The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844. Various
for his office, for he had some human feeling left, unable to resist her tears and entreaties, had let her in unannounced, as mentioned in the last chapter. She had left the cell abruptly, had hurried off, and had never returned. ‘God help the poor child!’ exclaimed the man, as he told the story. ‘Such hearts as hers were made for heaven, not for this world. I have a daughter of her age; and even if she had robbed a church, I couldn’t have treated her as that man treated his child.’
The man looked at Kornicker, as if to observe the effect of his last remark; but probably that gentleman viewed the robbing of a church in a less heinous light than the jailer, for he made no comment on it, but after a pause said:
‘So that’s all you know?’
The man nodded.
‘Good morning to you, Sir,’ said Kornicker; and he walked straight out of the building, and had crossed several streets before he had made up his mind what to do next. This however was soon settled, and he buttoned his coat tightly, pulled his hat firmly on his head, drew on a pair of shabby gloves, and performed a number of those little acts which in ancient times were known under the head of ‘girding up the loins,’ preparatory to setting out to his next point of destination, which was the girl’s former home, the place where Rust had committed the murder. It was many miles off; and the distance which Rust, under the whip and spur of fierce passions, had traversed without trace of fatigue, drew from his clerk many a sigh, and many an expression of weariness.
When he got there he found the house deserted. He entered it, for there was no one there to hinder it, but the rooms were empty and dismantled. The house had been hired by Rust, and no sooner was he in the gripe of the law, than creditors innumerable, who like birds of prey were biding their time, kept in check by the unbending character of their debtor, came flitting in from every quarter; seized and sold the furniture, and left the house desolate. A single dark stain upon the library floor, where the murdered man had fallen, was all that was left to tell a tale of the past. The dust had gathered thickly on the walls, as if preparing to commence a slumber of years; and as Kornicker went out, the rats raced through the hall, startled at the tread of a stranger.
With a heart as heavy as his limbs, as he thought of the past life of the girl who had once tenanted this house, and then fancied what her present fate must be, Kornicker set out on his return. ‘If it had been me,’ said he, pausing to take a last look at the lonely house, ‘if it had only been Edward Kornicker who was thus cast adrift, to kick his way through the world with empty pockets, and without a soul to say to him God speed, or ‘I’m sorry for you,’ it would have been right and proper, and no one would have any cause to grumble or find fault; but this being a girl, with no money, and consequently with no friends, no experience, as I have, it’s a very hard case—a very hard case, indeed.’
Having arrived at this conclusion, Kornicker took off his hat, wiped his forehead, snuffed, and set out on his return.
Day after day for several weeks he prosecuted his inquiries without success; and just when he was in despair, chance led him to success. In the course of his rambles, he encountered a person who had been at Rust’s trial, and happened to speak about him; for now that the criminal was dead and in his grave, when public opinion could be of no service to him, many who had hunted him down began to view less harshly the crime which had led to his death; and this man was one of the number. He said that, although he deserved punishment for his previous evil deeds, yet the best and purest act of his life had been that by which he had struck down the destroyer of his child.
‘Poor thing!’ said he, ‘she must have led a miserable life since her father’s death. I have met her several times since then in the street, but that was several weeks ago; and then she was very feeble, scarcely able to walk: perhaps she’s dead now.’
Kornicker waited only long enough to ascertain that she lived in a certain out-of-the-way part of the town, which the man designated, and thither he directed his steps, and resumed his search; and after several days spent in fruitless inquiries, he discovered her.
The house in which he found her was a small ruinous building, sagged and jutting forward, as if struggling to sustain itself against time and dilapidation. The windows were broken; the doors and shutters unhung, except a solitary one of the latter, which creaked as it flapped to and fro in the wind; and this was the home of Rust’s child.
Kornicker ascended the ricketty stairs and paused at the door of a room, which a slipshod woman had pointed out as that of the ‘murderer’s daughter.’ He knocked, but there was no reply; he knocked again, but all was silent. Then he opened the door and looked in.
It was a small dingy room, unfurnished, with the exception of a bed on the floor, and a single chair, on which stood a candle whose flaring light served only to add to the gloom of the room by revealing its wretchedness. The girl was in bed; her hair lying in tangled masses about the pillow. Her cheeks were sunken and colorless, and her eyes deep-set and glowing, as if all that was left of life was concentrated in them.
Kornicker hesitated for a moment, and then pushed the door open and walked in. The girl looked listlessly up, but did not notice him; for she turned her head away with a weary, restless motion, and did not speak. Kornicker went to the bed, got on his knees beside it, and took her hand in his. As he did so he observed that it was very thin and shrunken, and that the large veins stood out like cords. It was hot as fire. ‘You’re very ill,’ said he, in a low tone. ‘I’m afraid you’re very ill.’
‘I’m dying of thirst,’ said the girl, pointing to an empty pitcher, which stood on the floor. ‘Give me water; the want of it is driving me mad. No one has been near me to-day. I tried to get it myself, but could not stand.’
Kornicker waited to hear no more, but seizing the pitcher, darted out to a pump, and in a very few minutes came back again with it filled to the brim. The girl’s eye grew even more lustrous than before, as she saw it, and she attempted to rise, but was unable.
‘You must excuse ceremony,’ said Kornicker, as he placed his arm under her back and supported her while he held the pitcher to her lips. ‘Nursing isn’t in my line.’
The girl swallowed the water greedily, and then sank back on the pillow exhausted.
‘Have you a doctor?’ inquired Kornicker, placing the pitcher on the floor.
‘No,’ answered she feebly; ‘I have no money: the last went yesterday. I’m deserted by all now.’
‘Not quite,’ exclaimed Kornicker, slapping his hand earnestly on his knee, while he experienced a choking sensation about the throat; ‘not while I’m left. I’m sorry I a’nt a woman, for your sake; but as I don’t happen to be, I hope you’ll make no objections on that score; I’ll look after you as if you were my own sister.’
It was the first word of kindness that the girl had heard for a long time, and the tears came in her eyes.
‘There, there, don’t cry,’ said Kornicker. ‘It bothers me; I don’t know what to do when women cry. But you haven’t a doctor; that will never do. Keep up your heart,’ said he, rising; ‘I’ll return presently.’ Saying this, and without waiting for a reply, he left the room.
Arriving in the street, his first impulse was not only to feel in his pockets, but with the utmost care to turn them inside out, and to examine them narrowly.
‘Not a copper—pockets to let!’ said he, restoring them to their former condition, after a long and unsuccessful search. ‘But this girl must be looked after; that’s settled. Now then,’ said he, in a very meditative mood, ‘who’s able to do it and will?’
This seemed a question not easily answered, for he stood for more than a minute in profound thought, in endeavoring to solve it; but apparently making up his mind, he hurried along the street. The direction which he took was toward the upper part of the city, and he was some time in reaching his destination, which was no other than Harry Harson’s house. He crossed the court-yard and knocked at the door, which was opened by Harson.
‘I want a word with you,’ said Kornicker, abruptly.
Harson told him to come in; led the way to his sitting-room, and pointing to a chair,