"No," replied Mr. Edmondson, "she left us yesterday. We believed
that she had gone home. My wife had a long conversation with her, in
which she urged her, by every consideration, to return; and we had
reason to think, when she left our house, that she went back to
you."
"Such is not the case," said Mr. Lane, with disappointment, and
something of sadness in his tone. "I have not seen her since the
morning of our unhappy difference. Where can she have gone?"
Mr. Edmondson was silent.
"Did she say that she was going to return home?" asked Mr. Lane.
"No. But we had reason to think that such was her intention. Have
you heard nothing from her?"
"Not a word."
"It is strange!"
Mr. Lane heaved a deep sigh. A few more brief questions and answers
passed, and then the two men separated. The forsaken husband went
home with a sadder heart than he had yet known. The absence of his
wife and child for several days--both objects of real affection--and
absent under such peculiar and trying circumstances, had subdued, to
a great extent, his angry feelings. He was prepared to yield much.
He would even have gone to his wife, and acknowledged that he was
partly in error, in order to have brought about a reconciliation.
Something that she had said during their last, exciting interview,
which he had rejected as untrue, or not causes of complaint, had
represented themselves to his mind; and in the sober reflecting
states that were predominant, he saw that he had not in all things
treated her as an equal, nor regarded her at all times as possessing
a rational freedom as independent as his own. Though he did not
excuse her conduct, he yet thought of it less angrily than at first,
and was willing to yield something in order to restore the old
relations.
Anxiety and alarm now took possession of his mind. The distance
between them had become wider, and the prospect of a reconciliation
more remote. Amanda had gone, he could not tell whither. She had
neither money nor friends; he knew not into what danger she might
fall, nor what suffering she might encounter. It was plain from the
manner of her leaving the house of Mr. Edmondson, that her
resolution to remain away from him was fixed. He must, therefore,
seek her out, and invite her to return. He must yield if he would
reconcile this sad difficulty. And he was now willing to do so. But,
where was she? Whither should he go in search of the wanderer?
The very means which her friend had taken to induce Mrs. Lane to
return to her husband, had driven her farther away. The hint
touching her husband's legal rights in the child, and his resolution
to assert them, filled her with the deepest alarm, and determined
her to put it beyond his power, if possible, to deprive her of the
only thing in life to which her heart could now cling. Toward her
husband, her feelings were those of an oppressed one for an
oppressor. From the beginning, he had almost suffocated her own life
by his pressure upon her freedom of will. She remembered, with,
tears, his tenderness and his love; but soon would come the
recollection of his constant interference in matters peculiarly her
own; his evident contempt for her intellect; and his final efforts
to subdue her rising independence, and make her little less than a
domestic slave--and the fountain of her tears would become dry.
Added to all this, was the fact of his resolution to recover his
child by law. This crushed out all hope from her heart. He had no
affection left for her. His love had changed to hate. He had assumed
toward her the attitude of a persecutor. Nothing was now left for
her but self-protection.
In leaving the home of her husband, Mrs. Lane had exercised no
forethought. She made no estimate of consequences, and provided for
no future contingencies. She was blind in her faint-heartedness,
that was little less than despair. Any thing was better than to
remain in a state of submission, that had become, she felt,
intolerable. Leaving thus, Mrs. Lane had taken with her nothing
beyond a few dollars in her purse, and it was only an accident that
her purse was in her pocket. All her own clothes and those of her
child, except what they had on, were left behind.
Alarmed at the threat of her husband, Mrs. Lane, a few hours after
the conversation with Mrs. Edmondson, in which his views were made
known to her, took her child and went away. In parting with her
friend, she left upon her mind the impression that she was going
home. This was very far from her intention. Her purpose was to leave
New York, the city of her residence, as quickly as possible, and
flee to some obscure village, where she would remain hidden from her
husband. She had resided, some years before, for a short time in
Philadelphia; and thither she resolved to go, and from thence reach
some point in the country. On leaving the house of her friend, Mrs.
Lane hurried to the river and took passage in the afternoon line for
Philadelphia.
As the cars began their swift movement from Jersey City, a feeling
of inexpressible sadness came over her, and she began to realize
more distinctly than she had yet done, her desolate, destitute, and
helpless condition. After paying her passage, she had only two
dollars left in her purse; and, without money, how was she to gain
friends and shelter in a strange city? To add to her unhappy
feelings, her child commenced asking for her father.
"Where is papa?" she would repeat every few minutes. "I want to go
to my papa."
This was continued until it ended in fretfulness and complaints at
the separation it was enduring. Tears and sobs followed; and,
finally, the child wept herself to sleep.
