Chapter II: Part 2

"I am afraid, Amanda, that you have only made matters worse," said she, as soon as she could venture to suggest any thing at all upon the subject. "It is always easier to prevent than to heal a breach. The day has not yet closed. There is time to go back. Your husband need never know what has been in your mind. This hasty act may be entirely concealed from him."

But the long suffering wife had been roused to opposition. A new current of feeling was sweeping across and controlling her mind. She was, therefore, deaf to the voice of reason. Still her friend, as in duty bound, urged her to think more calmly on the subject, and to retrace the steps she had taken. But all was in vain. This being so, her husband, as has been seen, called upon Mr. Lane, and informed him that his wife was at his house. From this interview Mr. Edmondson returned disheartened, and reported all that had been said on both sides to his wife.

"My husband saw Mr. Lane last evening," said Mrs. Edmondson to Amanda on the next day.

"He did!" Amanda looked eagerly into the face of her friend, while she became much agitated.

"Yes. He called to let him know that you were here."

"What did he say?"

"He wishes you to return. All will be forgotten and forgiven."

"He said that?"

"Yes."

"I have done nothing for which I desire forgiveness," said Amanda, coldly, and with the air of one who is hurt by the words of another. "If he will not have me return as his wife and equal, I can never go back."

"For the sake of your child, Amanda, you should be willing to bear much."

"My child shall not grow, up and see her mother degraded."

"She is his child as well as yours. Do not forget that," said Mrs. Edmondson. "And it is by no means certain that he will permit you to retain the possession of an object so dear to him."

The face of Mrs. Lane instantly flushed at this, a suggestion which had not before been presented to her mind.

"Did he refer to this subject in conversing with your husband?" inquired Amanda, with forced calmness.

"He did."

"What did he say?"

"That, in any event, he could not and would not be separated from his child. And you know, Amanda, that the law will give to him its guardianship."

"The law!" There was a huskiness in Mrs. Lane's voice.

"Yes, Amanda, the law. It is well for you to view this matter in all its relations. The law regards the father as the true guardian of the child. If, therefore, you separate yourself from your husband, you must expect to bear a separation from your child; for that will be most likely to follow."

"Did he speak of the law?" asked Mrs. Lane, in a still calmer voice, and with a steady eye.

"It would not be right to conceal from you this fact, Amanda. He did do so. And can you wholly blame him? It is his child as well as yours. He loves it, as you well know; and, as its father, he is responsible for it to society and to Heaven. This separation is your act. You may deprive him of your own society; but, have you a right, at the same time, to rob him of his child? I speak plainly; I would not be your friend did I not do so. Try, for a little while, to look away from yourself, and think of your husband; and especially of the consequences likely to arise to your child from your present act. It will not be a mere separation with passive endurance of pain on either side. There will come the prolonged effort of the father to recover his child, and the anguish and fear of the mother, as she lives in the constant dread of having it snatched from her hands. And that must come, inevitably, the final separation. You will have to part from your child, Amanda, if not in the beginning, yet finally. You know your husband to be of a resolute temper Do not give him a chance to press you to extremity. If he should come to the determination to recover his child from your hands, he will not stop short of any means to accomplish his purpose."

Mrs. Lane made no reply to this; nor did she answer to any further remark, appeal, or suggestion of her friend, who soon ceased to speak on the subject and left her to her own reflections, hoping that they might lead her to some better purpose than had yet influenced her in the unhappy business. On the day after, Mr. Edmondson met Lane in the street.

"I was about calling to see you," said the latter, "on the subject of this unhappy difficulty, to which, so reluctantly to yourself, you have become a party. It may be that I am something to blame. Perhaps I have been too exacting--too jealous of my prerogative as a husband. At any rate, I am willing to admit that such has been the case; and willing to yield something to the morbid feelings of my wife. What is her present state of mind?"

Mr. Edmondson looked surprised.

Remarking this, Lane said quickly, "Is she not at your house?"

"No," replied Mr. Edmondson, "she left us yesterday. We believed that she had gone home. My wife had a long conversation with her, in which she urged her, by every consideration, to return; and we had reason to think, when she left our house, that she went back to you."

"Such is not the case," said Mr. Lane, with disappointment, and something of sadness in his tone. "I have not seen her since the morning of our unhappy difference. Where can she have gone?"

Mr. Edmondson was silent.

"Did she say that she was going to return home?" asked Mr. Lane.

"No. But we had reason to think that such was her intention. Have you heard nothing from her?"

"Not a word."

"It is strange!"

Mr. Lane heaved a deep sigh. A few more brief questions and answers passed, and then the two men separated. The forsaken husband went home with a sadder heart than he had yet known. The absence of his wife and child for several days--both objects of real affection--and absent under such peculiar and trying circumstances, had subdued, to a great extent, his angry feelings. He was prepared to yield much. He would even have gone to his wife, and acknowledged that he was partly in error, in order to have brought about a reconciliation. Something that she had said during their last, exciting interview, which he had rejected as untrue, or not causes of complaint, had represented themselves to his mind; and in the sober reflecting states that were predominant, he saw that he had not in all things treated her as an equal, nor regarded her at all times as possessing a rational freedom as independent as his own. Though he did not excuse her conduct, he yet thought of it less angrily than at first, and was willing to yield something in order to restore the old relations.

