The messenger who had disturbed the peace of the matron’s room was a fitting symbol of death. Her body was bent by old age, and her limbs trembled with a constant shaking. Her face, twisted into a strange, mocking grin, looked more like a grotesque sketch from a nightmare than a natural human face.
Sadly, very few faces are left untouched by the world to bring us joy with their beauty. The worries, sorrows, and hunger of life change them just as they change our hearts. It is only when these passions finally sleep forever that the clouds pass, leaving a peaceful expression behind. It is a common thing for the faces of the dead, even in that cold and rigid state, to return to the long-forgotten look of a sleeping infant. They become so calm and peaceful that those who knew them in their happy childhood kneel by the coffin in awe, seeing a glimpse of an angel even on earth.
The old woman tottered along the passages and up the stairs, muttering indistinct answers to the complaints of her companion. Eventually, she was forced to pause for breath. She handed the lantern to the matron and stayed behind to follow as best as she could, while her superior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.
It was a bare attic room with a dim light burning at the far end. Another old woman was watching by the bed, while the parish doctor’s apprentice stood by the fire, carving a toothpick out of a bird's feather.
"Cold night, Mrs. Corney," said the young gentleman as the matron entered.
"Very cold indeed, sir," replied the mistress in her most polite tone, making a small curtsey.
"You should get better coal from your suppliers," said the apprentice, breaking a lump of coal on the fire with a rusty poker. "This isn't the right sort of fuel for a night like this."
"The board chose it, sir," returned the matron. "The least they could do is keep us warm, for our work is difficult enough."
The conversation was interrupted by a low moan from the sick woman.
"Oh!" said the young man, turning toward the bed as if he had completely forgotten the patient. "She’s a goner, Mrs. Corney."
"Is she really, sir?" asked the matron.
"If she lasts two more hours, I’ll be surprised," said the apprentice, focusing on the point of his toothpick. "Her whole system is breaking down. Is she sleeping, old lady?"
The attendant leaned over the bed to check and nodded.
"Then perhaps she’ll pass away quietly, as long as you don't make a noise," said the young man. "Put the light on the floor; she won't see it there."
The attendant did as she was told, though she shook her head to suggest that the woman would not die so easily. Having done so, she sat down again next to the other nurse, who had just returned. The mistress, looking impatient, wrapped herself in her shawl and sat at the foot of the bed.
Once he had finished making his toothpick, the apprentice stood in front of the fire and used it for about ten minutes. Growing bored, he wished Mrs. Corney luck with her job and left the room on tiptoe.
After 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 flames threw a ghastly light on their wrinkled faces, making them look terrifying as they began to whisper to each other.
"Did she say anything else, Anny dear, while I was gone?" inquired the first woman.
"Not a word," replied the other. "She pulled and tore at her arms for a while, but I held her hands and she soon fell asleep. She hasn’t much strength left, so it was easy to keep her quiet. I’m not that weak for an old woman, even if I am living on the parish allowance!"
"Did she drink the hot wine the doctor ordered?" asked the first.
"I tried to get her to take it," the other replied. "But her teeth were tightly set, and she gripped the mug so hard that I could barely get it back. So I drank it instead, and it did me a lot of good!"
Looking cautiously around to make sure they were not overheard, the two women moved closer to the fire and laughed quietly.
"I remember the time," said the first speaker, "when she would have done the same thing and made a great joke of it afterward."
"Yes, she would," agreed the other. "She had a merry heart. She laid out so many beautiful corpses, making them look as neat as waxwork. My old eyes have seen them—and these old hands have touched them, too, for I helped her dozens of times."
As she spoke, the old woman stretched out her trembling fingers and shook them triumphantly. She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out an old, stained tin box, taking a bit of tobacco from it. While they were busy, the matron, who had been impatiently waiting for the dying woman to wake up, joined them by the fire and sharply asked how much longer she had to wait.