A new train of feelings was awakened by this incident. In leaving
her husband, Mrs. Lane had thought only of herself. She had not once
considered the effect of a separation from its father upon her
child. Little Mary's heart was full of affection for the two beings
whom nature prompted her to love. Her father's return from business
had always been to her the happiest event of the day; and, when she
sprang into his arms, her whole being would thrill with delight.
Days had passed since she had seen her father, and she was pining to
meet him again to lay her head upon his bosom--to feel his arms
clasped tightly around her.
All this was realized by the mother, as the child lay sleeping on
her arm, while the swift rolling cars bore them farther and farther
away from the home she was leaving. Is it just to the child?
Distinctly did this thought present itself in her mind. For a long
time she mused over it, her feelings all the while growing more and
more tender, until something like repentance for the step she had
taken found its way into her mind--not for what she was herself
suffering, but for the sake of her child. She had not thought of the
effect upon little Mary, until the pain of absence showed itself in
complaint.
This idea arose clearly before her--she could not push it aside;
and, the more she pondered it, the more troubled did she become,
from a new source. Would not the separation so deeply afflict the
child as to rob her of all happiness?
While these thoughts had full possession of the mother's mind, Mary
slept on and dreamed of her father, as was evident from the fact
that, more than once, she murmured his name.
When night came down, its effect upon Mrs. Lane was more sadly
depressing, for it brought her into a clearer realization of her
unhappy condition. Where was she going? What was the uncertain
future to bring forth? All was as dark as the night that had closed
around her.
At length the cars reached Bristol, and it became necessary to leave
them, and pass into the boat. In lifting Mary in her arms, to bear
her from the cars, the child again murmured the name of her father,
which so affected Mrs. Lane, that her tears gushed forth in spite of
her efforts to restrain them. Letting her veil fall over her face to
conceal this evidence of affliction from her fellow-passengers, she
proceeded with the rest; and, in a little while, was gliding swiftly
down the river. It was ten o'clock when they arrived in
Philadelphia. For an hour previous to this time, the mind of the
fugitive had been busy in the effort to determine what course she
should take on gaining the end of her journey. But the nearer she
came to its termination, the more confused did she become, and the
less clearly did she see the way before her. Where should she go on
reaching the city? There as no one to receive her; no one to whom
she could go and claim protection, or even shelter.
This state of irresolution continued until the boat touched the
wharf, and the passengers were leaving. Mary was awake again, and
kept asking, every few moments, to go home.
"Yes, dear, we will go home," the mother would reply, in a tone of
encouragement, while her own mind was in the greatest uncertainty
and distress.
"Why don't papa come?" asked the child, as one after another moved
away, and they were left standing almost alone. At this moment, an
Irishman, with a whip in his hand, came up, and said--
"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.
"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.
"As if I wasn't an honest woman," continued the virago, following
Mrs. Lane. "As if I'd extort on a lone woman! Give me patience! When
ye pays the dollar and a half, ye can go; but not a foot shall ye
take from my door until then."
A scuffle took place in the bar-room at that moment, attended by a
new eruption of oaths and imprecations.
Quickly sprinting from her chair, Mrs. Lane, with Mary in her arms,
glided from the room, and ran panting up-stairs to her chamber, the
door of which she locked behind her on entering.
Half an hour of as calm reflection as it was possible for Mrs. Lane
to make brought her to the resolution to leave the house at all
hazards. Where she was to go, was to be an afterthought. The
greatest evil was to remain; after escaping that, she would consider
the means of avoiding what followed. Putting on her bonnet and
shawl, and taking her basket, she went down-stairs with her child,
determined, if possible, to get away unobserved, and after doing so,
to send back, by any means that offered, the only dollar she
possessed in the world to the landlady. No one met her on the
stairs, and she passed the parlour-door unobserved. But, alas! the
street-door was found locked and the key withdrawn. After a few
ineffectual attempts to open it, Mrs. Lane went into the parlour,
and, standing there, debated for some moments whether she should
leave the house by passing through the bar-room, or wait for another
opportunity to get away by the private en-trance. While still
bewildered and undetermined the landlady came in from the bar-room.
The moment she saw her guest, she comprehended the purpose in her
mind.
"Where are ye going?" said she in a quick sharp voice, the blood
rising to her coarse sensual face.
"I am going to leave your house," replied Mrs. Lane, in as firm a
voice as she could command. As she spoke she drew forth her purse,
and taking out the solitary dollar it contained,
added--"Unfortunately, this is all the money I have with me, but I
will send you the other half-dollar."
But the landlady refused to take the proffered money, and replied,
indignantly,
"A purty how d'you do, indeed, to come into a genteel body's house,
and then expect to get off without paying your bill. But ye don't
know Biddy McGinnis--ye don't! If yees wants to go paceable, pay the
dollar and a half. But until this is done, ye shall not cross my
door-stone."