Anxiety and alarm now took possession of his mind. The distance between them had become wider, and the prospect of a reconciliation more remote. Amanda had gone, he could not tell whither. She had neither money nor friends; he knew not into what danger she might fall, nor what suffering she might encounter. It was plain from the manner of her leaving the house of Mr. Edmondson, that her resolution to remain away from him was fixed. He must, therefore, seek her out, and invite her to return. He must yield if he would reconcile this sad difficulty. And he was now willing to do so. But, where was she? Whither should he go in search of the wanderer?

The very means which her friend had taken to induce Mrs. Lane to return to her husband, had driven her farther away. The hint touching her husband's legal rights in the child, and his resolution to assert them, filled her with the deepest alarm, and determined her to put it beyond his power, if possible, to deprive her of the only thing in life to which her heart could now cling. Toward her husband, her feelings were those of an oppressed one for an oppressor. From the beginning, he had almost suffocated her own life by his pressure upon her freedom of will. She remembered, with, tears, his tenderness and his love; but soon would come the recollection of his constant interference in matters peculiarly her own; his evident contempt for her intellect; and his final efforts to subdue her rising independence, and make her little less than a domestic slave--and the fountain of her tears would become dry. Added to all this, was the fact of his resolution to recover his child by law. This crushed out all hope from her heart. He had no affection left for her. His love had changed to hate. He had assumed toward her the attitude of a persecutor. Nothing was now left for her but self-protection.

In leaving the home of her husband, Mrs. Lane had exercised no forethought. She made no estimate of consequences, and provided for no future contingencies. She was blind in her faint-heartedness, that was little less than despair. Any thing was better than to remain in a state of submission, that had become, she felt, intolerable. Leaving thus, Mrs. Lane had taken with her nothing beyond a few dollars in her purse, and it was only an accident that her purse was in her pocket. All her own clothes and those of her child, except what they had on, were left behind.

Alarmed at the threat of her husband, Mrs. Lane, a few hours after the conversation with Mrs. Edmondson, in which his views were made known to her, took her child and went away. In parting with her friend, she left upon her mind the impression that she was going home. This was very far from her intention. Her purpose was to leave New York, the city of her residence, as quickly as possible, and flee to some obscure village, where she would remain hidden from her husband. She had resided, some years before, for a short time in Philadelphia; and thither she resolved to go, and from thence reach some point in the country. On leaving the house of her friend, Mrs. Lane hurried to the river and took passage in the afternoon line for Philadelphia.

As the cars began their swift movement from Jersey City, a feeling of inexpressible sadness came over her, and she began to realize more distinctly than she had yet done, her desolate, destitute, and helpless condition. After paying her passage, she had only two dollars left in her purse; and, without money, how was she to gain friends and shelter in a strange city? To add to her unhappy feelings, her child commenced asking for her father.

"Where is papa?" she would repeat every few minutes. "I want to go to my papa."

This was continued until it ended in fretfulness and complaints at the separation it was enduring. Tears and sobs followed; and, finally, the child wept herself to sleep.

A new train of feelings was awakened by this incident. In leaving her husband, Mrs. Lane had thought only of herself. She had not once considered the effect of a separation from its father upon her child. Little Mary's heart was full of affection for the two beings whom nature prompted her to love. Her father's return from business had always been to her the happiest event of the day; and, when she sprang into his arms, her whole being would thrill with delight. Days had passed since she had seen her father, and she was pining to meet him again to lay her head upon his bosom--to feel his arms clasped tightly around her.

All this was realized by the mother, as the child lay sleeping on her arm, while the swift rolling cars bore them farther and farther away from the home she was leaving. Is it just to the child? Distinctly did this thought present itself in her mind. For a long time she mused over it, her feelings all the while growing more and more tender, until something like repentance for the step she had taken found its way into her mind--not for what she was herself suffering, but for the sake of her child. She had not thought of the effect upon little Mary, until the pain of absence showed itself in complaint.

This idea arose clearly before her--she could not push it aside; and, the more she pondered it, the more troubled did she become, from a new source. Would not the separation so deeply afflict the child as to rob her of all happiness?

While these thoughts had full possession of the mother's mind, Mary slept on and dreamed of her father, as was evident from the fact that, more than once, she murmured his name.

When night came down, its effect upon Mrs. Lane was more sadly depressing, for it brought her into a clearer realization of her unhappy condition. Where was she going? What was the uncertain future to bring forth? All was as dark as the night that had closed around her.

At length the cars reached Bristol, and it became necessary to leave them, and pass into the boat. In lifting Mary in her arms, to bear her from the cars, the child again murmured the name of her father, which so affected Mrs. Lane, that her tears gushed forth in spite of her efforts to restrain them. Letting her veil fall over her face to conceal this evidence of affliction from her fellow-passengers, she proceeded with the rest; and, in a little while, was gliding swiftly down the river. It was ten o'clock when they arrived in Philadelphia. For an hour previous to this time, the mind of the fugitive had been busy in the effort to determine what course she should take on gaining the end of her journey. But the nearer she came to its termination, the more confused did she become, and the less clearly did she see the way before her. Where should she go on reaching the city? There as no one to receive her; no one to whom she could go and claim protection, or even shelter.

