CHAPTER XXIV.

TREATS OF A VERY POOR SUBJECT, BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE FOUND OF

IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY.

IT was no unfit messenger of death that had disturbed the quiet of

the matron’s room. Her body was bent by age, her limbs trembled with

palsy, and her face, distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the

grotesque shaping of some wild pencil than the work of Nature’s hand.

Alas! how few of Nature’s faces there are to gladden us with their

beauty! The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings of the world change them

as they change hearts, and it is only when those passions sleep, and

have lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass off, and

leave heaven’s surface clear. It is a common thing for the countenances

of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to subside into the

long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and settle into the very

look of early life; so calm, so peaceful do they grow again, that those

who knew them in their happy childhood kneel by the coffin’s side in

awe, and see the angel even upon earth.

The old crone tottered along the passages and up the stairs, muttering

some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; and being at

length compelled to pause for breath, gave the light into her hand, and

remained behind to follow as she might, while the more nimble superior

made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.

It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther

end. There was another old woman watching by the bed, and the parish

apothecary’s apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick

out of a quill.

“Cold night, Mrs. Corney,” said this young gentleman, as the matron

entered.

“Very cold indeed, sir,” replied the mistress, in her most civil

tones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.

“You should get better coals out of your contractors,” said the

apothecary’s deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the

rusty poker; “these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.”

“They’re the board’s choosing, sir,” returned the matron. “The least

they could do would be to keep us pretty warm, for our places are hard

enough.”

The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.

“Oh!” said the young man, turning his face towards the bed, as if he

had previously quite forgotten the patient, “it’s all U. P. there, Mrs.

Corney.”

“It is, is it, sir?” asked the matron.

“If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,” said the

apothecary’s apprentice, intent upon the toothpick’s point. “It’s a

break-up of the system altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?”

The attendant stooped over the bed to ascertain, and nodded in the

affirmative.

“Then perhaps she’ll go off in that way, if you don’t make a row,” said

the young man. “Put the light on the floor,—she wont see it there.”

The attendant did as she was bidden, shaking her head meanwhile to

intimate that the woman would not die so easily; and having done so,

resumed her seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time

returned. The mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped

herself in her shawl and sat at the foot of the bed.

The apothecary’s apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the

toothpick, planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it

for ten minutes or so, when, apparently growing rather dull, he wished

Mrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.

When they had sat in silence for some time the two old women rose from

the bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to

catch the heat. The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled

faces, and made their ugliness appear perfectly terrible, as in this

position they began to converse in a low voice.

“Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?” inquired the

messenger.

“Not a word,” replied the other. “She plucked and tore at her arms for

a little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She

hasn’t much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain’t so

weak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance;—no, no!”

“Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?” demanded

the first.

“I tried to get it down,” rejoined the other; “but her teeth were tight

set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do

to get it back again. So _I_ drank it, and it did me good.”

Looking cautiously round to ascertain that they were not overheard, the

two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.

“I mind the time,” said the first speaker, “when she would have done

the same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.”

“Ay, that she would,” rejoined the other; “she had a merry heart. A

many many beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as wax-work.

My old eyes have seen them—ay, and these old hands touched them too;

for I have helped her scores of times.”

Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature

shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket

brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook

a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few

more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had

been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her

stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to

wait.

“Not long, mistress,” replied the second woman, looking up into her

face. “We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience!

he’ll be here soon enough for us all.”

“Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!” said the matron, sternly. “You,

Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?”

“Often,” answered the first woman.

“But will never be again,” added the second one; “that is, she’ll never

wake again but once—and mind, mistress, that wont be for long.”

“Long or short,” said the matron, snappishly, “she wont find me here

when she does, and take care, both of you, how you worry me again for

nothing. It’s no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house

die, and I wont—that’s more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If

you make a fool of me again, I’ll soon cure you, I warrant you!”

She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned

towards the bed, caused her to look round. The sick woman had raised

herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them.

“Who’s that?” she cried, in a hollow voice.

“Hush, hush!” said one of the women, stooping over her—“lie down, lie

down!”

“I’ll never lie down again alive!” said the woman, struggling. “I

_will_ tell her! Come here—nearer. Let me whisper in your ear.”

She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the

bedside was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the

two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.

“Turn them away,” said the woman, drowsily; “make haste—make haste!”

The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous

lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best

friends, and uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave

her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and

returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed

their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk;

which, indeed, was not unlikely, since, in addition to a moderate

dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under

the effects of a final taste of gin and water which had been privily

administered in the openness of their hearts by the worthy old ladies

themselves.

“Now listen to me,” said the dying woman, aloud, as if making a great

effort to revive one latent spark of energy. “In this very room—in

this very bed—I once nursed a pretty young creetur’, that was brought

into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all

soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me

think—what was the year again?”

“Never mind the year,” said the impatient auditor; “what about her?”

“Ay,” murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state,

“what about her?—what about—I know!” she cried, jumping fiercely up:

her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head—“I robbed her,

so I did! She wasn’t cold—I tell you she wasn’t cold, when I stole it!”

“Stole what, for God’s sake?” cried the matron, with a gesture as if

she would call for help.

“_It!_” replied the woman, laying her hand over the other’s mouth—“the

only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to

eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I

tell you!—rich gold, that might have saved her life!”

“Gold!” echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell

back. “Go on, go on—yes—what of it? Who was the mother?—when was it?”

“She charged me to keep it safe,” replied the woman, with a groan, “and

trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when

she first shewed it me hanging round her neck; and the child’s death,

perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better if they

had known it all!”

“Known what?” asked the other. “Speak!”

“The boy grew so like his mother,” said the woman, rambling on, and

not heeding the question, “that I could never forget it when I saw

his face. Poor girl! poor girl!—she was so young, too!—such a gentle

lamb!—Wait; there’s more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?”

“No, no,” replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words as

they came more faintly from the dying woman.—“Be quick, or it may be

too late!”

“The mother,” said the woman, making a more violent effort than

before—“the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her,

whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the

day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its

poor young mother named. ‘And oh, my God!’ she said, folding her thin

hands together, ‘whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for

it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely, desolate child,

abandoned to its mercy!’”

“The boy’s name?” demanded the matron.

“They _called_ him Oliver,” replied the woman, feebly. “The gold I

stole was——”

“Yes, yes—what?” cried the other.

She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply, but drew

back instinctively as she once again rose slowly and stiffly into a

sitting posture, and, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered

some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.

* * * * *

“Stone dead!” said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the

door was opened.

“And nothing to tell, after all,” rejoined the matron, walking

carelessly away.

The two crones were, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the

preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, and were left

alone hovering about the body.