Part 27 (2/2)

How many persons are, or can be stowed into this one room, is beyond my powers of computation.

Will some of my readers, who faint at the smell of unsavory food, or who could not sleep but in fresh linen and well aired rooms, fancy what must be the feelings of poor Madalina, who had just begun to taste of the comforts of civilized life, now sick and dying in such a room, where the penny candle only served to make the thick clouds of tobacco smoke more visible and more suffocating?

One of the difficulties in all these close-packed rooms is the necessity of keeping the door always shut, to prevent pilfering, thus leaving the only chance for fresh air to enter, or foul air to escape, by the one small window in the roof.

Having given you a view of the room, and its inhabitants and furniture, let us look again upon poor Madalina, as she lies panting for breath upon her hard pallet. Her face, naturally dark, has an unhealthy whiteness spread over it, and there is a small, bright crimson spot upon one cheek--the other is hidden in the taper fingers of the hand upon which it rests. Such a pair of bright black eyes! Oh, how beautiful! Her wavy locks of jet, are set off by a clean, white handkerchief, spread over the bundle of rags which forms her pillow, by one of her visitors.

Now, in spite of pain, there is a smile lighting up her face, and showing such a set of teeth as a princess might covet. Whence this happy smile? Listen how cheaply it is brought upon the face of the suffering innocent. She had said, ”I am so thirsty, and nothing to drink but nasty, warm tea.” Directly, Tom was missing. Now he was back again, and there he stood with a nice, white pitcher in one hand, full of ice water, and a gla.s.s tumbler in the other. Now he pours it full of the sparkling nectar--now he drops upon one knee and carries it to those parched lips. Is it any wonder that she smiles? Is it any wonder that that simple-minded, good-hearted boy should look up, as I stood looking over the kneeling Missionary, and say, ”Don't she look like an angel, sir?”

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DEATH-BED OF MADALINA.--_Page 217._]

It was an angelic smile. It was a sight worth days and nights of earnest seeking, and yet, Oh, how cheaply purchased. Only one gla.s.s of cold water!

Would that I had some Raphaelic power to transfer the picture of that scene to this page, for you to look upon as well as read of, for a sight of that face with its surroundings, would do you good. It would make you yearn after the blessed opportunity of holding the cup of cold water to other fevered lips, lighting up other angelic, happy, thankful smiles.

As it is, the artist has only been able to give you a faint ill.u.s.tration of the princ.i.p.al features of this scene. So far as it goes, you cannot but admire his skill--admire the delineator's art, by which the picture is sketched upon the block, and the engraver's skill, who cuts the lines by which the printer spreads the scene out before the admiring eyes of those who read and view. Such is art, and skill, and industry. How much better than the idle life of those who furnished the originals for these ”Life Scenes!”

Vainly we pleaded with the mother of Madalina to carry her to a comfortable room--to my house--to any house--to the hospital--to get a physician--a nurse--some one, at least, to give her a drink of cold water through the next long, long day, when she would be left nearly alone--perhaps quite so--locked in this dreadful room--while men and monkeys, organs and tambourines, beggers and rag-pickers, were all away plying their trades in the streets of the city. It was no use; she was inexorable. The _padre_ was a very good doctor--the _padre_ was good for her soul--the _padre_ would pray for her; and if she was to die, she should not die in the house of a heretic. So we parted. It was a hard parting, for she clung to each one as she said:

”Good bye; I wish I could go with you, but my mother--you have taught me to obey my mother, that all good children obey their mothers--so good bye--good bye, Tom. You will bring me another drink to-morrow? yes, I knew you would, if I asked you, you are so good to me.”

There were tears at parting, and they were not all tears of a sick child, or good boy, but strong men wept.

”Tom,” said the feeble, sobbing voice, after we had almost reached the door, over the careless sleepers on the floor; ”Tom, come back a minute, I want to--want to--say--what if I should not see you again? I want to send something to Mrs. Pease; she was so kind to me; I wish I had something to send her to remember me by; but I have got nothing--nothing. Yes, I will send her a--a little nearer.”

And she put her arms around his neck, and imprinted a kiss upon his lips.

”There, I will send her that, it is all I have--it will tell her I love her, for I never kiss any but those I love.”

Poor Madalina! Poor Tom! What must have been his feelings at that moment, with the kiss of that angelic, dying girl burning upon his lips, and running streams of lava down into his young heart, while these words, ”I never kiss any but those I love,” are thrilling through his brain like words of fire?

What he felt I cannot tell. I will not tell what I felt after the first flow of scalding tears had pa.s.sed away, but I fear there was an unforgiving spirit in my heart; and if the foot which crashed that tender flower had been there then, perhaps it and its fellow had not carried their moving power, the head, ”this side up with care.” Perhaps that head would have been pitched headlong down these long, steep, dark, and narrow stairs, to the pavement--less hard than its guiding heart.

”We must not kill,” said Tom, as we reached the street.

Had he divined my secret thoughts, or was it the response to his own?

”We must not kill those who sell the rum, or kick little children to death, or make brutes of their mothers, but we will kill the business, or else we will prove that all are not good men in this world who pretend to be.”

”It is greatly changed,” I said to the Missionary, as we came down upon the street, ”since you have lived here; as it was some years ago, when I first knew this locality, it might not have been quite safe to walk alone through these streets at this midnight hour; now we have no fear.

Good night.”

”It will be better two years hence, if you and I live. Good night.”

”Good night. Heaven protect you, and bless your labors. Good night, Tom.”

But Tom heard me not. ”I never kiss any but those I love,” was ringing in his ears. He heard nothing--thought of nothing else. Poor Tom! He carried a heavy heart to a sleepless bed that night.

Back, up Anthony to Centre, then along that one block, and I stood and contemplated that great sombre, gray stone building which fills a whole square, looking down gloomily upon the mult.i.tude who reek in misery on the opposite side of the street, or pursue their nefarious schemes of crime within the very shadow of ”the Tombs.” Alas! prisons prevent not crime, nor does incarceration work reformation upon such as dwell in tenements such as we have just visited.

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