“Mrs. Carver’s?—Yes.”
“Mrs. Carver’s indeed!” cried the woman, throwing an orange-peel from her with an air of disdain—“a pretty come-off indeed! as if I did not know her name, and all about her, as well as you do.”
“Do you?” said Anne; “then I am sure you know one of the best women in the world.”
The woman looked still more earnestly than before in Anne’s countenance; and then, taking hold of both her hands, exclaimed, “You poor young creature! what are you about? I do believe you don’t know what you are about—if you do, you are the greatest cheat I ever looked in the face, long as I’ve lived in this cheating world.”
“You frighten my sister,” said the boy: “do pray tell her what you mean at once, for look how pale she turns!”
“So much the better, for now I have good hope of her. Then to tell you all at once—no matter how I frighten her, it’s for her good—this Mrs. Carver, as you call her, is only Mrs. Carver when she wants to pass upon such as you for a good woman.”
“To pass for a good woman!” repeated Anne, with indignation. “Oh, she is, she is a good woman—you do not know her as I do.”
“I know her a great deal better, I tell you: if you choose not to believe me, go your ways—go to your ruin—go to your shame—go to your grave—as hundreds have gone, by the same road, before you. Your Mrs. Carver keeps two houses, and one of them is a bad house—and that’s the house you’ll soon go to, if you trust to her: now you know the whole truth.”
The poor girl was shocked so much, that for several minutes she could neither speak nor think. As soon as she had recovered sufficient presence of mind to consider what she should do, she declared that she would that instant go home and put on her rags again, and return to the wicked Mrs. Carver all the clothes she had given her.
“But what will become of us all?—She has lent my father money—a great deal of money. How can he pay her?—Oh, I will pay her all—I will go into some honest service, now I am well and strong enough to do any sort of hard work, and God knows I am willing.”