CHAPTER XVII
Illustrating the truth of the proverb that 'Murder will out,' and containing an Appalling Discovery.
Two or three days after the above events, Dr. Sinclair was sent for by a woman lying at the point of death. He found her occupying the garret of an old, crazy tenement in Orange street; she was stretched upon a miserable bed, covered only by a few rags, and her short breathings, sunken cheeks, and lustreless eyes, proclaimed that the hand of death was upon her. Though young in years, her appearance indicated that she had passed through much suffering, destitution and sin.
'Are you the clergyman?' she asked in a faint voice.
'I am; what can I do for you, my good woman?' said the Doctor, seating himself on a rickety stool at the bedside.
'Oh, sir,' cried the invalid, evidently in great mental distress, 'I want you to pray for me. Do you think there is any hope for such a sinner as I have been? I am dying, and my soul is lost—forever!'
In his own heart, the rector felt his unfitness to administer comfort in such a case, considering his own wickedness; yet he strove to quiet the uneasiness of the poor creature, by assuring her that there was hope for the 'chief of sinners.' At her request he prayed with her; and then she addressed him as follows:—
'There is something on my mind which I must make confession of, or I shall not die easy—something that will make you shrink from me, as from a guilty wretch, who deserves no mercy. I am a murderess!'
'A murderess!' echoed the Doctor, starting back with horror; after a few moments' pause, he added—'proceed with your confession.'