THE FUGITIVE RETAKEN.
Shuddering, she strove to speak
Once more in nature’s strong, appealing tones,
To supplicate—then came a shriek
That died in heavy moans.—_L. V. French._
Meanwhile Eudora remained in strict seclusion at her obscure lodgings in
the Borough. Her voluntary close confinement within her own apartments
excited no suspicion in the guileless heart of her landlady, who
ascribed it to the recent bereavement and extreme sorrow which her deep
mourning and pallid countenance seemed truly to indicate.
Mrs. Corder had formed her own opinion concerning her beautiful lodger.
No one had deceived the good woman, but she had quite naturally deceived
herself; and so thoroughly was she persuaded of the truth of her own
theory, that, when any chance visitor dropped in at evening to gossip,
she informed her that the new lodger was the orphan daughter of a
country clergyman, and had come to town to seek employment as a daily
governess. And if any one had asked Mrs. Corder how she obtained her
information, she would have said—and thought—that Miss Miller had told
her.
Meanwhile Eudora passed her days in a heavy, deadly suspense and terror,
and her nights in broken sleep and fearful dreams, from which she would
start in nervous spasms. Every day her health visibly declined under
this tremendous oppression.
The landlady ascribing her illness to inordinate grief for the death of
her parents, sought every means to soothe and entertain her.
On the morning of the fifth day of her residence beneath the roof, the
landlady brought her a letter, saying:
“Here now! I suppose this is to bring you some good news; an offer of a
situation perhaps in some nobleman’s family, who knows?” And the good
woman stuck her arms akimbo and stood at rest, evidently anxious to be a
participator in the “good news.”
Eudora suspected the disguised handwriting to be that of Malcolm
Montrose, and with trembling fingers opened the letter. It was without
date or signature, and very brief, merely saying:
“MY DEAREST ONE—All is well as yet—the hounds are off the scent. Do
not answer this letter; it might not be safe to do so. Keep close, and
wait for another communication.”
Eudora put the letter in her bosom, and waited for an opportunity to
destroy it.
“Then it isn’t good news,” said the sympathetic landlady, closely
inspecting Eudora’s troubled face.
“It does not offer me a situation,” replied Eudora, evasively, and
blushing deeply at the prevarication.
“Well, never mind, dear; you’ll have better fortune to-morrow, perhaps.
And now I am not a-going to let you mope. You must go out and take a
walk.”
Eudora thanked the landlady, but declined the proposition, and gently
expressed her wish to be alone, whereupon the kind creature sighed and
withdrew.
As soon as she found herself free from the watchfulness of her kind
hostess, Eudora struck a match, burned her letter on the hearth, then
threw herself into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and sank
back in the stillness of a dumb despair.
While she sat thus the landlady suddenly broke in upon her in a state of
great excitement, exclaiming:
“Oh, my dear Miss Miller, you _must_ excuse me; but I couldn’t help
coming to tell you, for I knew you would like to hear it—”
“What is it, Mrs. Corder?” Eudora languidly inquired.
“Why, that vile, wicked, infamous creature—that toad, that viper, that
rattlesnake as poisoned all her good uncle’s family—have broke loose
from the perlice and run away.”
“Indeed,” was the only answer that Eudora could utter forth. Her throat
was choking, her heart was stopping, her blood freezing with terror.
“Yes! but oh! they’ll catch her again, the tiger-cat! for there’s a
reward of a hundred pounds offered for her arrest, and a full
description of her person that nobody _can’t_ mistake! Here, my dear,
read it for yourself,” said Mrs. Corder, handing the newspaper to
Eudora.
The poor girl took it in desperate anxiety to read the advertisement,
and ascertain how far the description might suit all medium-sized young
brunettes, and how nearly it might agree with her own peculiar
individuality.
She essayed to read, but as she held the paper, her hands trembled, her
eyes filmed over, and her voice failed.
With an appealing look she held the paper towards Mrs. Corder, who took
it, saying:
“Well, my dear, you _are_ the nervousest I ever saw, and no wonder. But
for all that you would like to hear it. Shall I read it for you?”
“Yes,” was the only answer that Eudora could breathe.
The landlady seated herself, and with an air of innocent importance
opened the paper, and holding it squarely before her large person, read
as follows:
“ONE HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD.—Absconded from Allworth Abbey, near
Abbeytown, in the County of Northumberland, on the night of Tuesday
last, Eudora Milnes Leaton, charged with having poisoned the family of
Leaton, Allworth. The fugitive is of medium height, slender,
well-rounded, graceful form, and regular features, dark complexion,
with black hair and black eyes. She wore, when she left, a full suit
of deep mourning. The above reward will be given to any person who may
apprehend and deliver up the said Eudora Milnes Leaton to justice.”
