“Is it the friend who, as you told me, interested himself to procure your pardon?” demanded Perdita.
“The friend!—the relation you mean,” said her mother, hastily. “Yes—he is my relation—the only one I possess in the world save yourself, if a daughter can be called by that name.”
The conversation, which may have served to throw additional light upon the depraved character of these two women, was interrupted by the necessity of stepping to the side of the road to permit a cart, which was on the point of overtaking them, to pass. The vehicle was driven along at a rapid pace by a sturdy, good-natured butcher; and as it was whisking by the two females, the pure moon-light falling fully on the handsome countenance of Perdita, enabled the man to catch a glimpse of the surpassing beauty of that face.
Instantly pulling up, he said, “Holloa! my good women, you are out late—or rather early—for ’tis two o’clock in the morning.”
“We are very tired, and are anxious to reach London as soon as possible,” replied Perdita’s mother.
“I am going as one may say right through London,” observed the butcher: “in fact, to Oxford Street—and if you like to have a ride, both of you, I’ll put you down at the nearest point to where your business leads you.”
The old woman greedily snapped at the offer; and the good-natured butcher helped her daughter and herself into the cart, which immediately drove on again at a spanking pace.
And now full soon did the myriad lights of London greet the eyes of the travellers; and Perdita felt her heart dilate with ineffable emotions as she drew near that sovereign city of a thousand towers, pinnacles, and spires,—that mighty Babylon in which all her hopes, her aims, her ambitious views were centred. A misty haze of light, resembling a faintly illuminated fog, appeared to hang over the vast metropolis;—and as the vehicle approached nearer and nearer still, the countless dwellings began to stand out in relief from the bosom of that dimly lustrous shroud. On—on the travellers go: the houses are scattered along the road;—but in a short time they become continuous ranges of habitations;—and now it may be airily said that the wheels of the cart rattle on the pavement of London.
But a feeling of disappointment seizes upon Perdita: instead of lordly mansions, she sees dingy-looking tenements of no considerable size, and presenting any thing but an imposing appearance, especially at that sombre hour. Nevertheless, the farther she advances the more satisfied does she become;—and now the travellers reach that great junction-point for cross-roads, where stands the Elephant and Castle.
The tap is open—the butcher stops, alights, and disappears inside the establishment. In a few minutes he returns with a steaming hot glass of brandy-and-water,—for a good-natured fellow is this butcher;—and he kindly proffers it to the two females. It was not because Perdita was so handsome, that he did it: no—it was through pure kindness, and as much for the sake of her mother as of herself. Nor did the two females require much pressing to partake of the welcome beverage; and while they were drinking their glass, their good-hearted friend hurried back to the tap to enjoy his own reeking jorum.