The force of the concussion sent the unfortunate individual sprawling, with rather unpleasant suddenness, on his back; while the gipsy herself, somewhat cooled by the shock, paused for a moment and grasped a lamp-post to steady herself.
“Good gracious!” gasped a deeply aggrieved voice from the pavement, “if this ain’t too bad! To be run into this way and pitched heels over head on the broad of one’s back without a minute’s warning! Why, it’s a shame!” reiterated the voice, in a still more aggrieved cadence, as its owner, a pale young man with a carpet-bag, slowly began to pick himself up.
The gipsy, having recovered from the sudden collision, was about to hurry on without paying the slightest attention to the injured owner of the carpet-bag, when that individual, catching a full view of her face, burst out in amazement:
“Why, if it ain’t Mrs. Ketura! Well, if this isn’t real surprising! How do you do? I am glad to see you, I’m sure; and I dare say it was all an accident. I hope you have been quite well since I saw you last, ma’am,” said the pale young man, politely; “I’ve been very well myself, I’m obliged to you.”
“Who are you?” said the gipsy, impatiently, scanning his mild, freckled frontispiece with her stiletto-like eyes.
“Why, you haven’t forgotten me, have you?” said the young man, straightening out his beaver, which had got stove in during the late catastrophe; “why, I’m O. C. Toosypegs! I dare say you didn’t expect to see me here, but we haven’t left England yet, you know. We’re going the day after to-morrow, aunt Prisciller and me; and I’m glad of it, too, for this here London ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. I had my pocket picked at least twenty times since I came here. They took my watch, my pocketbook, and my jack-knife, and didn’t even leave me so much as a pocket-handkerchief to wipe my nose.” And Mr. Toosypegs, who evidently considered this the climax of human depravity, gave his hat a fierce thump, that sent that astonished head-piece away down over his eyes with rather alarming suddenness.
“I don’t know you—let me pass,” said the gipsy, harshly, trying to walk away from him; but Mr. Toosypegs quickened his pace likewise, and kept up with her.
“Why, you do know me, Mrs. Ketura, and I hope you haven’t went and forgotten me so soon,” said Mr. Toosypegs, in a deeply-injured tone. “Don’t you recollect that nasty wet night, a little over two years ago, when you was walking along the north road, and I made Mr. Harkins, who is a real nice man, only a little hasty at times, take you in and drive you to town? You didn’t seem in very good spirits that night, and I was real sorry for your trouble—I really was, Mrs. Ketura.”
The gipsy made no reply. Bitterly her thoughts went back to that night—that long, desolate, sorrowful night—when she had bidden her son a last farewell. She had had her revenge; she had wrenched cries of anguish from those who had tortured her; but oh! what revenge could remove the gnawing at her heart? what vengeance could restore her her son? With one of those hollow groans that seem rending the heart they burst from, her head dropped on her bosom. There was a world of anguish and despair in the sound, and it went right to the simple heart of the really kind Mr. Toosypegs.
“There, now, don’t take on so about it,” he began, piteously; “it’s real distressing to listen to such groans as that. Everything happens for the best, you know; and though, as I remarked at the time to my friend Mr. Harkins, it was real disagreeable of them to take and send your son away, when he didn’t want to go, still it can’t be helped now, and there’s no use whatever in making a fuss about it. As my uncle, who hadn’t the pleasure of your acquaintance, has left me two thousand pounds, I should be real glad to aid you as far as money will go, and you needn’t mind about giving me your note for it either. I ain’t particular about getting it back again, I’m very much obliged to you.”