IV.
We must carry the reader back some nine or ten years. In front of a pleasant country residence, a child of three years sat on the grass, plucking the flowers that grew at her feet, and then tossing them from her. Ever and anon she would utter a cry of childish delight, as a gaudily-painted butterfly flew past her, and would stretch out her little hands to arrest its flight; but the wanderer of the air found no difficulty in eluding the tiny hands of the child.
At length, as if weary of her pastime, she rose from her grassy seat, and tottled towards the open gate, out of which she passed, and strayed along the path by the roadside, pausing where fancy prompted. Her disappearance had not been noted by those in the house, partly because their attention was occupied by a tall, swarthy woman, with fierce black eyes, who was at that moment asking, or rather demanding, alms of the mistress of the house.
“We are not in the habit,” said the latter, “of giving money; but whatever food you may require will be cheerfully given.”
“I don’t want any food,” said the woman, abruptly. “You talk as if victuals was the only thing one could need. I have had something to eat already. I want money, I tell you.”
“Then why don’t you work for it?” asked the lady, somewhat offended at the boldness of her speech.
“Because I don’t see why I should work my life out while others are living in plenty. There are plenty of fine ladies who wouldn’t lift their fingers if it was to save a life. Am I not as good as they? Why, then, should they fare any better than I?”
“That I do not pretend to say. I only know that he is most happy who strives to content himself with that station in which the Almighty has placed him.”
“Oh! it is all very well for those to talk of being contented who have every thing to make them so. Very praiseworthy it is, to be sure!” said the woman, laughing scornfully.
The violence of her language increased to such an extent, that Mrs. Gregory—for it was she—found it necessary to order her to leave the house. She did so, but not without many imprecations. As she strode along with hasty steps, she espied by the roadside a little girl, holding in her hand a flower that she had just plucked.
“Isn’t it pitty?” said the child, holding it up.
A thought struck the woman, and she arrested her steps.
“Where do you live, little girl?” she asked, softening her voice as much as practicable, so as not to alarm the child.
“I live there,” said the little girl, pointing to the house the woman had just quitted.
“Yes, yes,” muttered the latter to herself; “you’re the child of that proud lady that refused me what I asked. Perhaps she may repent it.”
“Would you like to go with me?” she asked, turning once more to the child. “I will show you where there are flowers a great deal prettier.”
“Yes,” said the unsuspecting child, gaining her feet, and placing her hand in the woman’s.
Was there no magic in the soft touch of that little hand that could turn away that bad woman from her wicked purpose?
Alas! when the heart becomes familiar with crime, all the gentler parts of the nature become hard and callous.
“Would you like to have me take you in my arms, and then we should get there quicker?” said the woman, who knew it would not do to accommodate herself to the child’s slow pace.
The latter made no resistance; and, with the little girl in her arms, the woman walked swiftly along. She soon turned aside from the street, for fear of attracting a degree of observation,—which, under present circumstances, would be embarrassing to her,—and took her way, by a less frequented road, to the city.
The child soon became restless, and wished to go home. The woman assured her that she was carrying her there. Before long, the regular motion of walking acted as a sedative upon the child, and she fell asleep. Her bearer made the most of this opportunity, and walked with quickened steps towards her haunt—for home she had none—in the great city, which she had already entered. Some whom she met gazed with curious eyes at the woman and her burden, and could not help noting the contrast between the two in dress: but no one felt called upon to interfere; and so she reached her destination.
The next day saw Helen—for this the woman discovered to be the child’s name—stripped of her tasteful attire, and clothed in a ragged and dirty dress, suited to the company into which she had fallen. At the same time, her abundant curls were cut off close to her head, principally to render more difficult the chance of recognition.
The woman found Helen of essential service in her line. Though disfigured by her uncouth dress and the loss of her curls, her beauty was sufficiently striking to draw many a coin from compassionate strangers, which would not otherwise have been obtained. This little episode completed, we resume the main thread of our narrative.