Part 44 (2/2)

”And then Mrs. Meltrand, said, 'Oh dear,' and she went away feeling sad.

I do wish I knew what it could be in that name that made her feel so sad. Some reminiscence connected with the loss of her little girl, I suppose. It is very sad, to lose a child by death, it must be very much more sad to have one stolen away, and never know what becomes of it, whether dead or alive; and if the mother should meet her own child in the street not to know it; but dear me, how I am running on while you are eating your supper, as though you had nothing to think of but the things that interest me so much. But if you have been able to eat while I have been talking, come up to my room and see my protege and hear her story.”

So we went up, and found the invalid almost recovered, looking so sweet, for she looked grateful, and that, when it beams out like the sunlight, will make any face look beautiful.

”I told you,” said Mrs. Morgan, ”about her landing here penniless and alone, and I want she should tell you--there now, there is the bell, how I do hope that is uncle--yes it is--it is; do you hear him talking to Bridget? that is his step, now--”

Now the door opens, and now she is in his arms, and now there are more questions than answers:--

”When did he arrive? How did he find things out West? Has he been to supper? What is the news?”

”Now you are a perfect woman, you are enough to confuse a whirlwind. Sit down, and be quiet, and I will tell you all that you need to know. But first tell me who is this young lady; you forgot to introduce me.”

”So I did, but of course she knows by this time that you are my uncle, and you will know directly all about her, for she was just going to tell part of her story, and I shall tell the rest before you go to bed.”

”I will warrant that. Perhaps you would like to hear mine, and where I have been since I arrived.”

”Yes, indeed, do tell me, and why you did not come right home?”

”I have been to jail, since I arrived; locked up in the criminal cells.

It is a little singular too, how I got there. It is all owing to the newspapers.”

”Owing to the newspapers, uncle, I do not understand how the papers should get you in prison.”

”Very well I do. I saw an item in one of them this evening, about the arrest of a person whose name struck me very forcibly as being that of a man whom I once knew in Europe, and who I was very anxious to see, for I felt the deepest interest to know what had become of his wife. For him I cared nothing, I knew he was a villain, and felt rejoiced to think he had met his deserts at last; but his wife was a sweet good woman, a victim of unfortunate circ.u.mstances all through her life, and when I saw her last I had reason to fear that she was falling into a course adopted by many, many others, of drowning sorrow in wine. But I shall not tell my story now; I will sit down and hear yours.”

”Well then, Agnes, tell what you did after landing.”

At the sound of her name, Mr. Lovetree gave a little start, and said, ”Agnes! oh, pshaw!” and sunk back again in his easy chair, as though he had been affected by the name, and thought it very foolish that he had been so. Agnes, said: ”Indeed, ma'am, I don't think the gentlemen will be at all interested to hear anything about me.”

”Yes, yes, I have promised them.”

”Well, then, after my uncle died, and all my friends, I felt dreadful; it is dreadful for a young girl to be left all alone in a strange country. So when the s.h.i.+p landed, or rather when she came to anchor, the people from sh.o.r.e came aboard, and I saw how many of the poor emigrants had friends to welcome them, and that I had none; it was then that I felt the dreadful loneliness of my situation, and I sat down and cried, for I could not help it, and then a man came and spoke to me very pleasantly, and asked me where I wanted to go, and all about it, and then I told him all my troubles, and then he said it was the luckiest thing in the world that I had met with him, for he was an emigrant agent, appointed by law, and he would take charge of me and take me ash.o.r.e to a boarding-house, and do everything for me. And then he asked me how much money I had, and I told him that I had but a few s.h.i.+llings, of my own, but that I had three gold sovereigns that were my uncle's--he had more, a great deal more, when he died, but somebody must have taken it away--and that was all I had in the world besides their chests of clothes and things. And then he said, that it was very lucky for me that I had that, for he would have to pay half a guinea head-money for each pa.s.senger, no matter how many were dead, and then he would have to pay the custom-house duty, and the wharf.a.ge and the cartage, and the week in advance for the board, and that would take all the money and more too, but he would pay that and hold the things until I could pay him back. So I gave him the money, and he got the chests, all but my trunk, I would keep that, and took them ash.o.r.e, and took me to a boarding-house, and that was the last I ever saw of him, or the money or chests either, he had robbed me of all of my poor uncle's things, and my three gold sovereigns; so the landlady said, and he never paid her a cent of board.

I did not know what to do; I was willing to work, but how should I find a place. The landlady said, I must go to the 'Intelligence office.' I thought I should like to go somewhere to get intelligence of the man who had run away with my things, or any other intelligence that would be of any benefit to a poor stranger in this great Babel of a city. And I asked her to tell me the way to the 'Intelligence office,' and I went there. It was a great room, divided into two parts; one was full of men, and the other of girls, sitting on long benches. I went in and sat down among them, and I suppose, I looked sad--I felt so, and I felt worse when I heard some of the girls snickering, and overheard them say, 'there is a green one.' If that was an 'Intelligence' office, I thought it a very queer way of giving it to one so much in need of it as I was.

After a while, one of the girls came and sat down by me, and spoke kindly, and asked where I came from, and a good many questions; I was almost afraid to answer her, for fear that she was 'an emigrant agent,'

too, and had some plan to cheat me, or practice some deception, but I became convinced in a little while that she meant kindly; and then I told her all about myself. Then, she said, that I must get my name registered. I did not know what that was for, but I went up to the bookkeeper, and told him my name, and age, and where I came from, and what I could do, and he wrote it all down in a book and then told me to give him half a dollar, and when I got a place I must give him another one; I did not know what for; he gave me no intelligence about how I was to get a place, but he told me to go and sit down again. So I did, all that day and all the three next days, waiting for somebody to pick me out of the lot. Every hour, somebody came and looked over all the girls, for all the world just as I have seen the people do in the pig-market, at an Irish fair, until they found one that would suit. One objected to me because I was 'green;' another, because I had never been at service in this country; another, because I had no recommend; and then a girl whispered to me, and told me she knew a man who would write me just as many recommends as I wanted, for a s.h.i.+lling a piece. If that is the way recommends are made, I don't see what good they are. At last, after being looked over day after day, like a lot of damaged goods, a lady, at least, I thought she was a lady, selected me the very first one, and for the very reason that twenty others had rejected me--because I was too good-looking. When she found that I had no friends in this country, and no father or mother in the world, she seemed still more anxious to have me, which I thought so kind of her, and then she told me that the work would be very light, only some rooms to take care of, and wait upon company a little, and she knew I should like the place; I thought I should; I did at first, but, I don't want to tell, before the gentlemen, why I did not like to live there; this one knows already.”

”Well, well, you need not tell, we understand all about it. You have been treated just as a great many poor girls without friends have been treated before in this city; and you got just as much intelligence, and just as much profit from your application to the 'Intelligence office,'

as a great many others have done before you.”

Now, it was Athalia's turn to tell her uncle all that she knew about Agnes, and then he told about his visit to the prison.

”I found,” said he, ”the very man I expected, or rather hoped, it might be, and it is well that I acted upon the impulse of the moment, for if I had not, I should have been too late. It is the doctor's opinion, that he will not live till morning. It seems that he got into some difficulty with the police last night, and one of them, to prevent him from stabbing another man, broke his arm.”

<script>