“And, in troth, she’ll find it here, as ye well say, John Murphy. Will the lady put off her bonnet? We’ll have her room ready in a jiffy! Much obleeged to yees, John Murphy, for remembering us. What a darlint of a child; bless its little heart!”
“What must I pay you?” asked Mrs. Lane, hoarsely, turning to the driver.
“One dollar, ma’am,” was replied.
Mrs. Lane drew forth her purse, towards which the Irishwoman glanced eagerly, and took therefrom the sum charged, and paid the man, who immediately retired. The landlady followed him out, and stood conversing with him at the door for several minutes. When she returned, she was less forward in her attentions to her guest, and somewhat inquisitive as to who she was, where she had come from, and whither she was going. All these Mrs. Lane evaded, and asked to have her room prepared as quickly as possible, as she did not feel very well, and wished to retire. The room was at length ready, and she went up with little Mary, who had again fallen to sleep. It was small, meagerly furnished, and offensive from want of cleanliness. In turning down the bed clothes, she found the sheets soiled and rumpled, showing that the linen had not been changed since being used by previous lodgers. The first thing that Mrs. Lane did, after laying her sleeping child upon the bed, was to sit down and weep bitterly. The difficulties about to invest her, as they drew nearer and nearer, became more and more apparent; and her heart sank and trembled as she looked at the unexpected forms they were assuming. But a single dollar remained in her purse; and she had an instinctive conviction that trouble with the landlady on account of money was before her. Had she been provided with the means of independence, she would have instantly called a servant, and demanded a better room, and fresh linen for her bed; but, under the circumstances, she dared not do this. She had a conviction that the Irishwoman was already aware of her poverty, and that any call for better accommodations would be met by insult. It was too late to seek for other lodgings, even if she knew where to go, and were not burdened with a sleeping child.
Unhappy fugitive! How new and unexpected were the difficulties that already surrounded her! How dark was the future! dark as that old Egyptian darkness that could be felt. As she sat and wept, the folly of which she was guilty in the step she had taken presented itself distinctly before her mind, and she wondered at her own blindness and want of forethought. Already, in her very first step, she had got her feet tangled. How she was to extricate them she could not see.
Wearied at last with grief and fear, her mind became exhausted with its own activity. Throwing herself upon the bed beside her child, without removing her clothes, she was soon lost in sleep. Daylight was stealing in, when the voice of little Mary awakened her.
“Where’s papa?” asked the child, and she looked with such a sad earnestness into her mother’s face, that the latter felt rebuked, and turned her eyes away from those of her child. “Want to go home,” lisped the unhappy babe—”see papa.”
“Yes, dear,” soothingly answered the mother.
Little Mary turned her eyes to the door with an expectant look, as if she believed her father, whom she loved, was about to enter, and listened for some moments.
“Papa! papa!” she called in anxious tones, and listened again; but there was no response. Her little lip began to quiver, then it curled grievingly; and, falling over, she hid her face against her mother and began sobbing.
Tenderly did the mother take her weeping child to her bosom, and hold it there in a long embrace. After it had grown calm she arose, and adjusting her rumpled garments, and those of Mary, sat down by the windows to await the events that were to follow. In about half an hour a bell was rung in the passage below, and soon after a girl came to her room to say that breakfast was ready.
“I wish my breakfast brought to me here,” said Mrs. Lane.
The girl stared a moment and then retired. Soon after, the Irish landlady made her appearance.
“What is it ye wants, mum?” said that personage, drawing herself up and assuming an air of vulgar dignity and importance.
“Nothing,” replied Mrs. Lane, “except a little bread and milk for my child.”
“Isn’t yees coming down to breakfast?”
Mrs. Lane shook her head.
“Ye’d better. It’s all ready.”
“I don’t wish any thing. But if you’ll send me up something for my child, I will be obliged to you.”
The landlady stood for some moments, as if undecided what she should do, and then retired. About half an hour afterwards, a dirty looking Irish girl appeared with a waiter, on which were the articles for which she had asked.
“Don’t ye want any thing for yerself, mum?” asked the girl, with some kindness in her voice.
“No, I thank you,” was replied.
“You’d better eat a little.”
“I’ve no appetite,” said Mrs. Lane, turning her face away to conceal the emotion that was rising to the surface.
The girl retired, and the food brought for the child was placed before her; but she felt as little inclined to eat as her mother, and could not be induced to take a mouthful. Turning from the offered food, she raised her tearful eyes to her mother’s face, and in a choking voice said—”Go home, mamma—see papa.”
The words smote, like heavy strokes, upon the mother’s heart. How great a wrong had she done her child! But could she retrace her steps now? Could she go back and humble herself under the imperious will of her husband? Her heart shrunk from the thought. Any thing but that! it would crush the life out of her. An hour she sat, with these and kindred thoughts passing through her mind, when the girl who had brought up Mary’s breakfast came in and said—”Won’t yees walk down into the parlour, mum, while I clean up your room?”
“Is any one down there?” asked Mrs. Lane.
“No, mum,” was answered by the girl.
With some reluctance Mrs. Lane descended to the small, dingy parlour, which she found adjoining a bar-room, whence there came the loud voices of men. From a window she looked forth upon the street, which was narrow, and crowded with carts, drays, and other vehicles. Opposite were old houses, in which business of various kinds was carried on. One was occupied by a cooper; another used as a storehouse for fish; another for a grog-shop. Every thing was dirty and crowded, and all appeared bustle and confusion. It was plain to her that she had fallen in an evil place, and that her first business must be escape. As she sat meditating upon the next step, there came suddenly, from the bar-room, the sound of angry voices, mingled with fierce threats and shocking blasphemy. Springing to her feet in terror, Mrs. Lane caught up her child, and was about starting from the door without any covering upon her head, when the landlady intercepted her.
“What’s the matter with yees? Where are ye going?”
With quivering lips, and face white with alarm, Mrs. Lane replied—”Oh, ma’am! get me my things and let me go.”
“Ye can go when ye pays yer bill, in welcome,” replied the woman.
“How much is it?”
“It’s a dollar and a half.”
The Irishwoman looked steadily at Mrs. Lane, and saw, by the change in her countenance, what she had expected, that she had not as much money in her possession.
“Won’t a dollar pay you?” asked Mrs. Lane, after standing with her eyes upon the floor for some moments. “I’ve had nothing but my night’s lodging and surely a dollar will pay for that.”
“Indade and it won’t, then! Sure, and yer breakfast was got. If ye didn’t ate it, I’m not to fault.
“Here is a dollar,” said Mrs. Lane, taking out her purse. “I’m sure it’s full pay for all I’ve received.”
“And d’ye mane to call me an ould chate, ye spalpeen, ye!” indignantly replied the landlady, her face growing red with anger, while she raised her huge fist and shook it at her terrified guest, who retreated back into the parlour, and sank, trembling, into a chair.