did more than one of them.
"Dah's a ball to Miss Potts' to-night. Ye'd best come."
"Inteet, Deb, if hur'll come, hur'll hef fun," said a shrill
Welsh voice in the crowd.
Two or three dirty hands were
thrust out to catch the gown of
the woman, who was groping for the latch of the door.
"No."
"No? Where's Kit Small, then?"
"Begorra! on the spools. Alleys behint, though we helped her,
we dud. An wid ye! Let Deb alone! It's ondacent frettin' a
quite body. Be the powers, an we'll have a night of it!
there'll be lashin's o' drink,--the Vargent be
blessed and
praised for't!"
They went on, the mulatto inclining for a moment to show fight,
and drag the woman Wolfe off with them; but, being pacified, she
staggered away.
Deborah groped her way into the
cellar, and, after considerable
stumbling, kindled a match, and lighted a
tallow dip, that sent
a yellow
glimmer over the room. It was low, damp,--the earthen
floor covered with a green, slimy moss,--a fetid air smothering
the
breath. Old Wolfe lay asleep on a heap of straw, wrapped in
a torn horse-blanket. He was a pale, meek little man, with a
white face and red rabbit-eyes. The woman Deborah was like him;
only her face was even more
ghastly, her lips bluer, her eyes
more
watery. She wore a faded cotton gown and a slouching
bonnet. When she walked, one could see that she was deformed,
almost a hunchback. She trod
softly, so as not to waken him,
and went through into the room beyond. There she found by the
half-extinguished fire an iron
saucepan filled with cold boiled
potatoes, which she put upon a broken chair with a pint-cup of
ale. Placing the old
candlestick beside this
daintyrepast, she
untied her
bonnet, which hung limp and wet over her face, and
prepared to eat her supper. It was the first food that had
touched her lips since morning. There was enough of it,
however: there is not always. She was hungry,--one could see
that easily enough,--and not drunk, as most of her companions
would have been found at this hour. She did not drink, this
woman,--her face told that, too,--nothing stronger than ale.
Perhaps the weak, flaccid
wretch had some stimulant in her pale
life to keep her up,--some love or hope, it might be, or urgent
need. When that stimulant was gone, she would take to whiskey.
Man cannot live by work alone. While she was skinning the
potatoes, and munching them, a noise behind her made her stop.
"Janey!" she called, lifting the candle and peering into the
darkness. "Janey, are you there?"
A heap of
ragged coats was heaved up, and the face of a
young,girl emerged, staring
sleepily at the woman.
"Deborah," she said, at last, "I'm here the night."
"Yes, child. Hur's welcome," she said, quietly eating on.
The girl's face was
haggard and
sickly; her eyes were heavy with
sleep and
hunger: real Milesian eyes they were, dark, delicate
blue, glooming out from black shadows with a
pitiful fright.
"I was alone," she said, timidly.
"Where's the father?" asked Deborah,
holding out a potato,
which the girl
greedily seized.
"He's beyant,--wid Haley,--in the stone house." (Did you ever
hear the word tail from an Irish mouth?) "I came here. Hugh
told me never to stay me-lone."
"Hugh?"
"Yes."
A vexed frown crossed her face. The girl saw it, and added
quickly,--
"I have not seen Hugh the day, Deb. The old man says his watch
lasts till the mornin'."
The woman
sprang up, and
hastily began to arrange some bread and
flitch in a tin pail, and to pour her own
measure of ale into a
bottle. Tying on her
bonnet, she blew out the candle.
"Lay ye down, Janey dear," she said,
gently, covering her with
the old rags. "Hur can eat the potatoes, if hur's hungry.
"Where are ye goin', Deb? The rain's sharp."
"To the mill, with Hugh's supper."
"Let him bide till th' morn. Sit ye down."
"No, no,"--sharply pushing her off. "The boy'll starve."