# Adventures of Susan Hopley/Volume 1/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.
SUSAN'S ARRIVAL IN LONDON—SHE FINDS A FRIEND IN NEED.
As Susan understood that the coach would not reach London till between ten and eleven at night, she made up her mind not to trouble her friend till the following day; and with this view, she requested the coachman to set her down at some inn where she would be able to get a bed, as near as he could to Parliament Street, where Dobbs resided.
In compliance with this request, when they reached Charing Cross, the driver suddenly pulled up; and calling out, "Now young 'oman, here you are!—Quick if you please! Help her down, Jack Box in the boot—that's it!"—Susan in a moment found herself standing in the middle of the area with her luggage beside her.
​"Which is the inn, Sir?" said she.
"Please to remember the coachman," said he.
In her confusion, Susan put her hand in her pocket; but, in truth, she knew she had nothing there; for she had only kept out the money she expected to want on the road—the rest she had packed for security in her box; and the expenses having exceeded her calculations, she had not a single sixpence left.
"If you'll show me the inn and wait till I've unlocked my trunk"—she was beginning to say to the man—but without staying to hear the conclusion of her speech, he mounted his box, ejaculating "d—n all such passengers!" and with a smack of the whip, the coach was gone, and out of sight before Susan had recovered her astonishment. "And there I stood," she used to say, "in the middle of the place, close to the figure of the king on horseback, with my luggage beside me, perfectly bewildered, and not knowing in the world which way to turn, or what to do next."
Coaches and carriages whisked by her, but no one paused to ask her what she was standing there for; and there were plenty of foot passengers going to and fro on the pavement, of whom ​she might have inquired her way; but she had heard so much of the dangers and dishonesty of London, that she trembled to turn her eyes from her boxes leat they should vanish from her sight for ever. Just, however, as she had made up her mind to encounter this peril, and venture as far as the pavement, rather than stand where she was all night, a man who had been observing her from a distance, crossed over and inquired if she was waiting for a coach.
"No, Sir," replied Susan; "I have just left the coach, but I am a stranger in London, and I don't know which is the inn."
"Oh," said he, "if that's all, I'll show you the inn in no time.—Is this your luggage?"
"Yes," replied Susan, "but I want somebody to carry it."
"I'll carry it," said he. "The inn isn't two minutes' walk—just hoist up the trunk on my shoulder—that's your sort—now give me the bandbox."
"I won't trouble you with that, Sir," said Susan, grateful for this unexpected aid—"I can carry it myself."
"No, no," said he—"give it to me; you do not know London. Somebody'd snatch it out of your hand before you got the length of a ​street;" and so saying, away he trudged with the two boxes, and Susan after him, as hard as she could go. But with all her efforts, she found it impossible to keep up with him. Whilst he held along the Strand, as the way was straight, and the lamps pretty thickly set, she contrived to keep him in view; but when he approached the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, and turned up a street to the left, that was rather on the ascent and worse lighted, he got the advantage of her, and she soon lost sight of him altogether.
Poor Susan called out "stop! stop!" and ran as fast as she could, but little thought had he of stopping, and after being nearly knocked down several times, and getting repeated blows from people she ran against in her confusion, out of breath, frightened, and exhausted, she gave up the chase, and sitting down on the step of a door, she burst into tears. They were bitter tears, for it was a sad beginning—all her little stock of money gone, how was she to live till she obtained a situation? And when she had found one, how was she to go to it when she had not an article of clothing in the world but what she had on?
It is admitted that no loneliness can be worse ​than the loneliness of a great city; and Susan felt it so, as passenger after passenger passed, hurrying on their errands of pleasure or of business, or hastening to the shelter of their own roofs, heedless of the poor stranger, houseless and homeless, whose sobs met their ears. A few turned their head to look at her; but none stopped or spoke; for there, where vice and misery walk the streets by night, or keep unholy vigils in unblest abodes, the sight of women's wretchedness is too common to excite either curiosity or compassion.
At length, the cold and damp, for it had come on to rain hard, forced her to get upon her legs and move on; and considering her desperate condition, without a penny in the world even to procure a night's lodging, she thought, unwilling as she was to disturb the family, that she had better try and find her way to Dobbs, late as it was. But the difficulty was to find the way. Some to whom she ventured an inquiry abused her—some insulted her; one man flung his arm round her waist and said he'd go with her any where she liked; and she had much ado to get rid of him; and another told her if she didn't leave him alone he'd call the watch. As for the women she addressed ​they were still worse; and one, who being very gaily dressed she took for a lady, swore a big oath, and bade her go to h—ll!