"I can't stay here! What good will it do?" said Mrs. Lane, wringing
her hand. "It's all the money I've got; and remaining won't increase
the sum, while it adds to the debt. Better let me go now."
"Indade, and ye'll not go, thin, my lady! I'll tache yees to come
into a respectable body's house without as much money in yer pocket
as 'll pay for the night's lodging. I wonder who ye are, any how! No
better than ye should be, I'll warrint!"
While speaking, the Irishwoman had drawn nearer and nearer, and now
stood with her face only a few inches from that of her distressed
guest, who, bursting into tears, clasped her hands together, and
sobbed--
"Let me go! let me go! If you have the heart of a woman, let me go!"
"Heart of a woman, indade!" returned Mrs. McGinnis, indignantly.
"Yer a purty one to talk to me about the heart of a woman. Stalein
into a body's house at twelve o'clock at night, and thin tryin' to
go off without paying for the lodgings and breakfast. Purty doings!"
"What's the matter here?" said a well dressed man, stepping in from
the bar-room and closing the door behind him. "What do you mean by
talking to the lady in this way, Mrs. McGinnis? I've been listening
to you."
There was an instant change in the Irishwoman. Her countenance fell,
and she retreated a few steps from the object of her vituperation.
"What's all this about? I should like to know," added the man in a
decided way. "Will you explain, madam?" addressing Mrs. Lane, in a
kind voice. "But you are agitated. Sit down and compose yourself."
"Let her pay me my money, that's all I want," muttered the landlady.
In a moment the man's purse was drawn from his pocket. "What does
she owe you?"
"A dollar and a half, bad luck till her!"
"There's your money, you old termagant!" And the man handed her the
amount. "And now, as you are paid, and have nothing more to say to
this lady, please to retire and let her be freed from your
presence."
"Yees needint call me ill names, Misther Bond," said the woman, in a
subdued voice, as she retired. "It doesn't become a jentilman like
you. I didn't mane any harm. I only wanted my own, and sure I've a
right to that."
"Well, you've got your own, though not in a way that does either you
or your house much credit," returned the man. "The next time you are
so fortunate as to get a lady in your hotel, I hope you'll know
better how to treat her."
Mrs. McGinnis retired without further remark, and the man turned to
Mrs. Lane, and said, in a kind, respectful manner,
"I am sorry to find you so unhappily situated, and will do any thing
in my power to relieve you from your present embarrassment. Your
landlady here is a perfect virago. How did you happen to fall into
her hands?"
Encouraged by the kindness of the man's address, as well as from the
fact that he had rescued her from a violent woman, Mrs. Lane, after
composing herself, said--
"I came in from New York last night, and, being a stranger, asked
the cabman to take me to a good hotel. He brought me here. I
happened to have but two dollars in my purse, he charged one for
carriage hire."
"The extortioner!"
"Finding into what a wretched place he had brought me, I wished to
leave this morning, but have been prevented because I could not pay
a dollar and a half when I had only a dollar. I told her to let me
go, and I would send her the balance claimed; but she only met the
proposition by insult."
"The wretch!" exclaimed the man, indignantly. "I happened to be
passing, and, hearing her loud voice, glanced in at the window. In
an instant I comprehended, to some extent, the difficulty; and,
knowing her of old, came in to see if something were not wrong. She
is a bad woman, and her house is a snare for the innocent. It is
fortunate for you that I came at the right moment!"
Mrs. Lane shuddered.
"And now, madam," said the man, "what can I do for you? Have you
friends in the city?"
"I am an entire stranger here," replied Mrs. Lane.
"Were you going farther?
"Yes," was answered after some hesitation.
"Where do your friends reside?"
"In New York."
"Ah!"
"This is your child?" was said, after a pause.
"Yes."
There was something in the man's manner, and in the way he looked at
her, that now made Mrs. Lane shrink from, as instinctively as she
had at first leaned towards him. Beneath his steady eye her own
drooped and rested for some moments on the floor.
"Is your husband in New York?" pursued the man.
This question caused the heart of Mrs. Lane to bound with a sudden
throb. Her husband! She had deserted him, her natural and lawful
protector, and already she was encompassed with difficulties and
surrounded by dangers. What would she not at that moment have given
to be safely back in the home she had left? To the last question she
gave a simple affirmative.
"Where do you wish to go when you leave here?" inquired the man, who
had perceived a change in her and understood its nature.
"I wish to be taken to a good hotel, where I can remain a day or
two, until I have time to communicate with my friends. My being out
of money is owing to an inadvertence. I will receive a supply
immediately on writing home."