Then, catching sight of Martin standing at his door, Mrs. Batten called to him in a more subdued tone of distress—
"Oh! Mr. Laver, for mercy's sake come and help her. Gently, gently, we shall hardly be able to get her out of the cab."
"What has happened?" exclaimed Martin, scarcely able to utter the question, Mrs. Batten's tone had sent such a chill of dread to his heart, as he threw open the door of the cab.
"Steamers racing—boiler burst—she is frightfully scalded; we took her to a chemist's, where her hurts were dressed, but she moaned and prayed to be taken home. I thought she'd have died on the road."
Martin heard very few of the words of his neighbour, his whole attention was anxiously given to his miserable wife. Fearfully disfigured, her swollen features half-covered by bandages, Ann's husband would hardly have recognised her as the same flaunting woman who some hours before had quitted his home.
It was a difficult task, even with the aid of Mrs. Batten and the driver, to lift Mrs. Laver out of the cab, and, still more so, to carry her up the narrow staircase. Every touch caused agony, and the unhappy woman swooned as soon as she was laid upon the bed.
"She ought to have been taken to the Infirmary, I said she ought," cried Mrs. Batten; "but she would hear of no place but home."
Little Annie, roused from peaceful sleep, started up from her pillow, startled at the sound of voices in the room, and still more so at the strange and fearful-looking figure stretched on the bed so close to her crib.
"What's that?" cried the child in terror, pointing at her insensible mother.
"Hush! My lamb, lie down," whispered Martin. "Mother's come back from Greenwich, you must make no noise to disturb her."