After running the gauntlet in this way for some time, without advancing in the least towards her object, Susan gave up the point; and resigning herself to what seemed inevitable, faint and weary as she was, she once more seated herself on a door step, and folding her cloak about her, resolved to wait there till morning.
She had sat some time and had nearly cried herself to sleep, when she was aroused by the opening of the door behind her, and looking round, she saw a lady stepping out, who, however, paused upon the threshold to speak to some one, that with a candle, appeared to be standing within the passage.
"Be sure you're ready in time," said the lady. "Remember the coach starts at six."
"Never fear that," replied a voice that struck upon Susan's ear, as one not unfamiliar. "I am too glad to get away from this place to risk staying an hour longer in it than I can help."
"Well, good by," said the lady. "I hope you'll have a pleasant journey, and meet with no disappointment."
​"Good by!" answered the voice within. "I wish you were going with me." "I wish I were!" said the other. "Oh, I forgot to say, that you are to be sure and travel in the veil Mr. Godfrey sent you."
"Yes, he told me," replied the voice. There was another "good by!" and a shake of the hand; and then the door closed and the lady stepped forward.
She was attired in a silk dress, red shawl, and straw bonnet; and by the light from the lamp which fell upon her face as she advanced, Susan discerned that she was young and pretty. Her voice too was gentle; and emboldened by that and the countenance, the poor wanderer determined on making a last attempt to obtain the information she needed. Rising therefore to let her pass, she dropped a curtsey, and said, "Would you have the goodness, Ma'am, to tell me the way to Westminster? I am a poor stranger from the country, and am quite lost."
At first she was about to pass on without heeding the question, but at the last words she paused, and looked back. "To Westminster!" said she, "you're a long way from Westminster. What part of it do you want to go to?"
"To Parliament Street, Ma'am," replied Susan.
​"And don't you know your way about London at all ?" said she.
"Not a bit, Ma'am," answered Susan. "I never was in it till about two hours ago, when I got off the coach that brought me from the country; and since that," she added, giving way to her tears, "a man that offered to carry my luggage has run away with my boxes, which contained all I had in the world; and here I am, without money, or a lodging for the night, and but one friend in the whole place, and I can't find my way to where she lives."
"It's impossible you should without some one to guide you, and it's not my road," answered the lady. She hesitated a moment, and then drawing nearer to Susan, she looked hard in her face under her bonnet, as if to see whether she were speaking the truth. The result of the investigation appeared to be satisfactory; for she added as if moved by a sudden impulse of compassion—"Come with me! I'll give you shelter for a few hours; and in the morning you can find your friend. There was a night in my life when if some charitable soul had done as much for me, I mightn't be the miserable wretch I am now. Come along!" And with that she turned and walked rapidly up the street, Susan keeping close by her side.
​As she was young, pretty, well dressed, and according to Susan's notions appeared to be a gentlewoman, the poor girl was so surprised at her last words, that she forgot every thing else in wondering what they could mean; and as the lady herself seemed to be in a reverie, they proceeded for some time in silence, which she at length rather abruptly interrupted by saying, "What's your name, and where did you come from?"
"My name's Susan Hopley, ma'am; and I come from Mapleton," answered our heroine—"And as I spoke the words," she used to say, "I fell rather behind her; for I expected nothing else but that she would have driven me away from her directly, and left me to pass the night in the street. But, to my great relief, the name didn't seem to strike her at all; and I felt much comforted to see that the people in London were not so much occupied about Andrew and me, and what had happened in the country, as I had supposed."
"And what was your employment there?" said she.
"I was a servant," replied Susan. "But latterly being out of a situation, I took in needlework."
​"And you are come to seek a situation here, I suppose?" said the lady.
Susan answered that she was; and after this there was no more conversation till they reached the neighbourhood of Oxford Street, where she lived, and then slackening her pace a little, she said, "I'll put you into the room with my little girl; but as my husband might not be pleased at my taking a stranger into the house, you'll make no noise till I come to let you out in the morning. He'll be gone away before that."
She then, having stopped at a respectable-looking house, drew a key from her pocket and let herself in; and beckoning Susan to follow her up stairs, she conducted her to the second floor, where there was a candle half burnt down standing in a basin.
"Take this," she whispered, giving her the light, and opening the door of a room which she motioned her to enter; and laying her finger on her lip, once more to enjoin silence, she closed the door and disappeared.