This state of irresolution continued until the boat touched the wharf, and the passengers were leaving. Mary was awake again, and kept asking, every few moments, to go home.

"Yes, dear, we will go home," the mother would reply, in a tone of encouragement, while her own mind was in the greatest uncertainty and distress.

"Why don't papa come?" asked the child, as one after another moved away, and they were left standing almost alone. At this moment, an Irishman, with a whip in his hand, came up, and said--

"Want a carriage, ma'am?"

Mrs. Lane hesitated a moment or two, while she thought hurriedly, and then replied--

"Yes."

"Very well, ma'am; I'll attend to you. Where is your baggage?"

"I have only this basket with me."

"Ah! well; come along." And Mrs. Lane followed the man from the boat.

"Where shall I drive you?" he asked, after she had entered the carriage.

There was a pause, with apparent irresolution.

"I am a stranger here," said Mrs. Lane innocently. "I want to obtain pleasant accommodations for a day or two. Can you take me to a good place?"

"Faith, and I can--as good as the city will afford. Do you wish one of the tip-top places, where they charge a little fortune a week; or a good comfortable home at a reasonable price?"

"I want a comfortable, retired place, where the charges are not extravagant."

"Exactly; I understand."

And the driver closed the door, and, mounting his box, drove off. At the end of ten minutes the carriage stopped, the steps were let down, and Mrs. Lane, after descending, was shown into a small parlour, with dingy furniture. A broad, red-faced Irish woman soon appeared, at the summons of the driver.

"I've brought you a lady customer, Mrs. McGinnis, d'ye see? And you're just the one to make her at home and comfortable. She's a stranger, and wants a quiet place for a day or two."

"And, in troth, she'll find it here, as ye well say, John Murphy. Will the lady put off her bonnet? We'll have her room ready in a jiffy! Much obleeged to yees, John Murphy, for remembering us. What a darlint of a child; bless its little heart!"

"What must I pay you?" asked Mrs. Lane, hoarsely, turning to the driver.

"One dollar, ma'am," was replied.

Mrs. Lane drew forth her purse, towards which the Irishwoman glanced eagerly, and took therefrom the sum charged, and paid the man, who immediately retired. The landlady followed him out, and stood conversing with him at the door for several minutes. When she returned, she was less forward in her attentions to her guest, and somewhat inquisitive as to who she was, where she had come from, and whither she was going. All these Mrs. Lane evaded, and asked to have her room prepared as quickly as possible, as she did not feel very well, and wished to retire. The room was at length ready, and she went up with little Mary, who had again fallen to sleep. It was small, meagerly furnished, and offensive from want of cleanliness. In turning down the bed clothes, she found the sheets soiled and rumpled, showing that the linen had not been changed since being used by previous lodgers. The first thing that Mrs. Lane did, after laying her sleeping child upon the bed, was to sit down and weep bitterly. The difficulties about to invest her, as they drew nearer and nearer, became more and more apparent; and her heart sank and trembled as she looked at the unexpected forms they were assuming. But a single dollar remained in her purse; and she had an instinctive conviction that trouble with the landlady on account of money was before her. Had she been provided with the means of independence, she would have instantly called a servant, and demanded a better room, and fresh linen for her bed; but, under the circumstances, she dared not do this. She had a conviction that the Irishwoman was already aware of her poverty, and that any call for better accommodations would be met by insult. It was too late to seek for other lodgings, even if she knew where to go, and were not burdened with a sleeping child.

Unhappy fugitive! How new and unexpected were the difficulties that already surrounded her! How dark was the future! dark as that old Egyptian darkness that could be felt. As she sat and wept, the folly of which she was guilty in the step she had taken presented itself distinctly before her mind, and she wondered at her own blindness and want of forethought. Already, in her very first step, she had got her feet tangled. How she was to extricate them she could not see.

Wearied at last with grief and fear, her mind became exhausted with its own activity. Throwing herself upon the bed beside her child, without removing her clothes, she was soon lost in sleep. Daylight was stealing in, when the voice of little Mary awakened her.

"Where's papa?" asked the child, and she looked with such a sad earnestness into her mother's face, that the latter felt rebuked, and turned her eyes away from those of her child. "Want to go home," lisped the unhappy babe--"see papa."

"Yes, dear," soothingly answered the mother.

Little Mary turned her eyes to the door with an expectant look, as if she believed her father, whom she loved, was about to enter, and listened for some moments.

"Papa! papa!" she called in anxious tones, and listened again; but there was no response. Her little lip began to quiver, then it curled grievingly; and, falling over, she hid her face against her mother and began sobbing.

Tenderly did the mother take her weeping child to her bosom, and hold it there in a long embrace. After it had grown calm she arose, and adjusting her rumpled garments, and those of Mary, sat down by the windows to await the events that were to follow. In about half an hour a bell was rung in the passage below, and soon after a girl came to her room to say that breakfast was ready.