"Not long, mistress," replied the second woman. "None of us have long to wait for death. Patience, patience! It will come soon enough for all of us."
"Hold your tongue, you old fool!" said the matron sternly. "You, Martha, tell me—has she been like this before?"
"Often," answered the first woman.
"But she never will be again," added the second. "She’ll only wake up once more—and listen, mistress, it won't be for long!"
"Long or short," said the matron crossly, "I won't be here when she wakes. Don't you dare bother me again for nothing. It’s not my duty to watch every old woman in the house die. If you waste my time again, I’ll make you regret it, I promise you!"
She was about to storm out when a cry from the two women made her look back. The patient had sat up in bed and was stretching her arms toward them.
"Who’s that?" she cried in a hollow voice.
"Hush, hush!" said one of the women, leaning over her. "Lie down!"
"I’ll never lie down alive again!" the woman struggled. "I must tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear."
She grabbed the matron’s arm and forced her into a chair by the bedside. She was about to speak when she noticed the two old women leaning forward, listening eagerly.
"Send them away," the woman whispered. "Hurry! Hurry!"
The two old hags began to complain, crying out that the "poor dear" was too confused to recognize her friends. They promised they would never leave her, but the matron pushed them out of the room, locked the door, and returned to the bed. From the hallway, the old women changed their tune, shouting through the keyhole that Old Sally was drunk. This was quite likely, as they had secretly given her a large glass of gin-and-water earlier that evening.
"Now listen to me," the dying woman said loudly, making a final effort to find her strength. "In this very room—in this very bed—I once nursed a pretty young creature. She was brought here with her feet cut and bruised from walking, covered in dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy and died. Let me think—what year was it?"
"Never mind the year!" said the impatient matron. "What about her?"
"Yes," murmured the sick woman, starting to drift off again. "What about her? I know!" she suddenly cried, sitting up fiercely. Her face was red and her eyes were wide. "I robbed her! I did! She wasn't even cold yet when I stole it!"
"Stole what, for God’s sake?" cried the matron, looking as if she wanted to call for help.
"It!" replied the woman, putting her hand over the matron’s mouth. "The only thing she had. She needed clothes to keep her warm and food to eat, but she had kept it safe in her bosom. It was gold! Rich gold that might have saved her life!"
"Gold!" echoed the matron, leaning forward eagerly as the woman fell back. "Go on—yes—what happened to it? Who was the mother? When was this?"
"She told me to keep it safe," the woman groaned. "She trusted me because I was the only woman there. But I stole it in my heart the moment she showed it to me. Perhaps the child’s death is on my soul, too! They would have treated him better if they had known the truth!"
"Known what?" asked the matron. "Speak!"
"The boy grew up to look so much like his mother," the woman continued, her mind wandering. "I could never forget her when I saw his face. Poor girl! She was so young, such a gentle soul. Wait; there’s more. I haven’t told you everything, have I?"
"No, no," replied the matron, leaning closer to catch the fainting words. "Be quick, or it will be too late!"
"The mother," said the woman with a violent effort, "when she was dying, she whispered in my ear. She said that if her baby lived, the day might come when he wouldn't be ashamed to hear his mother's name. 'And oh, kind Heaven,' she said, folding her thin hands, 'whether it is a boy or a girl, find friends for it in this troubled world, and have mercy on a lonely, abandoned child!'"
"What was the boy's name?" demanded the matron.
"They called him Oliver," the woman replied feebly. "The gold I stole was—"
"Yes, yes—what?" cried the matron.
She bent over the woman, desperate for the answer. But she instinctively drew back as the woman rose one last time, stiffly, into a sitting position. The woman clutched the bedsheets with both hands, made a strange sound in her throat, and fell back lifeless onto the bed.
"Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door opened.
"And she had nothing to tell, after all," replied the matron, walking away as if she didn't care.
The two old women, apparently too busy preparing for their grim duties to reply, were left alone with the body.