On looking round, Susan found herself in a comfortable, well furnished apartment, with a four-post bed on one side and a child's crib in the corner, in which lay sleeping, as lovely an infant, of about four years old, as eyes ever ​looked upon. It was enjoying a sweet, calm sleep, with one little hand under its rosy cheek, and with a half smile playing round the pretty red lips, that showed its baby reams were pleasant.
"What," thought Susan, as she hung over it admiringly, "can make the mother of such a cherub call herself a wretch? She cannot be very poor, or she couldn't afford to live in such a house as this. But we poor people are too apt to think there's no evil so great as poverty. Perhaps there are many as bad, and worse and I ought to learn to bear my own trouble patiently, when I see that this pretty kind young creature is not without her's. Heaven bless it, sweet soul!" she added, as she stooped down to kiss the infant's cheek; and as she lifted up her head again, she saw the lady standing beside her with a piece of bread and a glass of wine on a plate.
"My husband is not come home yet," said she, laying her hand kindly on Susan's arm, as if she were pleased at finding how she was engaged "Take this, it will do you good." She then kissed the child, and once more bidding the grateful Susan "good night," left her to her repose. Without undressing, the weary ​traveller stretched herself upon the welcome bed, and was soon in a sound sleep.
This blessed oblivion, however, had not lasted long, when she was aroused by the sound of a man's voice, which although proceeding from the next room, reached her distinctly through the thin partition. In the confusion of first awakening she started up, imagining herself still on the top of the coach, and that the man was abusing her for not paying him; for the first words she distinguished were, "D—n it! no money! Don't tell me! What's become of the last ten pounds?"
"Gracious, George," said a voice which Susan recognised as that of her compassionate hostess, "how can you ask? Why, you know we owed every farthing of it, and more; and I was obliged to divide it between the tradespeople just to stop their mouths."
"Well, if you can't get any money from him, you must walk the streets for it," replied the man, "for devil a rap I have to give you. I suppose he gave you thé allowance for the child? If he stops that you can have him up before the magistrates, and he won't like that just now, I can tell you."
"Yes," answered the lady, "he has ​promised me the allowance; but that is not enough to pay the rent, and all the other things we owe. Besides, how are we to get on when that's gone? I dare say I shall get no more from him till you come back."
"I'll be d—d if I know what you're to do," answered the man, "unless you choose to do what I tell you. I can't afford to pay the piper any longer, and I won't, that's flat. And now I'll thank you to let me have a little sleep, for I must be up at daylight to be ready for the coach. I hope that girl will be ready. Did you tell her to be punctual?"
"Oh, yes, she'll be ready," answered the lady. "But before you go to sleep do listen to a few words I have to say to you; for, perhaps, it may be long before you return. I have been thinking that if I could contrive to get money enough to set me up in some sort of little shop that would provide me and my child with bread, that I needn't be a burden to you or any body else; and I want you to help me to this."
"I can't help you to what I haven't got," answered the man in a drowsy tone.
"Yes, you could," answered she, "if you would persuade him to do it. Tell him that I would on that condition renounce the allowance ​for the child, and undertake to maintain her myself. Will you, George?"
"Very well," said the man, in a tone that denoted he was half asleep.
"I say, George, listen to me, will you ask him to do this?" persisted she.
"D—n it, woman, hold your tongue, will you? or I'll make you!" exclaimed the man, in a louder key.
"Only promise to do what I ask, and I'll not speak another word," returned she. "I know very well, George, you're tired of me now; but you did like me once; and then you promised that I should always share whatever you had. I don't complain that you have changed, and I have no right to reproach you. But do me this one favour; it's all I'll ever ask of you!"
"Very well," replied the man, in rather a softer tone. "Perhaps, I'll try what I can do; but he's devilish hard to deal with. He was a different sort of chap when he wanted me. And as to my wishing to get rid of you, Julia, you know as long as the game lasted I've kept you like a lady, and you've wanted for nothing; but now it's up, I tell you, and you must shift for yourself."
"And so I will," replied she, "if you could ​only get him to put me in an honest way of getting my living."
"Well, I'll see what I can do," said the man; "and now, d—n it, do let me get a little sleep!"