"I wish my breakfast brought to me here," said Mrs. Lane.

The girl stared a moment and then retired. Soon after, the Irish landlady made her appearance.

"What is it ye wants, mum?" said that personage, drawing herself up and assuming an air of vulgar dignity and importance.

"Nothing," replied Mrs. Lane, "except a little bread and milk for my child."

"Isn't yees coming down to breakfast?"

Mrs. Lane shook her head.

"Ye'd better. It's all ready."

"I don't wish any thing. But if you'll send me up something for my child, I will be obliged to you."

The landlady stood for some moments, as if undecided what she should do, and then retired. About half an hour afterwards, a dirty looking Irish girl appeared with a waiter, on which were the articles for which she had asked.

"Don't ye want any thing for yerself, mum?" asked the girl, with some kindness in her voice.

"No, I thank you," was replied.

"You'd better eat a little."

"I've no appetite," said Mrs. Lane, turning her face away to conceal the emotion that was rising to the surface.

The girl retired, and the food brought for the child was placed before her; but she felt as little inclined to eat as her mother, and could not be induced to take a mouthful. Turning from the offered food, she raised her tearful eyes to her mother's face, and in a choking voice said--"Go home, mamma--see papa."

The words smote, like heavy strokes, upon the mother's heart. How great a wrong had she done her child! But could she retrace her steps now? Could she go back and humble herself under the imperious will of her husband? Her heart shrunk from the thought. Any thing but that! it would crush the life out of her. An hour she sat, with these and kindred thoughts passing through her mind, when the girl who had brought up Mary's breakfast came in and said--"Won't yees walk down into the parlour, mum, while I clean up your room?"

"Is any one down there?" asked Mrs. Lane.

"No, mum," was answered by the girl.

With some reluctance Mrs. Lane descended to the small, dingy parlour, which she found adjoining a bar-room, whence there came the loud voices of men. From a window she looked forth upon the street, which was narrow, and crowded with carts, drays, and other vehicles. Opposite were old houses, in which business of various kinds was carried on. One was occupied by a cooper; another used as a storehouse for fish; another for a grog-shop. Every thing was dirty and crowded, and all appeared bustle and confusion. It was plain to her that she had fallen in an evil place, and that her first business must be escape. As she sat meditating upon the next step, there came suddenly, from the bar-room, the sound of angry voices, mingled with fierce threats and shocking blasphemy. Springing to her feet in terror, Mrs. Lane caught up her child, and was about starting from the door without any covering upon her head, when the landlady intercepted her.

"What's the matter with yees? Where are ye going?"

With quivering lips, and face white with alarm, Mrs. Lane replied--"Oh, ma'am! get me my things and let me go."

"Ye can go when ye pays yer bill, in welcome," replied the woman.

"How much is it?"

"It's a dollar and a half."

The Irishwoman looked steadily at Mrs. Lane, and saw, by the change in her countenance, what she had expected, that she had not as much money in her possession.

"Won't a dollar pay you?" asked Mrs. Lane, after standing with her eyes upon the floor for some moments. "I've had nothing but my night's lodging and surely a dollar will pay for that."

"Indade and it won't, then! Sure, and yer breakfast was got. If ye didn't ate it, I'm not to fault.

"Here is a dollar," said Mrs. Lane, taking out her purse. "I'm sure it's full pay for all I've received."

"And d'ye mane to call me an ould chate, ye spalpeen, ye!" indignantly replied the landlady, her face growing red with anger, while she raised her huge fist and shook it at her terrified guest, who retreated back into the parlour, and sank, trembling, into a chair.

"As if I wasn't an honest woman," continued the virago, following Mrs. Lane. "As if I'd extort on a lone woman! Give me patience! When ye pays the dollar and a half, ye can go; but not a foot shall ye take from my door until then."

A scuffle took place in the bar-room at that moment, attended by a new eruption of oaths and imprecations.

Quickly sprinting from her chair, Mrs. Lane, with Mary in her arms, glided from the room, and ran panting up-stairs to her chamber, the door of which she locked behind her on entering.

Half an hour of as calm reflection as it was possible for Mrs. Lane to make brought her to the resolution to leave the house at all hazards. Where she was to go, was to be an afterthought. The greatest evil was to remain; after escaping that, she would consider the means of avoiding what followed. Putting on her bonnet and shawl, and taking her basket, she went down-stairs with her child, determined, if possible, to get away unobserved, and after doing so, to send back, by any means that offered, the only dollar she possessed in the world to the landlady. No one met her on the stairs, and she passed the parlour-door unobserved. But, alas! the street-door was found locked and the key withdrawn. After a few ineffectual attempts to open it, Mrs. Lane went into the parlour, and, standing there, debated for some moments whether she should leave the house by passing through the bar-room, or wait for another opportunity to get away by the private en-trance. While still bewildered and undetermined the landlady came in from the bar-room.

The moment she saw her guest, she comprehended the purpose in her mind.

"Where are ye going?" said she in a quick sharp voice, the blood rising to her coarse sensual face.