Eudora felt that this description might suit any medium-sized young
brunette in mourning as well as herself, and therefore breathed more
freely, especially as she perceived that the unconscious landlady never
once suspected the identity of her lodger with the advertised fugitive.
“There’s for you, my dear; now, what do you think of that? They’ll be
sure to catch her again with _that_ reward offered and _that_
description given! She had better go and hide herself under the earth,
for if she shows herself above ground, she is sure to be caught! Anybody
would know her from that description the minute they clapped their eyes
on her! I should, I’m sure, for I think I see her now, with her sharp,
wicked black eyes, and sly leer and vicious looks!” said the landlady,
gazing straight into the face of Eudora without the slightest suspicion
of her identity with the fugitive; for good Mrs. Corder had an ideal
portrait of the supposed criminal in her mind’s eye that formed a
complete blind to her discovery of Eudora.
“I hope the prisoner will be found and the truth brought to light,” said
Miss Leaton, fervently.
“And I hope so, too; and now, my dear, I will leave the paper for your
amusement while I go down and see what Sally is about,” said the
landlady, leaving the room.
Eudora, as soon as she found herself alone, picked up the paper, and
once more read the imperfect description of her own person.
“How fortunate for me that they did not think of the two little moles on
my face! Even my innocent landlady must have detected me by them had
they been mentioned,” thought Eudora to herself. Yet still her heart was
filled with dismay, and she felt an oppression of the lungs and a
difficulty of breathing, that induced her to rise and open the door for
a freer circulation of air.
As she did this, her attention was arrested by a knock at the private
door down stairs.
As she was in that condition of peril when every sound struck terror to
her heart, she paused and listened.
She heard the landlady go to the door and open it, saying, in a tone of
surprise and displeasure:
“Well, whatever can be your business here with me or my house or
family?”
“We come with a warrant for the arrest of Miss Eudora Leaton, charged
with having poisoned her uncle’s family, and supposed to be now lying
concealed in your house,” replied a voice that Eudora, in an agony of
terror, recognized as that of Sims, the detective policeman, who had had
her in custody at Allworth Abbey. Though nearly dying, she leaned far
over the railings to hear farther.
“Eudora Leaton in my house, indeed! You must have taken leave of your
senses, man! I’ll sue you for slander! Pray, is my house a harbor for
poisoners?” exclaimed the landlady, indignantly, placing her arms
akimbo, and filling up the door with her burly person.
“Of course not, mum; nobody says that it is, or means that it shall be,
and nobody accuses you of wilfully concealing the fugitive—”
“They’d better not!” interposed the landlady.
“Well, they _don’t_ but you have a young lady lodging here who arrived
last Wednesday morning—a dark young lady, dressed in black?”
“Yes, but there are hundreds upon hundreds of dark young ladies dressed
in black in London, and they aint all poisoners—God forbid! And this one
with me aint Eudora Leaton, nor no such demon; on the contrary, she is
Miss Miller, and an angel, that’s what she is!”
“But for all that, mum, you must let us see this Miss Miller; you can
have no objection to that?”
“Yes, but I _has_ an objection; I has a very particular objection to any
party of perlice intruding into a modest young lady’s private apartments
in _my_ house. And so you had better go about your business,” said the
landlady, still stopping the way with her large form.
“We are sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Corder, but it is absolutely
necessary for us to see this lodger,” insisted the detective.
“But as my lodger happens to be a dark young lady in black, you may take
her up by mistake, and that would kill the poor young creature.”
“No danger, Mrs. Corder; we are both well acquainted with the personal
appearance of Miss Eudora Leaton, having held her in custody for a whole
day and night before her escape. It is only necessary for us to see this
lodger for one moment, in order to know whether she is Eudora Leaton or
not. If she is, we must take her at once; if she is not, you will be
instantly relieved of our presence. And now I hope you will not longer
hinder us from the discharge of our duty.”
“Oh, certainly not—certainly not! Search! search by all manner of means,
if you can’t take an honest woman’s word for it!” said the landlady,
sarcastically. “Only for decency’s sake, you must let me go before you,
and tell Miss Miller before you burst in upon her privacy.”
