Chapter XXX: A Houseless Night Wanderer

——“Where the haters meet
in the crowded city’s horrible street.”—_Browning._

It was the fourteenth of January, and two weeks after the events related in the last chapter; it was late at night, and the snow was falling thickly; when through one of the poorest thoroughfares of New York, a slight, dark girl, thinly clad and pressing an infant to her bosom, wandered. Her gait was reeling, like that of a person under the influence of alcohol; but when she came within the glare of a street lamp, it might be seen that only cold, hunger, and fatigue had done their worst upon her. Her long, black hair hung in wild elf locks down her thin, dark, sharpened face; the fires of insanity smouldered in her gloomy eyes; like a lunatic, also, she talked to herself, muttering—

“Walk! Yes, I will walk, until I drop down, and then, perhaps, I may die!” And she toiled on, the snow-storm whirling around her, the stinging sleet cutting her face and neck, and penetrating every crevice of her clothing.

The few well wrapped-up passengers whom necessity had exposed to the storm, looked back as they passed her, or muttered, as she jostled them—

“Poor creature—tipsy!” or, “the wretch! she ought to be taken to the watch-house!”

The night grew darker, the storm fiercer, the streets lonelier; the steps of the solitary wanderer grew more feeble, tottering and uncertain, and her course more erratic. At length, when the strength of the wretched girl gave away beneath the accumulated burdens of famine, cold, and toil, she sank, prostrate and insensible, upon the ground.

By her fall, the miserable babe was dropped into the snow, and its feeble wail broke piteously on the stillness of that awful night.

Two wretched women in a cellar near heard this pitiable cry, and one of them came out into the blinding snow, muttering—

“What the deuce is that? sounded like a child’s cry! But, sartainly, no one would go for to drop a fo’ndlin’ at my door at this time o’ night, in this ere storm!”

Another feeble wail from the infant.

“’Tis a baby, sartain! I’ll go and get a blind lantern!” exclaimed the woman. And after darting into the darkness of the cellar, she reappeared with the lantern, and, guided by the wail of the infant, she soon found it where it had rolled away, at some distance, in the snow.

“Now, the watch will be here in two minutes,” she said; and seizing up the child as though she really considered it a priceless treasure, she hurried into the cellar. She had not seen the girl at all.

Now, if any one makes the mistake of supposing that this woman was actuated by zealous benevolence, they may be undeceived by hearing what were her next words.

Taking the end of the candle out of the lantern, she stuck it upon a loose brick in the old wall, and then sitting down upon an inverted tub, she proceeded to examine the child, muttering—

“As likely a baby to soften the hearts of the flats as could be wished! Looks famished, looks frozen, looks sick, and with all the rest lily white, with violet-blue eyes, and golden hair! just the thing to take the hearts of the ladies! This babe’ll be worth me a dollar a day! There’s Sall there, as ain’t done nigh so well at the trade since her baby died. And more by token I mustn’t let _this_ one die. Sall shall wake up and nurse it.”

And going to the spot where her worthless companion lay in a stupid sleep upon the floor, she shook her, saying—

“Sall! Sall! wake up! here’s luck!”

“What luck?” said the other, sleepily.

“We’re rich—that’s what we are!”

“Some of our rich ‘lations has left us a fortin’, I would’nt wonder,” said Sall, contemptuously.

“Purty nigh as good now, I can tell you!”

“What is it, then?” cried the drowsy one, impatiently sitting up.

“Why, I’ve found a fo’ndlin’, dropt right at my door; a pretty little famished, frozen thing, to melt the hearts of the ladies!” said the first woman, exhibiting the child, that had now fallen into the sleep of total exhaustion.

“Where did you find it?” said the other.

“Dropt at our door. But here—we mustn’t let it die! Put it to your bosom and nuss it, quick!”

“If I’m to nuss this ere child, I’m to have half the profits!”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Then nuss it yourself!”

While these wretches were quarrelling over the poor infant, the watch, coming his last round, stumbled and fell over some object hidden in the snow.

“Some rowdy, drunk, who I shall have to take to the lock-up!” said the man, impatiently, as he picked himself up, and then, recovering his lantern, stooped to examine the obstacle.

“A woman, by the powers! Dead, or dead-drunk, I wonder,” said the watch, raising the form and knocking off the snow.

“Poor wretch, I think she is frozen,” continued honest Cerberus, pursuing his investigations.

