Part 42 (1/2)

So it proved that night to Agnes Brentnall. But who is she? That we have yet to learn.

We have only heard the name once, during the conversation, between Madame De Vrai and the black woman, Phebe, overheard in that eaves-dropping midnight scene described in the last chapter, unless this Agnes is the same one that we saw in a previous midnight scene, Perhaps it is, for now we remember there was a Phebe in that. At any rate that name, from both of these night scenes, had become deeply impressed upon my mind, as belonging to a beautiful girl, followed in the street by a night-prowling wolf, with a canine instinct which snuffs in the breeze the far-off scent that leads him to some wandering female.

Mrs. De Vrai had said; ”Then she is lost.”

What had become of her? Had the woman-devouring monster consumed the innocent girl and come back for more prey? He will prey no more, soon; he has met his deserts at last. The stony walls of the Tombs' prison, will hold him safe, and when he recovers from his broken arm, the law will have its course. He will make a good Sing Sing worker in stone. It will not break his heart, for it is as hard as the stone he will hammer.

But what of poor Agnes? Would that I knew. Did she fall before his basalisk eye? Such thoughts were upon my mind as I entered the door of the house I called my home, after such a night of strange adventures as I have just made the reader acquainted with.

”Where have you been?” was the anxious question that met me as I entered.

”What in the world took you out and kept you out all night? Did you find that woman? How is she? Is anything the matter? I do think you might write quite a romance out of your adventures.”

There is no occasion to write romance, it is only necessary to give the real pictures of life--real scenes as they occur in New York, to make up a volume more strange than wildest romance.

”Where have I been? Where I saw strange sights. Where it does seem as though some mysterious influence led me, to meet with another adventure.”

”You might have had one at home, sufficiently interesting, I should think. A young girl, wickedly made drunk, for the basest purpose on earth--'tis a horrid tale--you shall hear it by and by--unprotected--alone in the street, at midnight--staggering to and fro, chased like a dog by a crowd of boys and half-drunken men, taking refuge in our bas.e.m.e.nt area, within ten minutes after you left the house.”

”You took her in? Yes, yes; I see, I see--a heavenly deed produces a heavenly smile.”

What was it shot through my brain? A thought. A strange thought. What could have sent it there. Is it true? We shall see.

”What is her name?--where is she? You have not sent her away?”

”You shall see--come up-stairs. She is not up yet. She has been distressingly sick--she is better now, almost well, though very feeble.

The doctor says, she was poisoned.”

”No doubt, if drunk, of course she was. Every drop of drunkenness-producing liquor is poison, of the most subtle kind--slow, but sure.”

She was still in bed. Her kind protector had furnished her with a clean, white bed-gown and cap, and a prettier face, indicating about sixteen or seventeen years, never looked up smilingly from a downy pillow.

”She is very pale now. She vomited terribly all the latter part of the night. Her color will soon come again.”

”Oh, yes, ma'am, I feel quite well now. Do let me get up and dress myself, and go home--I cannot bear to be a trouble to you any longer.

Oh, sir, she has been a mother to me--more than a mother--if I had such a mother----.”

”Well, well, my girl, never mind now. You cannot get up yet. You must keep quiet to-day. To-morrow, we will see you safe home.”

”Oh, sir, I cannot possibly wait till to-morrow. What will Mrs. Meltrand think?”

”She shall know all about it before night.”

”Oh, no, no, no! not all, not all! I should die with shame.”

”Well, then, only that you have been to see a friend, and was taken very sick.”

”Yes, I have been to see a friend, a dear friend, a poor unfortunate woman. Indeed, I must get up. She is sicker than I am, and besides, I promised to go, too, and see a friend for her. It is a gentleman that she thinks a great deal of, sir,--one who was very kind to her when she was very bad, and lived very miserably, and she thinks he was sent by Providence to save her from total ruin. That, sir, was before her little daughter died. Did you ever read about that, sir? it was published in 'the New York Tribune.'”

”I do not know; that paper publishes so many stories. I read the most of them. Then, you want to see Mr. Greeley. You need not go there for that, you can----”