"I am going to leave your house," replied Mrs. Lane, in as firm a voice as she could command. As she spoke she drew forth her purse, and taking out the solitary dollar it contained, added--"Unfortunately, this is all the money I have with me, but I will send you the other half-dollar."

But the landlady refused to take the proffered money, and replied, indignantly,

"A purty how d'you do, indeed, to come into a genteel body's house, and then expect to get off without paying your bill. But ye don't know Biddy McGinnis--ye don't! If yees wants to go paceable, pay the dollar and a half. But until this is done, ye shall not cross my door-stone."

"I can't stay here! What good will it do?" said Mrs. Lane, wringing her hand. "It's all the money I've got; and remaining won't increase the sum, while it adds to the debt. Better let me go now."

"Indade, and ye'll not go, thin, my lady! I'll tache yees to come into a respectable body's house without as much money in yer pocket as 'll pay for the night's lodging. I wonder who ye are, any how! No better than ye should be, I'll warrint!"

While speaking, the Irishwoman had drawn nearer and nearer, and now stood with her face only a few inches from that of her distressed guest, who, bursting into tears, clasped her hands together, and sobbed--

"Let me go! let me go! If you have the heart of a woman, let me go!"

"Heart of a woman, indade!" returned Mrs. McGinnis, indignantly. "Yer a purty one to talk to me about the heart of a woman. Stalein into a body's house at twelve o'clock at night, and thin tryin' to go off without paying for the lodgings and breakfast. Purty doings!"

"What's the matter here?" said a well dressed man, stepping in from the bar-room and closing the door behind him. "What do you mean by talking to the lady in this way, Mrs. McGinnis? I've been listening to you."

There was an instant change in the Irishwoman. Her countenance fell, and she retreated a few steps from the object of her vituperation.

"What's all this about? I should like to know," added the man in a decided way. "Will you explain, madam?" addressing Mrs. Lane, in a kind voice. "But you are agitated. Sit down and compose yourself."

"Let her pay me my money, that's all I want," muttered the landlady.

In a moment the man's purse was drawn from his pocket. "What does she owe you?"

"A dollar and a half, bad luck till her!"

"There's your money, you old termagant!" And the man handed her the amount. "And now, as you are paid, and have nothing more to say to this lady, please to retire and let her be freed from your presence."

"Yees needint call me ill names, Misther Bond," said the woman, in a subdued voice, as she retired. "It doesn't become a jentilman like you. I didn't mane any harm. I only wanted my own, and sure I've a right to that."

"Well, you've got your own, though not in a way that does either you or your house much credit," returned the man. "The next time you are so fortunate as to get a lady in your hotel, I hope you'll know better how to treat her."

Mrs. McGinnis retired without further remark, and the man turned to Mrs. Lane, and said, in a kind, respectful manner,

"I am sorry to find you so unhappily situated, and will do any thing in my power to relieve you from your present embarrassment. Your landlady here is a perfect virago. How did you happen to fall into her hands?"

Encouraged by the kindness of the man's address, as well as from the fact that he had rescued her from a violent woman, Mrs. Lane, after composing herself, said--

"I came in from New York last night, and, being a stranger, asked the cabman to take me to a good hotel. He brought me here. I happened to have but two dollars in my purse, he charged one for carriage hire."

"The extortioner!"

"Finding into what a wretched place he had brought me, I wished to leave this morning, but have been prevented because I could not pay a dollar and a half when I had only a dollar. I told her to let me go, and I would send her the balance claimed; but she only met the proposition by insult."

"The wretch!" exclaimed the man, indignantly. "I happened to be passing, and, hearing her loud voice, glanced in at the window. In an instant I comprehended, to some extent, the difficulty; and, knowing her of old, came in to see if something were not wrong. She is a bad woman, and her house is a snare for the innocent. It is fortunate for you that I came at the right moment!"

Mrs. Lane shuddered.

"And now, madam," said the man, "what can I do for you? Have you friends in the city?"

"I am an entire stranger here," replied Mrs. Lane.

"Were you going farther?

"Yes," was answered after some hesitation.

"Where do your friends reside?"

"In New York."

"Ah!"

"This is your child?" was said, after a pause.

"Yes."

There was something in the man's manner, and in the way he looked at her, that now made Mrs. Lane shrink from, as instinctively as she had at first leaned towards him. Beneath his steady eye her own drooped and rested for some moments on the floor.

"Is your husband in New York?" pursued the man.

This question caused the heart of Mrs. Lane to bound with a sudden throb. Her husband! She had deserted him, her natural and lawful protector, and already she was encompassed with difficulties and surrounded by dangers. What would she not at that moment have given to be safely back in the home she had left? To the last question she gave a simple affirmative.

"Where do you wish to go when you leave here?" inquired the man, who had perceived a change in her and understood its nature.

"I wish to be taken to a good hotel, where I can remain a day or two, until I have time to communicate with my friends. My being out of money is owing to an inadvertence. I will receive a supply immediately on writing home."

The man drew his purse from his pocket, and, presenting it, said--

"This is at your service. Take whatever you need."

Mrs. Lane thanked him, but drew back.

"Only get me into some safe place, until I can write to my friends," said she, "and you would lay both them and me under the deepest obligations."