“Half frozen, but not quite dead. Her heart is still beating,” he concluded, as he eased her down a moment, and took up and sprang his rattle.

In an instant several of his comrades ran from various directions to the scene of action, exclaiming:

“What’s the row? Little old Midget got more on his hands than he knows what to do with?”

“No row at all,” answered the little old man, who seemed to have been made a guardian of the night, not for cunning in detecting thieves, or strength in overcoming bullies, but simply because he was too old and weak to be in request for any other service.

“What is it, then?——Oh, a woman, tipsy! Well, take her along to the lock-up. Sure, you can manage _her_, as weak as you are,” said watchman number two.

“But she ain’t intoxicated, poor thing; she’s perished along of cold and hunger; an’ ef I takes her to the lock-up, where there ain’t no fire half the time, she’ll perish outright, _she_ will.”

“Nonsense! Old fellow, if you’d been as long in the service as we have, you’d find you’d have to get rid of your tender feelin’s. Give her a lift, an’ let’s take her along to the watch’us. She’d perish here in two minutes longer anyway,” said number two.

“Stop! no! I can’t take her to the watch’us, long as she ain’t intoxicated—I can’t, friends. I’ve a darter of my own, Lord help her!”

“Well, what’ll you do, old Stick-in-the-mud? Bother! we can’t stay here all night, hearing you preach. Here, fellows, one of you give a lift, and we’ll take her round,” said number two, impatiently.

“No, stop, do!” said old Midget, pleading for the outcast as he would have done for his own child; “she ain’t a bad un! indeed she ain’t. I don’t know much, it’s true; but I know _that_ by the very looks of her. Jes’ look a-there, now; look for yourself,” he added, holding the lantern close over her face; “look at her skin—clear and clean, though ever so pale; and look at her decent black coat. I mayn’t be a scholard, nor likewise a man of the world; but I know as how the bad uns don’t look like _that_. No, she’s some poor orphan gal come from the country to seek sarvice—_that’s_ what she is, and she hain’t found it; and here she’s been a-wanderin’ about until night came on and the storm overtook her, and she dropped right down for dead—poor thing.”

“Jehosophat, king of Jerusalem! this here philanthrophyer ’ill stop here pitying the ’oman until she perishes in the snow. Here, you John, help me to rise her up. I’ll take her right off to the lock-up.”

“No, now don’t! Jes’ stop a bit, won’t you?”

“Stop, and let the gal die?—that’s your sort o’ pity!”

“No, jes’ gimme a lift, and help me to tote her round to my house; it’s just round the corner, a heap nigher than the watch-house.”

“Oh, that’s the game, is it? Well, I’ve no objection. So here goes! No, you needn’t take hold, old fellow, it’ll break your wind. I and Jack’ll carry her along. You lead the way.”

The old man lifted himself up, adjusted his lantern, and turned down the street, followed by the two young watchmen carrying the insensible form of the girl, until they reached a narrow, dark and silent alley, about midway down which they stopped before a dilapidated wooden house, of one story, with a window on each side the front door. The old man opened the door, and saying:

“This is the place, boys,” entered and struck a light.

They followed him into a poor room, with bare floor and uncurtained windows. Opposite the door by which they entered was an old stove upon the hearth. On the chimney-piece above was arranged a little stock of crockery-ware. On the right hand of the hearth, a narrow staircase led up into the loft above. On the left hand stood a spare, flat-looking bed.

“There; lay her down there, boys; my darter’ll be home presently,” said the old man.

They laid the insensible form upon the poor bed, and then one of the men said:

“We’ve got to go, you know, and so can’t be of any more help; but here’s a flask o’ brandy—I know you don’t keep such stuff about. You’d better warm some and give it to her—then rub it well into the palms of her hands and make up a big fire;” and laying the flask on the table, the man, with his companion, departed.

They had scarcely left the alley before the sound of a girlish voice was heard, and presently the door opened, and a delicate young creature, wrapped in a great warm shawl, accompanied by a little boy, and followed by a great, shaggy dog, entered the room.

“My poor little lamb, have you got wet?” asked the old man, going to the young girl to relieve her of her shawl.

“No, father; it’s not snowing so fast now; but it’s colder; the wind is rising. Eddy, light the fire, dear. Oh, father, the manager was so pleased with me to-night that he has promised to let me try a speaking-piece, and if I do well he’ll raise my salary, and——But who’s that you’ve got there, father?” she said, seeing for the first time the insensible form on the bed.

