Part 43 (1/2)

”Good G.o.d!” Calton rose up in his astonishment, and even Kilsip's inscrutable countenance displayed some surprise.

”Aye, 'e were a swell in them days,” pursued Mother Guttersnipe, ”and 'e comes a-philanderin' round my gal, cuss 'im, an' ruins 'er, and leaves 'er an' the child to starve, like a black-'earted villain as 'e were.”

”The child! Her name?”

”Bah,” retorted the hag, with scorn, ”as if you didn't know my gran'daughter Sal.”

”Sal, Mark Frettlby's child?”

”Yes, an' as pretty a girl as the other, tho' she 'appened to be born on the wrong side of the 'edge. Oh, I've seen 'er a-sweepin' along in 'er silks an' satins as tho' we were dirt--an' Sal 'er 'alf sister--cuss 'er.”

Exhausted by the efforts she had made, the old woman sank back in her bed, while Calton sat dazed, thinking over the astounding revelation that had just been made. That Rosanna Moore should turn out to be Mark Frettlby's mistress he hardly wondered at; after all, the millionaire was but a man, and in his young days had been no better and no worse than the rest of his friends. Rosanna Moore was pretty, and was evidently one of those women who--rakes at heart--prefer the untrammelled freedom of being a mistress, to the sedate bondage of a wife. In questions of morality, so many people live in gla.s.s houses, that there are few nowadays who can afford to throw stones. Calton did not think any the worse of Frettlby for his youthful follies. But what did surprise him was that Frettlby should be so heartless, as to leave his child to the tender mercies of an old hag like Mother Guttersnipe.

It was so entirely different from what he knew of the man, that he was inclined to think that the old woman was playing him a trick.

”Did Mr. Frettlby know Sal was his child?” he asked.

”Not 'e,” snarled Mother Guttersnipe, in an exultant tone. ”'E thought she was dead, 'e did, arter Rosanner gave him the go-by.”

”And why did you not tell him?”

”'Cause I wanted to break 'is 'eart, if 'e 'ad any,” said the old beldame, vindictively. ”Sal was a-goin' wrong as fast as she could till she was tuk from me. If she had gone and got into quod I'd 'ave gone to 'im, and said, 'Look at yer darter! 'Ow I've ruined her as you did mine.'”

”You wicked woman,” said Calton, revolted at the malignity of the scheme. ”You sacrificed an innocent girl for this.”

”None of yer preachin',” retorted the hag sullenly; ”I ain't bin brought up for a saint, I ain't--an' I wanted to pay 'im out--'e paid me well to 'old my tongue about my darter, an' I've got it 'ere,”

laying her hand on the pillow, ”all gold, good gold--an' mine, cuss me.”

Calton rose, he felt quite sick at this exhibition of human depravity, and longed to be away. As he was putting on his hat, however, the two girls entered with the doctor, who nodded to Kilsip, cast a sharp scrutinising glance at Calton, and then walked over to the bed. The two girls went back to their corner, and waited in silence for the end.

Mother Guttersnipe had fallen back in the bed, with one claw-like hand clutching the pillow, as if to protect her beloved gold, and over her face a deadly paleness was spreading, which told the practised eye of the doctor that the end was near. He knelt down beside the bed for a moment, holding the candle to the dying woman's face. She opened her eyes, and muttered drowsily--

”Who's you? get out,” but then she seemed to grasp the situation again, and she started up with a shrill yell, which made the hearers shudder, it was so weird and eerie.

”My money!” she yelled, clasping the pillow in her skinny arms. ”It's all mine, ye shan't have it--cuss ye.”

The doctor arose from his knees, and shrugged his shoulders.

”Not worth while doing anything,” he said coolly, ”she'll be dead soon.”

The old woman, mumbling over her pillow, caught the word, and burst into tears.

”Dead! dead! my poor Rosanna, with 'er golden 'air, always lovin' 'er pore mother till 'e took 'er away, an' she came back to die--die--ooh!”

Her voice died away in a long melancholy wail, that made the two girls in the corner s.h.i.+ver, and put their fingers in their ears.

”My good woman,” said the doctor, bending over the bed, ”would you not like to see a minister?”

She looked at him with her bright, beady eyes, already somewhat dimmed with the mists of death, and said, in a harsh, low whisper--”Why?”

”Because you have only a short time to live,” said the doctor, gently.