“Very well, mum; but we must follow close behind you to prevent
accidents. Lead the way, then,” replied Sims.
Eudora heard this conclusion, and turned with the wild instinct of
flying or hiding, she knew not how or where.
The landlady led the way up-stairs, and rapped at Eudora’s door. There
was no answer. Then the policeman quickly pushed himself in front of the
landlady, and suddenly opened the door.
Eudora stood in the middle of the floor, with her hands clasped and
extended in mute appeal, her face blanched with terror, and her eyes
strained in anguish upon the intruders.
“It is herself,” said Sims, advancing into the room.
“I knew it before I saw her,” added his companion, following him.
“It’s not! you’re both on you clean mad to say so, only because she
happens to have dark hair and eyes like that Eudora devil! I suppose
you’d even be after taking up my Sally on suspicion, only she happens to
be fair complected,” exclaimed the landlady, vehemently.
“The young lady herself cannot deny her own identity. Are you not Miss
Leaton?” inquired Detective Sims, addressing the panic-stricken girl.
“No!” screamed the landlady, before her lodger could reply; “no, I tell
you she is Miss Miller!”
“I spoke to you, miss; is not your name Eudora Leaton?” inquired Sims,
confidently.
“It is; I am, indeed, poor Eudora Leaton!” said the miserable girl, in a
dying voice, dropping her head upon her bosom, and letting her clasped
hands fall asunder helplessly by her side.
“Then please to hold out your wrists, miss,” said the officer, drawing
from his pocket a pair of light steel handcuffs connected by a short,
bright steel chain.
Eudora mechanically obeyed, without the highest suspicion of what was
about to be done.
“Sorry to have to clasp these ornaments on your wrists, miss; but when a
prisoner displays such a wonderful talent for escape as you have, why,
we must take proper precautions. Hold your hands up a little higher, if
you please, miss—there!” said Sims, snapping the handcuffs upon her
delicate wrists; “there, now, I dare say, as your waiting-maid never
clasped your gold bracelets when you were going to a party quicker than
I have these. And these, though they are of steel, are as light and as
bright as possible, and steel is very fashionable now; and as for the
chain that connects them, it is for all the world like the handle of an
elegant reticule. You see I selected the pattern of the ornament with a
view to the delicacy of the wearer,” concluded the man, carefully
adjusting the fetters.
“And now, mum,” he added, turning to the landlady, “will you get Miss
Leaton’s bonnet and shawl, and so forth, and put them on her, while my
comrade goes out and calls a cab?”
The landlady, since the confession of Eudora, had been standing the very
image of dumb consternation.
The request of the policeman broke the spell of silence that bound her,
and she burst into a passion of tears, sobbing and exclaiming:
“Well, who’d a thought it? I wouldn’t—no! I wouldn’t a believed it if an
angel from heaven had come down and told me! and I can scarce believe it
even now when I look into her innocent face! Oh, my dear! say it was all
a mistake! say as how you are _not_ Eudora Leaton, and _not_ a poisoner,
or you’ll break the mother’s heart in my bosom!” she cried, extending
her arms with yearning tenderness towards the miserable girl.
“Oh, Mrs. Corder! I am indeed Eudora Leaton, but no poisoner; as the
Lord in heaven sees and hears me, no poisoner! Your pure and honest
heart must read and understand me rightly! Oh, come, look into my eyes,
deep down into my soul, and see if it is stained with such an atrocious
crime!” said Eudora, clasping her fettered hands, and raising her
beautiful eyes to the face of the landlady.
“No, indeed!” exclaimed the latter; “since you are Eudora Leaton, you
are wrongfully accused! I’d stake my life upon it, you are wrongfully
accused! I believe you to be as innocent of that deed as my own Sally,
that I do!”
“Oh, thank you! thank you for that! for you believe only what God knows
to be true! I am innocent!” wept Eudora.
“I know you be, my poor child! Oh, Mr. Perlice, look at her! just look
at her sweet face and soft eyes, and tell me if it is possible for _her_
to be guilty of what she is accused with?” said the landlady, taking the
detective by his arm, and turning him towards the prisoner.
“The testimony, mum, the testimony!” said that functionary, coolly.
“Oh, the testimony!” The landlady shut her lips to prevent the escape of
a word that would not have become the mouth of an honest woman.
“Fax is fax, mum! And now, as we want to catch the three o’clock train,
I wish you would show your kindness to your lodger by putting her things
on her.”