“It’s a poor young creetur as is most perished in the storm, if she ain’t quite dead. I found her and fetched her in.”

“Oh, father, then don’t let her lay there without help! Not a moment is to be lost! Eddy, hasten with that fire; pile in the wood. Father, dear, please fill the kettle and put it on to boil. There, Eddy, now run up into the loft and bring the blankets down off my bed,” said the young girl, who was all this time busy in removing the frozen upper garments of the patient. Her under-clothing, fortunately, was not wet.

These vigorous means were at length successful, and Lionne was restored to consciousness.

“Where am I?” was the question that first arose to her lips.

“With friends and well-wishers, poor girl,” said the old man, as he placed a cup of hot spiced brandy to her lips. She mechanically quaffed the cordial, and—in her weak state—overcome by its effects, she fell into a deep sleep.

“Father, dear, I’ll lay down beside the poor thing, so as to wake easy if she should need any thing in the night. You and Eddy had better go up-stairs and sleep in my bed,” said the young girl.

“Yes, Alice, darling, we will. Come, Eddy.”

And the old man and the boy went up into the loft. And Alice took off her dress and threw herself down beside the strange sleeper to rest.

When Lionne opened her eyes the next morning, their glances fell upon a poor, but clean room, with bare floor and bare windows, but with a bright dresser and a warm cooking-stove, over which a fair girl stood, making coffee.

Before full memory returned to Lionne, this girl riveted her attention. She was small and delicate, with fair skin, large, soft gray eyes, fringed with long, close, black lashes, and arched by slender, black brows; and rich masses of silky black hair waving about a forehead almost too broad and prominent for such a mere child. She wore a brown stuff gown tucked up around her waist, and revealing a gray petticoat beneath. Her sleeves were rolled up above the elbows, showing arms that would have been beautiful, but they were too thin and white—too suggestive of a slow starvation. While Lionne, in a half dreaming state, and through half vailed eyes, watched this girl, little steps were heard on the staircase, and a boy of about ten years of age came down into the kitchen. He closely resembled his sister—having the same intellectual head and face; the same broad forehead, shaded with black hair; the same black eyebrows, and long, black eyelashes, shading his large, dark eyes. He wore an old suit of coarse, gray cloth.

“You left father asleep?” inquired the girl.

“Yes, Alice,—shall I go wake him?”

“No, he was out on his beat until twelve o’clock, you know, and he must rest this morning.”

“But _you_ were out at the theatre until half-past, sister—and here you’ve been and got up and made the fire.”

“But I am younger, Eddy.”

“Yes, but you look weak as any thing, Lord bless you.”

“Take your book, Eddy, and sit down in the corner; sister will hear your lesson before she goes to rehearsal.”

“Ah, but do just let me help you a little first, Alice, you do look so pale,” pleaded the boy.

“Mind what sister says to you; that is the best thing you can do for her,” said Alice.

With a sigh, the boy obeyed, and was soon deeply engrossed in his study.

The young girl hushed the pleasant humming of her own voice and softened her own light footfall, lest she should disturb the young student in the chimney corner, or the poor stranger on the bed, as she went about doing her morning work.

She drew out the little pine-table, laid a coarse cloth upon it, took the little black waiter and the cups and saucers, and plates from the chimney piece, and arranged them upon the board, and finally cleared her coffee and covered up her bread to keep warm until her father should come down to breakfast.

And meanwhile, to fill up the time, because it seemed she could not afford to be idle, she went to some obscure corner of the little room, and brought thence a gay dress, whose braids of blue, red and yellow shone brilliantly upon a dark gray ground. Sitting down upon a low chair, she began busily to rip off the bright, variegated braid, and to rip out the tucks to let it down.

But before she had completed her task, footsteps were heard above, and soon the little, mild, old man came hobbling down the stairs. He came to his daughter’s side and laying his hand upon her soft hair, said: “Up so soon, Ally? and the room all tidied up, and breakfast ready, and you sitting down after all, sewing! always at work! so much work! all sorts of work! cooking, and washing, and ironing, and sewing, and sweeping, and cleaning, and rehearsing all day! and singing, and dancing, and acting all night! Oh, Ally! Ally! Ally!”

“Now, dear little papa, don’t be discontented! Remember how much worse off we were before we had any work at all! Better have too much than too little! I am sure I had rather be worked to death than starved to death!” replied Ally, smiling.

