THE STRANGER’S FATE.
“Who falls from all they know of bliss,
Recks little into what abyss.”—_Byron._
The next day was a day of rest for Alice. It happened that she was not
wanted at the theatre. She enjoyed the rare treat of being at liberty to
stay home all day and all night.
After breakfast, when her father and brother had both gone out, Alice
and the stranger were seated together near the stove. Alice was engaged
in patching her father’s coat. The stranger sat with her thin dark hands
clasped upon her knees, and her great wild eyes fixed in deep thought
upon the floor.
“You came to town to seek service, my father tells me. What sort of
service?—Maybe I could help you to get it.”
“I do not know,” said the wanderer, vacantly.
“_I_ should think that of a _seamstress_ might do. Can you make
dresses?”
“No.”
“Coats, vests, or pantaloons, then?”
“No.”
“Children’s clothing, then?”
“No.”
“Well, perhaps you can do plain sewing.”
“Not well.”
“Dear me, then you would not be a seamstress?”
“I could not compete with the humblest member of that craft.”
“Oh my! then the next lightest thing to do is chamber-work.”
“I know nothing about it,” said the stranger, with her hands still
clasped upon her knees, and her eyes still fixed upon the floor.
“Gracious! perhaps—oh yes! I _know_ you could take care of children?
Would you take a nurse’s place?”
“Not to save myself from starving,” exclaimed the wild woman, with
startling energy.
“Oh, my goodness! do you dislike innocent little ones so much!”
“Yes, I do!”
Alice looked at her guest in amazement and pity, and then, after a few
minutes, said:
“I do not think you could _cook_?”
“No.”
“Well, then, what sort of service did you come to town to seek?”
“I did not come to seek service at all.”
“But you told my father so.”
“It was some mistake; he misunderstood me, or else _I_ did not know what
I was talking about.”
“But if you didn’t come for that, what did you come for?”
“_To lose myself_,” answered the wayfarer.
“I declare you came very near succeeding! Oh, poor dear, you are
heart-broken and brain-crazed about something, that’s clear enough; but
you ought not to think of _losing_ yourself. We’ll see what can be done
for you,” said Alice, gently.
“You are kind, and I will tell you _thus much_: I came from far down the
country. My father and my mother are both dead. I have no friends, no
means! Despair drove me to the city!”
“Poor girl! you left the wilderness of _trees_ for the wilderness of
_human beings_, thinking that the last, being of your kind, would have
more sympathy for you! Well, many do the like!”
“But _I_ have found sympathy, in one case at least. Oh, I thank you! Now
let us speak no more of this. In an hour I set forth again.”
“To go—whither?”
“I do not know.”
“Then you shall not leave us. Oh, I have known what it is to be _very
poor_! You smile; you think we are poor enough _now_! Well, so we _are_.
But we have been yet _poorer_. I have known what it is to suffer cold,
hunger, and illness, at the same time; but I never was _homeless_; and I
think that to be _homeless_ is worse than all. And so I should expect
the Lord to cast me forth of his care the day that I sent a desolate
girl homeless from my door. So you are to stay here, until you can do
better.”
“But I cannot; I must not be a burden. This little tenement is a
beehive: every one is busy. I must not be a drone.”
“And you need not. I have just thought of what you can do,” said Alice.
“Mr. West, our stage-director, told me, last night, that if I knew of
any good-looking, respectable young girl, with a good figure and a good
voice, he would thank me to bring her to the theatre, if she would
come.”
“Well?”
“I think you answer the description. If you would come, I would gladly
take you.”
“What is wanted of me?”
“Why, that you should fill just such a place as I do; a very humble one;
but which would keep you from want.”
“But I know no more of that business than of any other.”
“It is not expected that you should; you are to learn it. Hence your
humble post, and small pay. But if, with your fine figure, and face, and
voice, you have also tact and talent, you will be sure to rise in your
profession.”
“Is it a laborious one?”
“Yes, I am sorry to say.”
“Is it exciting?”
“Very.”
“Is it absorbing? Will it employ all my time, and thoughts, and
faculties?”
“Very much so, indeed, if you attend to the business. I wish it were
otherwise,” said Alice, with regret, for she now feared that her unhappy
guest would cast away this last poor chance of a living; “very exacting
and absorbing indeed!”
“Then I will enter it,” exclaimed the stranger.
That night, the old watchman was told that his strange guest, who was
unfit for service, would, in future, accompany his daughter to the
theatre.
“Well, the Lord guard all poor young women,” was all that the old man
said.
Accordingly, the next morning, Alice conducted the stranger to the only
theatre that the city could then boast. They entered the old and dingy
building by a basement side-door that led through a long, dark and
narrow passage to the door of the manager’s office.
Alice put her hand upon the knob, and then suddenly paused, saying—
“There! now, do you know I never even thought of asking your name; and
if I had gone into the manager’s office, I shouldn’t even have known how
to introduce you!”
“You are like the Arabs, so delicate in hospitality that they do not
even ask the name of the traveller they entertain. Well, my name
is—is—’Nora Norl.”
“’Nora Norl? a queer name! well! come in, Miss Norl.”
“Not _Miss_, but _Mistress_; I have been married.”
“Married! you!” exclaimed Alice, looking in amazement and pity at her
companion—“married and widowed so young!”
“Yes, married and widowed so young—_yes, widowed, too, though not by
death_!” mentally added the stranger, whom we shall now call Mrs. Norl.
“And that is what you are breaking your heart about, the Lord help you!
Well, this hurrying business will keep you from thinking of your
troubles, if it does nothing else. Come, now, the manager is alone,”
said Alice, peeping through the glass door, and then turning the knob
and entering the room.
The manager was alone, but apparently very busy and very impatient.
He arose and offered seats. Alice named her companion—
“Mrs. Norl, Mr. West.”
“_Mrs._ Norl?” questioned the manager, after a hasty bow.
“Yes, sir, _Mrs._ Norl, a young widow, who lives at our house, and will
engage with you if she suits!” said Alice, meekly.
“Will do very well; will do _quite_ well,” said the stage-director, with
a cursory glance at the noble figure and fine, though care-worn face of
the young wanderer, in whom his practical eye discerned a person above
the grade of a ballet-girl. “Salary small at first; but duties
unimportant, if laborious. Sing well, ma’am?”
“You will hear me upon occasion, sir, and form your own judgment,” said
the stranger.
“Ah! intelligent and proud. Seen better days! Just as I thought,”
muttered the manager. And then saying that he was happy to engage so
promising a novice; that he had no doubt she would do well, etc.; he
bowed the two young women out, with a parting request that they would
come in the morning.