The man arose at this, and stepping into the bar room, desired the bar-keeper to send for a carriage. From a stand near by one was called. When it came to the door, he informed Mrs. Lane of the fact, and asked if she were ready to go.

"Where will you take me?" she asked.

"To the United States Hotel," replied the man. "You could not be in a safer or better place."

On hearing this, Mrs. Lane arose without hesitation, and, going from the house, entered the carriage with the man, and was driven away. Drawing her veil over her face, she shrank into a corner of the vehicle, and remained in sad communion with her own thoughts for many minutes. From this state of abstraction, the stopping of the carriage aroused her. The driver left his seat and opened the door, when her companion stepped forth, saying as he did so--

"This is the place," and offering at the same time his hand.

As Mrs. Lane descended to the street, she glanced with a look of anxious inquiry around her. Already a suspicion that all might not be right was disturbing her mind. Two years before she had been in Philadelphia, and had stayed several days at the United States Hotel. She remembered the appearance of the building and the street, but now she did not recognise a single object. All was strange.

"Is this the United States Hotel?" she asked eagerly.

"Oh, yes, ma'am," was the smiling reply. "We are at the private entrance."

Her bewildered mind was momentarily deceived by this answer, and she permitted herself to be led into a house, which she soon discovered not to be an hotel. The most dreadful suspicions instantly seized her. So soon as she was shown into a parlour, the man retired. A woman came in shortly afterwards, who, from her appearance, seemed to be the mistress of the house. She spoke kindly to Mrs. Lane, and asked if she would walk up into her room.

"There has been some mistake," said the poor wanderer, her lips quivering in spite of her efforts to assume a firm exterior.

"Oh, no, none at all," quickly replied the woman, smiling.

"Yes, yes there is. I am not in the hotel where I wished to go. Why have I been brought here? Where is the man with whom I came?"

"He has gone away; but will return again. In the mean time do not causelessly distress yourself. You are safe from all harm."

"But I am not where I wished to go," replied Mrs. Lane. "Will you be kind enough to give me the direction of the United States Hotel, and I will walk there with my child."

The woman shook her head.

"I could not permit you to go until Mr. Bond returned," said she. "He brought you here, and will expect to find you when he comes back."

"I will not remain." And as she said this in a firm voice, Mrs. Lane arose, and, taking her little girl in her arms, made an attempt to move through the door into the passage. But the woman stepped before her quickly, and in a mild, yet decided way, told her that she could not leave the house.

"Why not?" asked the trembling creature.

"Mr. Bond has placed you in my care, and will expect to find you on his return," answered the woman.

"Who is Mr. Bond? What right has he to control my movements?"

"Did you not place yourself in his care?" inquired the woman. "I understood him to say that such was the case."

"He offered to protect me from wrong and insult."

"And, having undertaken to do so, he feels himself responsible to your friends for your safe return to their hands. I am responsible to him."

"Deceived! deceived! deceived!" murmured Mrs. Lane, bursting into tears and sinking into a chair, while she hugged her child tightly in her arms, and laid its face against her own.

The woman seemed slightly moved at this exhibition of distress, and stood looking at the quivering frame of the unhappy fugitive, with a slight expression of regret on her face. After Mrs. Lane had grown calm, the woman said to her:

"Is your husband living?"

"He is," was answered, in a steady voice.

"Where does he reside?" continued the woman.

"In New York," replied Mrs. Lane.

"What is his name?"

Mrs. Lane reflected, hurriedly, for some moments, and then gave a correct answer, adding, at the same time, that for any attempted wrong, there would come a speedy and severe retribution. The next inquiry of the woman was as to her husband's occupation, which was also answered correctly.

"And now," added Mrs. Lane, with assumed firmness, "you had better let me retire from this place immediately, and thus avoid trouble, which, otherwise, you would be certain to have. My husband is a merchant of influence, and a man who will not stop at half measures in seeking to redress a wrong. This man, whoever he may be, who has so basely deceived me, will find, ere long, that he has done an act which will hot go unpunished, and that severely. As for yourself, be warned in time, and let me go from this place."

Again Mrs. Lane sought to pass from the room, but was prevented. The woman was neither harsh, rude, nor insulting in her manner, but firmly refused to let her leave the house, saying--"I am responsible for your safe keeping, and cannot, therefore, let you go."

She then urged her to go up-stairs and lay off her things, but Mrs. Lane refused, in the most positive manner, to leave the parlour.

"You will be more comfortable in the chamber we have prepared for you," said the woman, coldly; "but you must do as you like. If you want any thing, you can ring for it."

And saying this, she turned from the room, and locked the door through which she retired. The instant she was gone, Mrs. Lane sprang towards one of the front windows, threw it up and attempted to draw the bolt which fastened the shutter; but her effort was not successful: the bolt remained immovable. On a closer inspection, she found that it was locked. The back window was open, but a glance into the yard satisfied her that it would be useless to attempt escape in that way. Hopeless in mind and paralyzed in body, she again sank down inactive.

