you, lady!" cried Virginia, springing forward and seizing her hand, which she bathed with grateful tears: "God bless you! for whatever your faults may hav
e been, you still possess some of the holiest attributes of the angels." "There, there!" rejoined the other, affected to tears; "say no more!—you praise me far beyond my deserts." "It may possibly be in my power at some future time," said Edgar, rising, and speaking in a voice made husky by deep emotion, "to repay this overwhelming debt of kindness; and if so, rest assured that my very life will be at your command. Your generosity—" "Enough! enough!" interrupted the other. "Say no more, I beg of you! for you have more weighty matters to think of at present, and I am fitter for the scoffs and jibes of mankind than such words as these. Your mother must be laid out and interred; and then you must leave this wretched, filthy abode, which is no place for such as you. I will send those to you who will rightly perform the last sad offices to her mortal remains. Meanwhile, procure such things as you need, and if you desire more money, let me know. My quarters are just over the way, in yonder brick building. Adieu, for the present. I will soon be with you again, and superintend the laying out of the corpse myself. Here is my card;" and placing it in the hand of Virginia, which she pressed with warmth, she hurried out of the apartment, as if fearful of being detained by farther expressions of gratitude. Both Edgar and his sister turned to the card, and beheld simply the name of Ellen Douglas, written in a plain, neat hand. It is unnecessary for us to longer dwell upon this painful scene. Suffice it, therefore, that Ellen kept her word with regard to the funeral arrangements of Mrs. Courtly, and that ere the sun had sunk to rest, her remains were followed to their last resting place by a small group, composed principally of the clergyman, Ellen and the chief mourners, the latter of whom bedewed her humble grave with tears, as she was being buried forever from their sight.
Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch Page 3