“And what is it you are doing now?” inquired the old man, taking a childish interest in her work and examining curiously the brilliant braids that lay in a heap by her side. “I thought I saw you sewing on all them bright things only yesterday?”

“And to-day I am ripping them off; yes, father; because yesterday they played a gay French piece, and to-night they play ‘The Quaker,’ therefore I must alter the Swiss peasant’s dress that I wore yesterday, into a Quaker dress to wear to-night, and I can do it by simply ripping off the bright braid and letting down the tucks.”

“Hum, and—maybe to-morrow you may have to sew it all on again.”

“Yes, father, these gray skirts are very convenient; they can be made very grave, or very gay by mere difference of trimming,” said Alice, cheerfully.

“But what trouble, my poor little Ally, when to think that a dollar or two more would buy you another dress, and save you all this everlasting ripping and sewing.”

“Yes, but, dear little papa, the dollar or two isn’t at hand, and therefore we must be content. And now stop grumbling and come to breakfast.”

“That poor creetur, is she awake?” whispered the old man pointing over his shoulder to the stranger on the bed.

“I think not, father,” replied Alice, as she arose, put aside her work and prepared to set breakfast on the table.

“_Yes, I am awake_; I should have let you know it before hearing all your talk,” spoke the voice, from the bed.

“Oh, that don’t matter! not the least bit in the world! we haint no secrets, thank heaven! how be you, child?” said the little old man, going to the side of the bed.

“Where am I?”

“You are in the city mansion of Timberlegs Midget, Esquire, watchman in ordinary, in the sarvice of their worships the mayor and corporation of New York,” replied the little old man, who was not without his dry vein of humor.

“How came I here?”

“In going of my last rounds last night, I fell upon you, my child! yes, actually _did_ in more’n _one_ sense for I tumbled over you, where you lay kivered over with snow! Frien’s of mine helped to bring you here.”

“_Oh! my heart! I begin to remember!_” murmured the stranger to herself.

“Poor thing! you be come from down the country mayhaps?” inquired the little old fellow, compassionately.

“Yes,” replied the stranger, in an almost inaudible voice.

“I just thought so! seeking sarvice, maybe?”

“Yes,” again responded the wayfarer, as if unable to get out one other word.

“Poor child! poor child! a hard thing to find even for a city born, as _I_ know to my sorrow: but for a stranger, a young gal seeking it—oh my! You’re an orphan, maybe?”

“Yes,” murmured the stranger, covering her face with her hands.

“Poor child! poor child! well don’t cry! you shall stay here until you can do better! I’ve a young darter of my own to larn me mercy, thank God! So now you just be easy! or if you want to get up to breakfast, I’ll jest go ’way till you dress. My Ally’s dried your clothes long ago.”

“Papa, dear, no, it is better for her to lie still,” said the young girl, in a whisper.

“My Ally says how it’s better for you to lie still, and my Ally’s always right; she’ll bring you coffee to the bedside; so you be easy; you’re quite altogether safe under the ruff of Timberlegs Midget, Esquire,—for short called Midge,” said the old man, smiling.

“Little papa! if ‘Timberlegs Midget, Esquire,’ commonly called Midge, don’t come right away to the table, his worship’s coffee will be cold!” said Alice, with mock gravity.

“He’s coming, child! he’s coming,” answered the little old man, trotting back to the table and seating himself in apparent trepidation.

Alice presided at the humble repast. She waited upon her father and her little brother, and then brought coffee to their guest.

When breakfast was over, the old man took his old over-coat and hat from their peg, and put himself into them.

“Now, little papa, you must not go out in the cold this morning,” said Alice, as soon as she noticed his preparations.

“My dear, I shall miss a great day’s work if I don’t! The snow is two feet deep on the sidewalks; I shall clear a goodly sum this day in shovelling it away from afore doors!”

“And get a pleurisy that will lay you up for two months!”

“You needn’t talk, Ally! Timberlegs Midget must—stop, what’s the soundorous words?—‘embark in this enterprise.’ Yes! Timberlegs Midget must embark in this enterprise!”

And so saying, the little old man went and brought a shovel from the back-yard, and passing through the room went out at the front door and departed.

Alice hurried with her work, cleared the table and set it away, replenished the stove, swept the room, heard Eddy his lesson, made her guest as comfortable as circumstances would permit, and then put on her coarse shawl and hood to go to rehearsal.