Little Mary, who had been left standing on the floor during this effort to escape, now came up to where she had thrown herself upon a sofa, and, laying her little face upon her breast, looked tearfully at her, and said, in a low, sorrowful voice--"Won't papa come? I want my papa--my dear papa."

Not a word could the mother reply to her unhappy child, who, in her folly, she had so wronged. Oh, what would she not have given at that moment to see the face of her husband!

Five or six hours had passed. In a small sitting room, near the parlour in which Mrs. Lane was still a prisoner, stood the man named Bond, and the woman who had received her.

"Mrs. Lane did you say she called herself?" said the man, with a sudden change of manner--"and from New York?"

"Yes."

"Did you inquire her husband's business?"

"She said he was a merchant of standing, and threatened both you and me with the severest consequences, if she were not instantly released."

"Can it be possible!" remarked the man, and he stood in a musing attitude for some time. "I'm a little afraid this affair is not going to turn out quite so pleasantly as I at first supposed. I think I know her husband."

"You do!"

"Yes. We have had several business transactions together, if he is the individual I suppose him to be."

"Then you had better get her off of your hands as quickly as possible; and this will be no hard matter. Only open the cage-door, and the bird will fly."

"Confound that Irish huzzy! She and her John Murphy have scared up a nice bit of adventure for me."

"Both you and they ought to have known better than to expect any thing but trouble from a woman with a baby. As it is, the best thing for you is to get her off of your hands forthwith."

"I don't like to give up after progressing so far. It isn't my disposition."

"A wise man foresees evil, and gets out of its way."

"True; and my better course is to step aside, I suppose. But what shall we do with her?"

"Open the cage-door, as I said, and let her escape."

"Where will she go?"

"Have you any concern on that head?"

"Some. Moreover, I don't just comprehend the meaning of her visit here alone at night, and without money. I wonder if, after all, there isn't a lover in the case, who has failed to meet her."

"Most likely," returned the woman.

"In that event, why may not I take his place?"

"It will require her consent. Better have nothing more to do with her, and thus keep out of the way of trouble.

"Her husband, if she be the wife of the man I think she is," said Bond, "will hardly stop at half-way measures in an affair like this."

"So much the more reason for keeping out of his way."

"Perhaps so; and yet I like adventure, especially when spiced with a little danger. Upon second thought, I'll let her remain here until to-morrow."

"Just as you like. But I've been unable to get her up-stairs; and she can't stay in the parlour all night."

"No. She must go to the chamber you have prepared for her."

"How will we get her there?"

"Use every effort you can to induce her to comply with our wishes in this respect. I will come in after nightfall, and, if you have not been successful, will remove her by force."

With this understanding, the partners in evil separated.

Soon after parting with Mr. Edmondson, who had informed Mr. Lane that his wife was no longer at his house, and when the latter had begun to feel exceedingly anxious, he met a gentleman who said to him, "When do you expect Mrs. Lane back?"

It was with difficulty that the deserted husband could refrain from the exhibition of undue surprise at such an unexpected question.

"I was over the river yesterday afternoon with a friend who was on his way to Philadelphia," added the man, "and saw your lady in the cars."

"Good morning," said Mr. Lane, as he looked at his watch, and then turned away with a hurried manner.

It was half-past eleven o'clock. At twelve a line started for the South. Lane was on board the steamboat when it left the dock. Six hours and a half of most intense anxiety were passed ere the unhappy man reached Philadelphia. On arriving, he took a carriage and visited all the principal hotels, but not a word could he hear of his wife. He then bethought him to make some inquiries of the hackman whom he had employed.

"Were you at the wharf last night when the New York line came in?" he asked, as he stood with his hand on the carriage-door, after leaving one of the hotels, again disappointed in his search.

"I was," replied the hackman.

"Did you get any passengers?"

"No, sir."

"Did you see any thing of a lady with a child?"

The hackman thought for a little while, and then replied--

"Yes, I did. There was a lady and a child, nearly the last on the boat. John Murphy drove them away."

"Where can I find John Murphy?" eagerly enquired Mr. Lane.

"He's probably on the stand."

"Drive me there if you please." And he sprang into the carriage.

In a few minutes they were at a carriage stand; and Mr. Lane heard the driver call out, as he reined up his horses--"Hallo! there, John Murphy! here's a gentleman who wants to see you."

The person addressed came up as Mr. Lane descended from the carriage.

"I understand," said Lane, "that you received a lady and child in your carriage, last night, from the New York line. Where did you take them?"

"Who said that I did?" boldly inquired the man addressed.

"I said so!" as firmly replied the driver who had given the information to Mr. Lane. "What interest have you in denying it?"

Murphy evinced some surprise at this, and looked a little dashed, but repeated his denial.

A new fear instantly seized Mr. Lane. His wife might have been entrapped into some den of infamy, through means of the driver she had employed to convey her to an hotel. The thought affected him like an electric shock.

"You are certain of what you say?" asked Mr. Lane, turning to the hackman he had employed.

"Certain," was answered positively.

"Is there a police officer near at hand?" was the next inquiry. This was intended as no threat; and Murphy understood its meaning.

