The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844. Various
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Kornicker, ‘here, in this room. I breakfasted here. I’m Michael Rust’s clerk.’
‘Then you can scarcely expect a cordial reception from me,’ said Harson, coldly.
‘I don’t care what sort of a reception you give me,’ replied Kornicker; ‘you may kick me if it will be any comfort to you, provided you only do what I ask. Michael Rust is dead, and his daughter is now dying, with scarcely clothes to cover her, or a bed to lie in; without a cent to buy her food or medicine; without a soul to say a single word of comfort to her. I wouldn’t have troubled you, old fellow,’ continued he, with some warmth, at the same time turning out his pockets, ‘if I had a cent to give her. The last I had I spent in getting a breakfast this morning; and although it’s the only meal I’ve eaten to day, damme if I would have touched it if I had thought to have found her in such circumstances. But since you won’t help her, you may let it alone; I’m not so hard run but that I can do something for her yet.’
Kornicker had worked himself up into such an excitement, owing to Harson’s cold reception of him, that he took it for granted his request was to be refused; and having thus vented his feelings he turned on his heel to go, when the old man laid his hand on his shoulder.
‘Nature puts noble hearts in very rough cases,’ said Harson, his eyes glistening as he spoke. ‘You’re a good fellow, but rather hasty. I didn’t say I would not assist the poor girl; on the contrary, you shall see that I will. She has no doctor?’
‘No.’
‘No nurse?’
‘No.’
Harson rang the bell. The house-keeper answered it.
‘Martha, put on your things,’ said Harson; ‘I want you to sit up with a sick person to-night. Bring a basket, and lights, and cups, and every thing that’s necessary for one who has nothing. I’ll return in five minutes; you must be ready by that time. Now then, Sir, come along; you shall see what I’ll do next.’
He went into the street, and walked rapidly on, turning one or two corners, but without going far, and at last knocked at the door of a small house.
‘A very excellent fellow lives here,’ said he to Kornicker; ‘he’s a doctor; and if this girl can be saved he’ll do it. Hark! there he comes. I hear his step.’
The door was opened by the doctor himself, and a few words sufficed to explain matters to him.
‘I’ll be ready in a minute,’ said he, darting in the room and as suddenly returning, struggling his way into the arms of a great-coat. ‘Now then,’ exclaimed he, buttoning a single button, and dashing into the street, ‘which way?’
‘Where does she live?’ asked Harson. ‘I’ll go back and bring the nurse.’
Kornicker told him, and was hurrying off, when Harson touched his arm, and leading him a few steps aside, said in a low voice: ‘You seem somewhat straitened for money, Mr. Kornicker; I wish you would accept a loan from me.’ He extended a bank-note to him.
Kornicker buttoned his pockets up very closely, not omitting a single button, and then replied coldly: ‘I ask charity for others, not for myself.’
‘Come, come,’ said Harson, kindly, ‘you mustn’t bear malice. I did not act well toward you at first; you must forget it; and to show that you do so, you must take this loan from me.’
‘I don’t wish to borrow,’ replied Kornicker.
‘Well, I’m sorry for it,’ said Harson, taking his hand; ‘but you’re not angry?’
‘No no, old fellow; it’s not an easy matter to keep angry with you; you’re a trump!’
‘Perhaps you’ll sup with me when we return?’ said the old man, earnestly.
‘I’ll see how the girl is,’ replied Kornicker; ‘good bye. We’re losing time.’
Saying this, he shook hands with Harson, and joining the doctor, they set out at a rapid pace for the girl’s abode.
They reached it without interruption, other than a short delay on the part of the doctor, who being of a belligerent disposition, was desirous of stopping to flog a man who had intentionally jostled him off the sidewalk. Kornicker, however, by urging upon him the situation of the girl, had induced him to postpone his purpose, not a little to the relief of the offender, who in insulting him had only intended to insult an inoffensive elderly person, who could not resent the affront.
‘Can it be possible that any thing human tenants such a den as this?’ said the doctor, looking at the half-hung door of the girl’s abode, and listening to the wind as it sighed through broken window-panes and along the entry.
‘Come on, and you’ll see,’ replied Kornicker; and seizing him by the arm, he led him half stumbling up the stairs, and finally paused at the girl’s room.
‘Look in there, if you want to see comfort,’ said he, with an irony that seemed almost savage, from the laugh which accompanied it. ‘Isn’t that a sweet death-chamber for one who all her life has had every thing that money could buy?’
The doctor glanced in the room, then at the fierce, excited face of his companion. ‘Come, come,’ said he, in a kind tone, taking Kornicker’s hand; ‘don’t give way to these feelings. She’ll be well taken care of now. Harry Harson never does a good action by halves. Come in.’
He pushed the door open very gently, and went to the bed. The girl seemed sleeping, for she did not move. He took the candle, and held it so that the light fell on her face. He then placed his hand gently upon her wrist. He kept it there for some moments, then held up the light again, and looked at her face; after which he placed it on the floor, rose up, and took a long survey of the room.
‘It’s a wretched place,’ said he, speaking in a whisper. ‘She must have suffered terribly here.’
‘This is the way the poor live,’ said Kornicker, in a low, bitter tone; ‘this is the way she has lived; but we’ll save her from dying so.’
The doctor looked at him, and then turned away and bit his lip:
‘What are you going to do for her?’ demanded Kornicker, after a pause: ‘have you medicine with you?’
‘She requires nothing now,’ said the doctor, in a tone scarcely above a whisper. ‘She’s dead!’
Kornicker hastily took the light, and bent over her. He remained thus for a long time; and when he rose, his eyes were filled with tears.
‘I’m sorry I left her,’ said he, in a vain effort to speak in his usual tones. ‘It was very hard that she should die alone. I acted for the best; but d—n it, I’m always wrong!’
He dashed his fist across his face, walked to the window and looked out.
At that moment the door opened, and Harson entered, his face somewhat attempered in its joyous expression; and close behind followed the house-keeper with a large basket.
‘How is she?’ asked he, in a subdued tone.
Kornicker made no reply, but looked resolutely out of the window, and snuffed profusely. It would not have been manly to show that the large tears were coursing down his cheeks. Harson threw an inquiring glance at the doctor, who answered by a shake of the head: ‘She was dead when we got here.’
Harson went to the bed, and put back the long tresses from her face. There was much in that face to sadden the old man’s heart. Had it been that of an old person, of one who had lived out her time, and had been gathered in, in due season, he would have thought less of it; but it was sad indeed to see one in the first blush of youth, scarcely more than a child, stricken down and dying in such a place, and so desolate.
‘Was there no one with her—not a soul?’ inquired Harson, earnestly, as he rose; ‘not one human being, to breathe a word of comfort in her ear, or to whisper a kind word to cheer her on her long journey?’
The doctor shook his head: ‘No one.’ Harson’s lips quivered, but he pressed