“I am very sorry to have to leave you, but I am employed at the theatre, and every day at ten o’clock I am obliged to attend rehearsal, or be fined for staying away. I shall be back by one o’clock; Eddy will stay with you to wait on you when you need him. And when you wish to get rid of him, you can send him up-stairs.”

“I thank you,” was all that the wayfarer could answer, and Alice departed.

“Little boy, come here,” murmured the stranger, as soon as she was left alone with the lad.

Eddy approached.

“When I was found in the snow, was there——_a child found_?”

“A child! Lord! no, ma’am,” replied the lad, in astonishment.

“Are you _sure_ that there was not?”

“Lord! yes, of course I am; what made you ask about a child?”

“I—I thought there had been a child found.”

“Law, ma’am, you _only_ thought so, you know, because you were so out of your mind like. Why, long ago, when we were _poor_, you know, and father was in so much trouble, he took a brain fever, and what do you think _he_ thought?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why, bless you, he thought the house was full of golden guineas! all heaped up in the corners, and packed up in the chests, and locked up in the cupboard! and everywhere, everywhere, piles of gold, when we hadn’t so much as a penny in the house! Sick people always think queer thoughts.”

The stranger made no comment, but covered her face with her hands, and sighed.

The lad, thinking she wished to sleep, went back to his stool and his book, where he sat perhaps an hour.

Then he arose and put away his book and replenished the fire, put on the pot, and began making such simple preparations for the midday meal as a lad of his age could manage.

At noon the old man came home, and sat down by the stove, where he remained too cold and tired even to talk, until Alice opened the door and entered the house.

Then he held out his hand to her; and when she approached, he poured six shillings into her hand, saying—

“There, my little housekeeper, take them. I have shovelled off six door-steps and sidewalks at a shilling apiece.”

“Little papa will make a fortune at this rate! but he must not go out this afternoon!”

“Indeed he doesn’t intend to, jest because he is entirely used up and done for.”

“And I am sure Ally looks the very same!” said Eddy.

The old man turned his eyes anxiously upon his daughter.

“Oh, little papa, I am only tired with standing about the scenes—that’s all! If one could sit down a little during rehearsal; but they can’t. Now just see this good boy. He has the table set and the soup all ready. I will dish it up.”

The simple meal was soon prepared and soon consumed. The stranger had been vainly urged to partake of it.

“You will fail for want of food,” said Alice, sympathetically bending over her.

“No, I am strong enough to get up and go farther, and should have done so had I known where to find my clothes,” said the wayfarer.

“Indeed, you shall not go farther until you can fare better,” said Alice; “but as soon as father goes out, I will move you up-stairs to my room, which is more private, and where we can both sleep together, This bed belongs to father and Eddy, and you were laid upon it only because they thought you too weak to be carried farther. Oh, now I tell you, you shall be very comfortable, if you will only be cheerful.”

And with these consoling words the kind girl left the bedside of her guest and sat down to complete the arrangement of her Quaker costume for the evening’s performance. This occupied her several hours.

And then, after an early and very frugal tea, the old man walked out to report himself to the watch-station; the boy went into the back-yard to prepare wood for the next day; and Alice finding the room clear, proposed attending her charge to the chamber above.

The stranger wearily agreed, arose from the bed and followed her young hostess up the narrow flight of stairs to a small room in the garret, lighted by one front and one back dormer window.

Here was a poor but neat bed, covered with a blue, checked, woollen counterpane; a little pine table, with a blue wash-basin and pitcher; above which hung a small looking-glass; a single chair sat beside the bed; and from wooden racks each side the little fireplace hung several fancy dresses.

“This is my room; I make you very welcome to it; and hope you will be able to sleep quietly for several hours. I am sorry to say that you will be quite alone this evening, for my father has gone on duty, and my brother will have to attend me to the theatre. I shall leave the light burning on the chimney-piece. Good-night.” And so saying, the kind girl kissed the pallid brow of the wayfarer and withdrew.

In two minutes after, the stranger heard Alice and her little brother leave the house for the theatre, locking the door on the outside.

And then the wayfarer threw herself upon the bed, where for hours she lay, so deeply absorbed in painful thought, that ere she knew it, midnight came and brought back her humble hosts.

She heard them softly enter the house, and stealthily move about, cautioning each other in whispers not to make a noise to disturb _her_.

And soon she felt her kind young hostess creep to bed beside her in silence and in darkness, lest she should awaken the guest whom she supposed to be sleeping.

And thus ended the wanderer’s first day.