The eyes of Mr. Lane were fixed on his face, and he saw in it a guilty change. No reply being made to the question about a police officer, Mr. Lane said, addressing the accused hackman--

"If you wish to escape trouble, take me instantly to the house where I can find the lady you took from the boat last night. She is my wife, and I will go through fire and water to find her; and let him who stands in my way take the consequences."

Murphy now drew Mr. Lane aside, and said a few words to him hurriedly.

"Can I depend upon what you say?" eagerly asked the latter.

"Yes, upon honour!" replied the hackman.

"You must go with me," said Lane.

"I cannot leave the stand."

"I will call a policeman and compel you to go with me, if you don't accompany me peaceably. As I live, I will not part from you until I find her! Take your choice--go quietly, or under compulsion."

There was a fierce energy in the excited man that completely subdued the Irish hackman, who, after a further, though feeble remonstrance, got into the carriage with Mr. Lane, and was driven off. The course taken was out--street. Some distance beyond Washington Square, the carriage stopped before a house, in which Mr. Lane was informed that he would find the woman whom Murphy had taken from the boat the night before. He stepped out quickly, and, as he sprang across the pavement, Murphy, who was out of the carriage almost as soon as he was, glided around the corner of a street, and was beyond recall. A quick jerk of the bell was answered by a female servant, who held the door only partly open, while Lane addressed her.

"Wasn't there a woman and child brought here last night?" said he, in an agitated manner.

"No, sir," replied the girl; and, as she spoke, she made an attempt to close the door, seeing which, Mr. Lane thrust a part of his body in and prevented the movement.

"Are you certain?" he asked.

"I am," was positively answered, while the girl strove to shut the door by forcing it against Mr. Lane. At this moment something like a smothered cry from within reached his ears, when, throwing open the door with a sudden application of strength that prostrated the girl, he stepped over her body and entered the vestibule. Just then there arose a wild cry for help! He knew the voice; it came from one of the parlours, into which he rushed. There he saw his wife struggling in the arms of a woman and a man, while his frightened child stood near, white and speechless with terror. As he entered, Amanda saw him.

"Oh, my husband!" she exclaimed. In a moment she was released, and the man and woman fled from the room, but not before the face of the former was fully recognised by Mr. Lane.

Little Mary had already sprung to her father, and was quivering and panting on his breast.

"Oh! take me away quickly--quickly!" cried Mrs. Lane, staggering towards her husband and falling into his arms.

Without waiting for explanations, Mr. Lane went from the house with his wife and child, and, placing them in the carriage at the door, was driven to an hotel.

The reader doubtless understands the scene we have just described. The man named Bond was in the act of carrying out his threat to remove Mrs. Lane to a chamber by force when her husband appeared.

Of all that passed between the severely-tried husband and wife after their meeting, it behooves us not to write. The circumstances we have detailed were exceedingly painful to the parties most interested; but their effect, like the surgeon's knife, was salutary. Mr. Lane afterwards regarded his wife from an entirely different point of view, and found her a very different woman from what he had at first believed her to be. He saw in her a strength of character and a clearness of intellect for which he had never given her credit; and, from looking down upon her as a child or an inferior, came to feel towards her as an equal.

His indignation at the treatment she had received in Philadelphia was extreme. The man named Bond he knew very well, and he at first determined to call him to account personally; but as this would lead to a mortifying notoriety and exposure of the whole affair, he was reluctantly induced to keep silence. Bond has never crossed his way since: it might not be well for him to do so.

Some years have passed. No one who meets Mr. and Mrs. Lane, at home or abroad, would dream that, at one time, they were driven asunder by a strong repulsion. Few are more deeply attached, or happier in their domestic relations; but neither trespasses on the other's rights, nor interferes with the other's prerogative. Mutual deference, confidence, respect, and love, unite them with a bond that cannot again be broken.

THE INVALID WIFE.

"MY poor head! It seems as if it would burst!" murmured Mrs. Bain, as she arose from a stooping position, and clasped her temples with both hands. She was engaged in dressing a restless, fretful child, some two or three years old. Two children had been washed and dressed, and this was the last to be made ready for breakfast.

As Mrs. Bain stood, with pale face, closed eyes, and tightly compressed lips, still clasping her throbbing temples, the bell announcing the morning meal was rung. The sound caused her to start, and she said, in a low and fretful voice--

"There's the breakfast bell; and Charley isn't ready yet; nor have I combed my hair. How my head does ache! I am almost blind with the pain."

Then she resumed her work of dressing Charley, who struggled, cried, and resisted, until she was done.

Mr. Bain was already up and dressed. He was seated in the parlour, enjoying his morning paper, when the breakfast bell rang. The moment he heard the sound, he threw down his newspaper, and, leaving the parlour, ascended to the dining-room. His two oldest children were there, ready to take their places at the table.

"Where's your mother?" he inquired of one of them.

"She's dressing Charley," was answered.

"Never ready in time," said Mr. Bain, to himself, impatiently. He spoke in an under tone.

For a few moments he stood with his hands on the back of his chair. Then he walked twice the length of the dining-room; and then he went to the door and called--

"Jane! Jane! Breakfast is on the table."

"I'll be there in a minute," was replied by Mrs. Bain.