“I won’t! You shan’t take her away, you cruel man!” cried the landlady,
roaring with grief.
“Do, Mrs. Corder, get my bonnet and shawl; we must not resist the
warrant, you know,” said Eudora, in an expiring voice, as, unable longer
to support her sinking frame, she dropped into the nearest chair.
“But I _will_ resist! It’s cruel! it’s monstrous! it’s infamous to drag
you off in this way!” sobbed the landlady.
“I’ll tell you what, mum, unless you get what the young lady requires,
and help her to prepare for her journey, I shall have to go into her
chamber and be her waiting-maid myself, which might not be so pleasant,
you know, for I expect Rutt here every minute with the cab.”
At this moment, indeed, the other policeman entered to say that the
carriage was at the door.
“Come, come, bestir yourself, my good woman, or shall I go?” said Sims,
hurrying towards the chamber door.
“No,” said Mrs. Corder, losing her temper, forgetting her
respectability, descending into the depths of Billingsgate, and fishing
up its blackest mud of vituperation to fling at the policemen.
She resisted, abused, and threatened them at such a rate that, had they
not been very forbearing, besides having a much more important matter in
hand, they might reasonably have taken her in charge.
When the landlady had fairly screamed herself out of breath, so that she
was obliged to stop and pant, Eudora took advantage of the momentary
silence to lay her manacled hands upon the arm of the angry woman, and
to falter:
“Dear, good friend, all this is well meant, but it does me harm instead
of good. We cannot possibly resist lawful authority; and so, if you
really desire to serve me, do that for me which I should not like a
policeman to do, and which I cannot do for myself.”
“Oh, poor, fatherless, motherless child! Oh, poor, dear little fettered
wrists!” cried the landlady, sobbing and weeping over them.
“Come, mum, come! time’s up!” said Sims.
He was answered by another shower of tears and abuse, as Mrs. Corder
retreated into the bed-room.
She soon reappeared with Eudora’s outer garments, which she carefully
arranged upon the person of their owner, folding the shawl so as to
conceal the degrading fetters.
“And now, where be you a-going to take my poor darling? Not to Newgate,
I hope?”
“Oh, no, mum, we must take her back to Abbeytown, where she will have a
fair trial and full justice, that you may depend upon, so don’t be
alarmed,” said Sims, with more good nature than could have been expected
of him under the circumstances.
When Eudora was ready she sank into the arms of her rough but honest
friend, who embraced her fervently, praying:
“Oh, may the Lord deliver you from all your enemies and all your
troubles, my poor, helpless darling! and may the old Nick himself—”
“Hush, hush!” said Eudora, stopping her words with a kiss; “let me go
with the sound of blessings, not of curses, ringing on my ears!
Good-bye, dear friend! May God reward you for all your kindness to me!”
And Eudora withdrew from her arms.
The landlady sank sobbing into a chair. The young prisoner, half
fainting, was led away between the two policemen.
They took her down-stairs, and placed her in the cab which was
immediately driven towards the King’s-cross Railway Station.
They arrived just in time to catch the desired train. Eudora was hurried
into a coupé, where she sat guarded on the right and left by the two
policemen.
It was a miserable journey of about six hours. The policemen were
reasonably kind to her, and whenever the train stopped for refreshments,
they offered her food, wine, tea and coffee. But she refused all meat
and drink, and sat in a stupor of exhaustion and despair.
It was after nine o’clock when the train arrived at Abbeytown. It was
quite dark, but the station was well lighted, and the usual mob of
guards, cabmen, and idlers was collected to see the train come in.
There were but few passengers for Abbeytown, so that when the policemen
stepped out of the coupé, leading their prisoner between them—and when
Sims stood by, guarding her, while Rutt went to call a cab—they were
exposed to the observation of the whole crowd, who gathered around,
quickly identified the party, and began to whisper audibly that the
notorious Eudora Leaton, the poisoner of her uncle’s family, was there
in custody of the police, and to elbow, push, and crowd each other in
their anxiety to see her face.
Eudora, nearly fainting with distress, put up her hands to draw her veil
closer about her face, and in so doing exposed her fettered wrists.
“Handcuffed, too, by all that’s blue! What a desperate ’un she must be,
to be sure,” said a rude man, pushing near, and trying to look under her
veil.
“Stand back, will you?” shouted Sims, angrily.
“Oh, we mustn’t look at her, mustn’t we? Well, then, I reckon the day’ll
come as we’ll get a full view of her for nothing. Calcraft’s patients
don’t wear weils to hide their blushes.”
