She shrank with perfect horror from the untried
scenes of the future.
If any one had ever envied Mrs. Helm in her drawing-room, richly attired
and sparkling with jewels, or as she moved with the stately step of a
queen among her trembling slaves, they should have beheld her on her death
bed! They should have listened to her groans and cries for help, while one
piercing shriek after another rang through the princely mansion of which
she had been the absolute mistress!
[Illustration: "If any one had ever envied Mrs. Helm in her drawing-room,
richly attired and sparkling with jewels, or as she moved with the stately
step of a queen among her trembling slaves, they should have beheld her on
her death-bed!"]
Surrounded as she was with every elegance and luxury that wealth could
procure, she lay shrieking out her prayers for a short respite, a short
lengthening out of the life she had spent so unprofitably; her eyes
wandering restlessly about the apartment, and her hands continually
clinching the air, as if to grasp something that would prevent her from
sinking into the embrace of death! There was not a slave present, who
would have exchanged places with her. Not one of those over whom she had
ruled so arbitrarily would have exchanged their rough, lowly cabin and
quiet conscience, for all the wealth and power she had ever possessed.
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