Here the conversation terminated; and much as Susan was impressed with it, her fatigue soon put an end to her reflections; and in a few minutes she was again buried in a profound sleep; from which she did not awake till she was roused by the joyous infantine laugh of the child in the morning. The mother was dressing it, and between every article of clothes she put on, it was running away and hiding itself behind the curtains of the bed. "It would have been a pretty sight to look on," Susan would say, "the fair young mother and the lovely child, if I had not had in my mind the conversation I had overheard in the night—but that spoiled the picture; and I could have wept to think of the misery that was gathering round them. 'And that sweet face of thine,' thought I, as I looked at the infant, 'may be but a snare to thee, as thy poor mother's has doubtless been to her!' She was a pretty young creature, the mother, with delicate features, and soft dove-like eyes, but already, although she was not more than twenty years of age, there were traces of ​melancholy and deep anxiety in her countenance. Perhaps, if I had not been so much in her secret, I might not have understood them so well; but as it was, I fancied I could read her story in her face."
When she had finished dressing the child, Susan arose and wished her good morning. She answered very kindly, hoping she had rested well, and had recovered her fatigue.
"Quite, Ma'am, thanks to you," replied Susan; "and I am sure I shall never forget your goodness the longest day I have to live. It's what few would have done for a poor stranger."
"You are very welcome," replied Julia; "I wish I could do more to help you out of your difficulties. But I suppose when you have found your friend you'll do pretty well; so after we have had some breakfast I'll walk part of the way with you and put you on the road."
They then adjourned to the front room, where there was a fire; and Susan having assisted her to prepare the breakfast, they sat down together.
"And what made you leave the country, where I suppose you had friends, to come to London for the chance of doing better among strangers?" inquired Julia.
"I had plenty of friends in the country, ​ma'am," answered Susan; "and very good ones; and six months ago I never expected to be as badly off as I am now, or to be obliged to look further for a home; but a circumstance happened that threw a suspicion on one of my family, and since that I found people began to look coldly on me."
"Ah," said she, "that's the way of the world; at least, towards the poor," and then she fell into thought and was silent.
As soon as breakfast was over, she put on her bonnet and shawl, and they set off towards Parliament Street, leading the child between them, who, pretty soul, went skipping and prattling along as gay as the morning.
They had walked some distance, and had reached the neighbourhood of Soho, when in passing through a narrow shabby street, Julia requested Susan to take charge of the child a moment whilst she called at a shop, and presently she turned into one that, by the watches and trinkets in the window, Susan concluded was a jeweller's; but a longer acquaintance with London life would have taught her to recognise it as a pawnbroker's. She had a small parcel in her hand when she went but she came out without it; and after walking a few steps, she ​said, "Here, Susan, take this; it's not much, but it's better than nothing," and she had placed five shillings in her hand, before she knew what she was doing.
"My dear lady," answered Susan, who after what she had heard in the night could not bear to think of accepting her bounty, "pray take it back again; I don't fear but I shall do very well when I have found my friend. And at all events, I am alone and able to bear up against a deal of hardship—but you have this dear child to provide for; and I could never find in my heart to spend the money if I took it."
"She turned a sharp eye on me," Susan used to relate, "when I said this, and I saw in a minute that I had betrayed myself; for certainly there was nothing in her appearance or way of living to justify me in supposing that she could not spare so small a sum. The colour came into her cheeks, for she guessed how I had gained my information; and I turned away my head, for I felt my own getting red, too. 'No,' she said, when she had recovered herself, though her voice was slightly altered—'no, keep it; it won't make my situation better or worse; but it is awkward for you not to have a shilling in your pocket in case of need.'
​"I couldn't keep the tears, that were already in my eyes, from running down my cheeks, at these words, to think of her goodness, her youth, her troubles, and her sweet young child, and I thought what a blessed thing it would be for any body that was rich, to put her in the decent way she wanted to earn her bread, and so perhaps save her from being driven by poverty and want to more misery, and a worse way of life; but I could only bid God bless her, and look down upon her with pity."
When they had reached the neighbourhood that Dobbs inhabited, and there was no further danger of Susan's losing her way, Julia stopped, and said, "Now you are within a few doors of your friend's house, and I may leave you."
"Dear lady," said Susan, "it's not likely that such a poor creature as I am should ever have it in my power to make any return for your goodness but my prayers, but if there ever should be any thing that a poor servant can do, be sure that I would go as far to serve you or your dear little child here, as I would for myself."
"I don't doubt it," replied Julia, "for I see you've a grateful heart; and I wish I was so situated that I could keep you with me. Such a ​friend would be a great comfort. Heaven knows I want one! But that's impossible; so good by, and God bless you!"
"Amen, Madam, and you!" said Susan—"and so shaking hands kindly, we parted, after a few hours' acquaintance, with our hearts as warm to each other, and as much trust and good will, as if we had been friends all our lives."