Eudora shuddered at this rude speech, when luckily the other officer
came up with the cab, and she was hurried into it, out of the insulting
scrutiny of the mob.
Among those who had gazed with even more interest than curiosity upon
the hapless girl, was a tall, thin, mustachioed foreigner, wrapped in a
large cloak, and having a travelling-cap pulled down low over his
piercing eyes. He had come down alone in a first-class carriage, and now
stood waiting upon the platform.
When the cab had rolled out of sight, and the train had started, and the
bustle of the arrival and departure was over, the stranger turned to an
_employée_ at the station, and said:
“Who is that young girl that arrived in charge of the police?”
“That, sir? why, a most notorious criminal, sir, as has just been taken
in London; by name Miss Leaton, sir; more’s the pity, for it’s a noble
one to end in shame and ruin.”
“Miss Leaton!—not of Allworth Abbey!—not the daughter of Lord Leaton?”
questioned the stranger in the strongest agitation.
“Oh, Lord, no, sir; not the daughter of Lord Leaton, but his niece.
Lord, sir, haven’t you heard about it? I thought the story had gone all
over England.”
“I have but just arrived in the country, and know nothing of the affair,
but I am interested in hearing the particulars, if you will do me the
favor of relating them.”
“Oh, yes, sir, certainly, with great pleasure,” said the man.
And it was indeed with _very_ great pleasure that he commenced and
related to a perfectly fresh hearer the oft-repeated awful tragedy of
Allworth Abbey.
The stranger listened with the deepest interest. At the conclusion of
the narrative, he said:
“The circumstances, indeed, seem to point out this young Eudora Leaton
as the criminal; but from the glimpse I caught of her lovely face, she
is just the last person in the world I should suspect of crime.”
“Oh, sir, we mustn’t judge by appearances. Who looked more innocent nor
William Palmer? He had just the most sweetest and benevolentness face as
ever was seen.”
“I know nothing of the man of whom you speak; but the face of this young
girl is certainly not that of a poisoner. And so I should like you to
name over to me every individual of the drawing-room circle at Allworth
Abbey at the time of Lord Leaton’s sudden death.”
“Yes, sir; that is easily done, for there were very few—Lord and Lady
Leaton; their only child, Miss Leaton; their niece, Miss Eudora; and
their guest, the Princess Pezzilini.”
“Humph! And the domestic establishment, can you call its members over by
name?”
“Lord, yes, sir! ever since that dreadful affair every individual member
of that household is well beknown to everybody,” replied the man, who
immediately began and gave a list of all the maid and men servants in or
about Allworth Abbey.
“Humph,” said the stranger again; and then, after a few moments spent in
deep thought, he thanked the narrator for his information, put a
crown-piece in his hand, and requested him to call a cab.
The man touched his hat, hurried away, and soon returned with the cab.
“To the Leaton Arms,” said the stranger, as he entered the cab, and
threw himself heavily back among the cushions.
Meanwhile Eudora Leaton, in charge of the two policemen, was carried
into the town.
It was considered too late to take her before a magistrate, or even
lodge her in the county gaol, which had been closed for hours.
The policemen therefore conveyed her to a rude but strong station, or
lock-up house, where drunkards, brawlers, thieves, and other disturbers
of the night were confined until morning.
Eudora was thrust into a large stone room, with grated windows placed
high up towards the ceiling, and rude oaken benches ranged along the
walls. This apartment was without fire, beds, or separate cells.
It was occupied by about half a dozen abandoned women and various
children, some of whom lay extended along the benches in the stupid
sleep of intoxication, while others walked restlessly about, engaged in
desultory conversation.
As soon as Eudora was brought into the room they ceased their talk to
stare at her, as though she had been a vision from another world.
Truly, she was a strange visitant of such a place as that.
In a moment, however, they seemed to have fixed upon her identity, and
began an eager whispering concerning her supposed crimes and probable
fate.
As soon as the policemen had gone, and the strong oaken door was locked
and barred upon her, and she found herself alone among these wretched
outcasts, fear and loathing seized her soul, and she retreated to the
remotest corner of the hall, where she crouched down upon the bench, and
covered her face with her veil.
But Eudora had to learn in her misery that human sympathies still lived
in the seared hearts of those poor women, dead though they seemed to all
higher feelings.
