Mr. Bantom was, however, employed by Lotte as a messenger to her brother, to inform him of her sad misfortune, but he pursued his inquiries for Charley in a manner so mysterious, that he raised in the mind, of the Clerk whom he addressed a strong impression that Charley Clinton was deeply his debtor, for coals and greengrocery. Now, Charley’s fellow-clerk was never out of debt, and had an intense loathing for all creditors; they were, he used to say, so offensively pertinacious even when they had got an answer, therefore he replied to Mr. Bantom’s questions with curt brevity. All Mr. Bantom could gather was, that Charles Clinton had sailed for America, and his return was a question involved in obscurity. And the clerk facetiously added, “It might not be for years, and it might not be for never.”
This intelligence was a sad blow to Lotte; what to do she could not tell. The honest people who had taken her in to their humble house lived too closely from hand to mouth to aid her; indeed, she was already a burden to them; they could ill—nay, could not—afford to keep her; this she was at no loss to comprehend by what she heard and saw.
After her passion of bitter, bitter tears on learning that Charley had gone to another quarter of the globe, had passed away, she consulted with Mrs. Bantom as to what was to be done.
“I cannot lie here,” she exclaimed; “I shall worry myself to death. If I could get out, I could get work. I could in some way repay you for your kindness, Mrs. Bantom, but to be kept thus—oh, I had better died— better have died.”
She wrung her hands, and sobbed violently.
“It ain’t o’ no use your taking on in this way,” said Mrs. Bantom to her, ready to mingle her tears with her, for to say truth, the poor creature was easily moved to weep. “Somethin’ ’ll turn up, I’ll be bound. My things is too big for you—and too poor—besides, I ain’t got much more’n I stand upright in, but I dare say I shall hit on a way to dress you afore long, so don’t worrit yourself. As for the bit you eats—lor! what’s that among so many on us? there, there, hold your tongue, gal, and keep your spirits up; I’ll find a way to help you.”
And so she did. She went among her neighbours to make up the different articles that constitute the dress of a woman, and poor, as nearly all of whom she begged were, none, when they heard Lotte’s frightful story, refused her appeal. The poor never refuse to help the poor, if they have any means.
Her last application, however, should have been her first, for it was to a young girl about Lotte’s own age and figure. She was an artificial florist, a worker, too, of eighteen hours out of the twenty-four—a diligent, unmurmuring, white slave. She was able to sympathise with poor Lotte, and she generously offered to lend her all the clothes she would require, until she obtained work, and would be able to return them.
With delight Mrs. Bantom accepted her offer, and conveyed the clothes to Lotte. With yet greater delight did the poor girl attire herself in them, and hurry to the house for which she had worked before the fire had rendered her homeless. She revealed her unhappy position to the individual who had employed her (there are few like him, thank Heaven!) He listened coldly to her statement, and finding that six dozen cap fronts, his property, had been consumed in the fire, instead of commiserating her, abruptly informed her that she must pay for the blonde and flowers before she had any more work, and if in two days she did not bring to him the amount, he would pay her a visit accompanied by a policeman.
Sickened and affrighted, Lotte hurried from the house, her hopes once more dashed to the ground, her heart bursting with agony, no one to go to for counsel or assistance. What was to be done?