“I fear not, my dear,” said the gentleman.
“No sir, I do not,” replied the girl, after a short struggle. “I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back,—and yet I don’t know, for if you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But,” she said, looking hastily round, “this fear comes over me again. I must go home.”
“Home!” repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word.
“Home, lady,” rejoined the girl. “To such a home as I have raised for myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service all I ask is, that you leave me, and let me go my way alone.”
“It is useless,” said the gentleman, with a sigh. “We compromise her safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she expected already.”
“Yes, yes,” urged the girl. “You have.”
“What,” cried the young lady, “can be the end of this poor creature’s life!”
“What!” repeated the girl. “Look before you, lady. Look at that dark water. How many times do you read of such as I who spring into the tide, and leave no living thing, to care for, or bewail them. It may be years hence, or it may be only months, but I shall come to that at last.”
“Do not speak thus, pray,” returned the young lady, sobbing.
“It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horrors should!” replied the girl. “Good-night, good-night!”