“Want a carriage, ma’am?”
Mrs. Lane hesitated a moment or two, while she thought hurriedly, and then replied—
“Yes.”
“Very well, ma’am; I’ll attend to you. Where is your baggage?”
“I have only this basket with me.”
“Ah! well; come along.” And Mrs. Lane followed the man from the boat.
“Where shall I drive you?” he asked, after she had entered the carriage.
There was a pause, with apparent irresolution.
“I am a stranger here,” said Mrs. Lane innocently. “I want to obtain pleasant accommodations for a day or two. Can you take me to a good place?”
“Faith, and I can—as good as the city will afford. Do you wish one of the tip-top places, where they charge a little fortune a week; or a good comfortable home at a reasonable price?”
“I want a comfortable, retired place, where the charges are not extravagant.”
“Exactly; I understand.”
And the driver closed the door, and, mounting his box, drove off. At the end of ten minutes the carriage stopped, the steps were let down, and Mrs. Lane, after descending, was shown into a small parlour, with dingy furniture. A broad, red-faced Irish woman soon appeared, at the summons of the driver.
“I’ve brought you a lady customer, Mrs. McGinnis, d’ye see? And you’re just the one to make her at home and comfortable. She’s a stranger, and wants a quiet place for a day or two.”
“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.