While shrinking in horror from the sight and hearing of these lost
creatures, Eudora heard one whisper to another:
“Go to her, Nance, you’re the youngest of the lot, and maybe she’ll not
be frightened of you. Go to her, there’s a good lass; see, she aint used
to being in a place like this.”
“I dunnot like to go, Poll. She’s a lady, and I dunnot like to.”
“But she is in trouble with the rest of us, Nance, and she’s a stranger
to the place, with no one to speak to. Go to her, there’s a good lass.”
“Well, if you’ll go with me and speak first.”
“Me! look at me, with my torn gown and my black eye; I should scare the
soul out of the likes of her,” said Poll, sighing.
“Bosh! she wouldn’t see ’em; ’sides, if all’s true as is said of _her_,
_she_ aint easy scared. Howsoever, and whatsoever she _has_ done, I am
sorry for her, seeing as she is in about the deepest trouble as any
woman _could_ be in! so let’s both go and comfort her.”
One touch of sympathy as well as nature makes all the world of kin.
Eudora’s heart was touched; but though purity cannot do otherwise than
shrink from the contact of impurity, and though Eudora still shuddered
as these women approached her, yet she put aside her veil and looked
gratefully towards them.
“Come, lass, don’t be downcast; keep up a good heart in your bosom.
There’s many a one locked up here, and comes afore the beak, as is never
sent up to the ’sizes; and many and many tried at the ’sizes as are
never conwicted, and more conwicted as are never exercuted. So you see,
my poor dear, as there are ten chances to one in your favor.”
“And I am not guilty; that also should be in my favor,” said poor
Eudora, glad of any sympathy.
“To be sure you arn’t, my dear! You arn’t guilty, even supposing you
_did_ poison your uncle’s family! We arn’t any on us guilty of anything
in particular, no matter what we do. It’s SOCIETY as is guilty of
everything, as I myself heard well proved by an philanthrophysing gemman
as spoke to the people on Fledgemoor Common,” said the enlightened Poll.
“But I did _not_ poison my uncle’s family. Oh! my God! how can anyone
think I could do such a thing,” said Eudora, shuddering.
“Well, dear, I don’t ask you to confess, which would be unreasonable;
but I _do_ tell you that it makes no difference to me; I pities you all
the same whether you did poison ’em or not. For, maybe, you couldn’t
help it; and maybe they _deserved_ poisoning, ’cause why? some people
are more agrowoking nor rats and mice, as everyone allows it to be
lawful to poison. And maybe they trampled on you being of an orphan
niece. And leastways—it aint _you_, it’s society as is to blame for it
all, as the philanthrophysing gemman said at Fledgemoor Common. So, my
darling, you just keep up your heart. And here, take a drop of comfort
to help you to do so. Here is some rale ‘mountain dew’ as will get up
your spirits just about right. Take a sip,” said Poll, diving into the
depths of a capacious pocket and drawing forth a flask, which she
unstopped and offered to Eudora.
But the fumes of the gin were so repulsive to the latter that she waved
it away, saying:
“I thank you; you are very kind, indeed; but I do not require anything.”
“Well, if you won’t take the gin, you must lie down and rest anyhow; for
you look just about ready to faint away. We’ll make you the best bed as
we can in this miserable place. Here, Nance, lend me your shawl; and
lend me yours, Peg; we must be good to a poor girl as is in a thousand
times deeper trouble nor we are ourselves, ’cause our lives is not in
danger as her’s be,” said Poll, stripping the shawl from her own
shoulders and folding and laying it on the rude bench, and rolling
Nance’s shawl into a pillow and retaining Peg’s for a blanket.
“Now, my darling, take off your bonnet, and loosen your clothes, and
spread your pocket handkerchief over this rum pillow, and try to take
some rest, and you’ll be all the better able to face the beaks
to-morrow.”
“I thank you; you are very, very good to me; and I know that the best
thing I can do is to lie down as you advise me,” said Eudora, with much
emotion, for she had scarcely hoped to meet such tender sympathy from
such rude natures.
And she took off her bonnet, unhooked the bodice of her dress, and laid
her weary frame down on the little bed that their kindness had prepared
for her.
Poll covered her carefully with Peg’s shawl, and then bidding her
good-night, drew off her companions to the farthest end of the room,
where they conversed in low whispers, for fear of disturbing “the poor
young lady.”
Left to herself, Eudora composed her mind to prayer; and as the prayers
of innocence always bring peace, notwithstanding all the shame, grief
and terror of her position, the poor girl sank into a strange calm, and
thence into a deep sleep.