The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery.
“What’s it to be?” said the man, with one foot on the stairs.
“That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone,” said Nancy; “and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor.”
“I say,” said the man, “you’re coming it strong!”
“You give the message,” said the girl firmly; “and let me hear the answer.”
The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs.
“It’s no good being proper in this world,” said the first housemaid.
“Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire,” said the second.
The third contented herself with wondering “what ladies was made of”; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of “Shameful!” with which the Dianas concluded.
Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired.
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Chapter XL
A Strange Interview, Which is a Sequel to the Last Chapter
THE girl’s life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman’s original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview.
But struggling with these better feelings was pride,—the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself,—even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child.
She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:
“It’s a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you’d have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either.”
“I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you,” replied Rose. “Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for.”
The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears.
“Oh! lady, lady!” she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, “if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me,—there would—there would!”
“Sit down,” said Rose, earnestly. “If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can,—I shall indeed. Sit down.”
“Let me stand, lady,” said the girl, still weeping, “and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is—is—that door shut?”
“Yes,” said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. “Why?”
“Because,” said the girl, “I am about to put my life, and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin’s, on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville.”