PAGE 18
Fanny McDermot
by
Augusta made no reply; she was too much pained by her mother’s levity, and she took refuge in writing the incidents of the morning to that “Aunt Emily,” in whose pure atmosphere she had been reared.
Sickening with fatigue and disappointment, Fanny, helped on her way by an omnibus, returned to the intelligence office where she had left her bundle. The official gentleman there, on hearing the story of her failure, said, “Well, it’s no fault of mine—you can’t expect a good place without a good reference.”
“Oh, I expect nothing,” replied Fanny, “I hope for nothing, but that my baby and I may lay down together and die—very soon, if it please God!”
“I am sorry for you, I declare I am,” said the man, who, though his sensibility was pretty much worn away by daily attrition, could not look, without pity, upon the pale, beautiful young creature, humb
le and gentle, and trembling in every fibre with exhaustion and despair.”You are tired out,” he said, “and your baby wants taking care of. There’s a decent lodging-house in the next street. No. 35, where you may get a night’s lodging for a shilling. To-morrow morning you’ll feel better,—the world will look brighter after a night’s sleep. Come back to me in the morning, and I will give you some more chances. I won’t go according to rule with you.”
Fanny thanked him, kissed her baby, and again, with trembling, wavering steps, went forth. She had but just turned the corner, when, overcome by faintness, she sat down on a door-step. As she did so, a woman coming from the pump turned to go down into the area of a basement-room. She rested her pail on the step, and cast her eye inquisitively on Fanny.
“God save us!” she cried, “Fanny McDermot, darlint! I’ve found you at last—just as I expected! God punish them that’s wronged you! Can’t you spake to me, darlint? Don’t you know Biddy O’Roorke?”
“Oh yes,” replied Fanny, faintly, “my only friend in this world! Indeed I do know you.”
“And indeed, and indeed, you cannot come amiss to me—you are welcome as if you were my own, to every thing I have in the world. Rise up, darlint, give me the babby. God’s pity on it, poor bird;” and taking the infant in one arm, and supporting and nearly carrying the mother with the other, she conducted Fanny down the steps and laid her on her bed. With discreet and delicate kindness, she abstained, for the present, from inquiries, and contented herself with nursing the baby, and now and then an irrepressible overflow of her heart in expression of pity and love to Fanny, and indignation and wrath against “bad craters, that had neither soul, nor heart, nor feelings, nor any such thing in them!”
In the course of the day Fanny so far recovered as to tell her friend her short, sad story, and to learn that affairs had mended with the O’Roorkes; that the drunken husband was dead, Pat and Ellen were out at service, and that the good mother, with a little help from them, and by selling apples and nuts, and now and then a windfall, got bread for herself and three little noisy, thriving children. The scantiness of her larder was only betrayed by her repeated assurances to Fanny that “she had plenty—plenty, and to spare, oceans—oceans,” and when Fanny the next morning manifested her intention of going out again to seek a place, she said, “Na, na, my darlint, it’s not that ye shall be after. Is not the bit place big enough for us all? It’s but little ye’re wanting to ate. Wait, any way, till ye’s stronger, and the babby is old enough to wane, and then ye can lave it here to play with Anny and Peggy.”