Perhaps for this reason Mother Slaig received Marie graciously, when she ventured into the evil-smelling place. It was like a rabbit-warren with innumerable doors, passages, stairs, and rooms, all equally foul. Men and women in ragged garbs swarmed in and out, while children tumbled here there and everywhere, shrilly crying and swearing and quarrelling. The police introduced Marie to the landlady of this thieves’ kitchen, as it truly was, and then took up his station at the door with his thumbs in his belt, to look benignly on the ebbing and flowing of the populace in and out of the lane, and in and out of the dens which bordered it. Mother Slaig, not approving of district visitors—for Marie had been presented as one—led the young lady into a small dark room on the ground floor, and sat down with a sniff, prepared to battle for her rights as an Englishwoman, who declined to be converted. She was a shapeless stout old creature swathed in various rags which had long since lost their color. Her face was so swarthy as to suggest gipsy blood, and her snappy black eyes and the quantity of cheap jewellery she wore emphasised the fact that she probably belonged to the gentle Romany.
“I don’t want no Bible talk, young lady,” she said in a harsh voice, “nor no tracts, nor no arsking if I’m saved. Whether I am or I ain’t’s my look out, so just say your say and git, though I don’t deny,” added Mother Slaig in a whining tone, “as a shilling or two, let alone gold, would help me to bear me sorrers better, bless you, my dearie.”
“I shall give you a pound if you will let me have a talk with you,” said Marie, smiling, for in spite of the woman’s disreputable looks there was something oddly attractive about her.
“A pound, and what’s a pound, miss?” grumbled Mother Slaig.
“Not much, but it is all I can afford. You are a kind-hearted woman, Mrs. Slaig, I am quite sure.”
“Me!” Mother Slaig stared. “Why I’m the tork of the place for me languidge and slappings.”
“Ah,” said Marie diplomatically, “no one has taken you in the right way.”
“P’raps they ’ave an’ p’raps they ’avn’t,” growled the woman restlessly, for Marie’s charm of manner softened her, “an what’s all this oil and butter for, miss. You want something, you do. Oh trust you fur that.”
“Yes, Mrs. Slaig, I do want something, and I am going to throw myself on your mercy, because I trust you.”
The old hag stopped scratching her elbow, and stared harder than ever. “I never was spoke delicate-like to afore,” she muttered. “You ain’t the sort of lady with tracts as I’ ’ad ’ere, bullying me no end.”