Hot corn: Life Scenes in New York Illustrated Part 42

So it proved that night to Agnes Brentnall. But who is she? That we have yet to learn.

We have only heard the name once, during the conversation, between Madame De Vrai and the black woman, Phebe, overheard in that eaves-dropping midnight scene described in the last chapter, unless this Agnes is the same one that we saw in a previous midnight scene, Perhaps it is, for now we remember there was a Phebe in that. At any rate that name, from both of these night scenes, had become deeply impressed upon my mind, as belonging to a beautiful girl, followed in the street by a night-prowling wolf, with a canine instinct which snuffs in the breeze the far-off scent that leads him to some wandering female.

Mrs. De Vrai had said; "Then she is lost."

What had become of her? Had the woman-devouring monster consumed the innocent girl and come back for more prey? He will prey no more, soon; he has met his deserts at last. The stony walls of the Tombs' prison, will hold him safe, and when he recovers from his broken arm, the law will have its course. He will make a good Sing Sing worker in stone. It will not break his heart, for it is as hard as the stone he will hammer.

But what of poor Agnes? Would that I knew. Did she fall before his basalisk eye? Such thoughts were upon my mind as I entered the door of the house I called my home, after such a night of strange adventures as I have just made the reader acquainted with.

"Where have you been?" was the anxious question that met me as I entered.

"What in the world took you out and kept you out all night? Did you find that woman? How is she? Is anything the matter? I do think you might write quite a romance out of your adventures."

There is no occasion to write romance, it is only necessary to give the real pictures of life--real scenes as they occur in New York, to make up a volume more strange than wildest romance.

"Where have I been? Where I saw strange sights. Where it does seem as though some mysterious influence led me, to meet with another adventure."

"You might have had one at home, sufficiently interesting, I should think. A young girl, wickedly made drunk, for the basest purpose on earth--'tis a horrid tale--you shall hear it by and by--unprotected--alone in the street, at midnight--staggering to and fro, chased like a dog by a crowd of boys and half-drunken men, taking refuge in our bas.e.m.e.nt area, within ten minutes after you left the house."

"You took her in? Yes, yes; I see, I see--a heavenly deed produces a heavenly smile."

What was it shot through my brain? A thought. A strange thought. What could have sent it there. Is it true? We shall see.

"What is her name?--where is she? You have not sent her away?"

"You shall see--come up-stairs. She is not up yet. She has been distressingly sick--she is better now, almost well, though very feeble.

The doctor says, she was poisoned."

"No doubt, if drunk, of course she was. Every drop of drunkenness-producing liquor is poison, of the most subtle kind--slow, but sure."

She was still in bed. Her kind protector had furnished her with a clean, white bed-gown and cap, and a prettier face, indicating about sixteen or seventeen years, never looked up smilingly from a downy pillow.

"She is very pale now. She vomited terribly all the latter part of the night. Her color will soon come again."

"Oh, yes, ma'am, I feel quite well now. Do let me get up and dress myself, and go home--I cannot bear to be a trouble to you any longer.

Oh, sir, she has been a mother to me--more than a mother--if I had such a mother----."

"Well, well, my girl, never mind now. You cannot get up yet. You must keep quiet to-day. To-morrow, we will see you safe home."

"Oh, sir, I cannot possibly wait till to-morrow. What will Mrs. Meltrand think?"

"She shall know all about it before night."

"Oh, no, no, no! not all, not all! I should die with shame."

"Well, then, only that you have been to see a friend, and was taken very sick."

"Yes, I have been to see a friend, a dear friend, a poor unfortunate woman. Indeed, I must get up. She is sicker than I am, and besides, I promised to go, too, and see a friend for her. It is a gentleman that she thinks a great deal of, sir,--one who was very kind to her when she was very bad, and lived very miserably, and she thinks he was sent by Providence to save her from total ruin. That, sir, was before her little daughter died. Did you ever read about that, sir? it was published in 'the New York Tribune.'"

"I do not know; that paper publishes so many stories. I read the most of them. Then, you want to see Mr. Greeley. You need not go there for that, you can----"

"Oh, are you Mr. Greeley, then?"

"No, but I shall see him soon, and I will tell him what you want. If it is to a.s.sist some poor distressed widow, you may depend upon it, he will do all he can afford, for he is a good man; his worst enemies acknowledge that."

"No, sir, it is not Mr. Greeley, that I am to go and see, it is another gentleman in the office of his paper."

"Who is it? What is his name? I know all of the gentlemen in that office; I can take your message to any one of them, and will do so with pleasure. Is it Mr. Dana? he is the next princ.i.p.al editor to Mr.

Greeley."

"No, that is not the name. I cannot recollect it, now. But he is one of the editors."

"One of the editors! Why, my girl, that paper has a dozen editors.

Perhaps, it is one of the a.s.sistants. Is it Mr. Cleveland?--no--Mr.

Snow?--no--Mr. Fry, Mr. Thayer?--no--Mr. Ripley?--no--Mr. Ottarson?"

"No, I think not, but that sounds something like it."

"Why, my dear girl, there are a hundred men, editors, reporters, compositors, pressmen, book-keepers, and all, in that office; now, how are you going to find one that you do not know, and say you have forgotten his name?"

"May be I shall recollect it when I get there. Don't you know how names come back to us sometimes? Do you never forget names?"

"Often, but I never forget faces. I have seen yours before, but I have forgotten where, just as you have forgotten that gentleman's name."

"Oh, sir, have you? well, I do not remember your face, but it does seem as though I had heard your voice, and, perhaps, if the room was not so dark, I should know you. The lady said, I must keep it dark, and sleep this morning. It is no wonder that I should forget everything, I was so badly frightened last night."

"Well, I don't see how you are to find which one you wish to see, among so many, unless you can recollect his name."

"Oh, that will be easy enough, sir. I will ask one of the gentlemen. I am sure any one of them will tell me, for I am sure they are all gentlemen, real gentlemen."

"I do not see what it is that you are to inquire for, or who, or now to find, out which one, or anything about it."

"Oh, sir, it is the one that wrote that little story about her daughter."

"Her daughter?"

"Yes, sir, Mrs. De Vrai's daughter."

A light began to dawn in my mind, and I said carelessly, "her daughter?"

"Yes, sir, her daughter. Little Katy, in that pretty story of Hot Corn.

She is Little Katy's mother, sir, and she wants to see the gentleman that wrote that story. She did not know his name until yesterday. She thought it was Mr. Greeley, and he was out of town, and she had never seen him since Little Katy was buried, and she had moved away from where she used to live, without letting him know where she was. Yesterday she found out her mistake, and sent Phebe--you laugh--do you know Phebe?"

"Yes, yes, I know Phebe, and I know you now; I know you for a kind-hearted, good-natured girl. Your name is Agnes."

"Oh, yes, sir, has Mrs. Morgan told you."

Now the reader is surprised. Yes, it is Mrs. Morgan--Athalia. It was she that faced the crowd of savages that cried "drag her out." It was she that took poor Agnes in and gave up her own bed, and nursed and watched her all night, and sent for a physician for her. It was Agnes, the girl that you have seen in the picture with the negro wood-sawyer, and at his home when Phebe divided her bed to give the poor girl a lodging. There is some goodness yet in human nature. It was Phebe that Agnes went to see, while nursing Mrs. De Vrai. It was the latter for whom she was now so anxious to get up out of her sick bed, that she might go and tell the gentleman who wrote the story of "Little Katy," that Little Katy's mother was almost dying to see him. It was by that token that she would find him.