CHAPTER THREE.
POVERTY MANAGES TO BOARD OUT HER INFANT FOR NOTHING.
On the night of the day about which we have been writing, a woman,dressed in "unwomanly rags" crept out of the shadow of the houses nearLondon Bridge. She was a thin, middle-aged woman, with a countenancefrom which sorrow, suffering, and sin had not been able to obliterateentirely the traces of beauty. She carried a bundle in her arms whichwas easily recognisable as a baby, from the careful and affectionatemanner in which the woman's thin, out-spread fingers grasped it.
Hurrying on to the bridge till she reached the middle of one of thearches, she paused and looked over. The Thames was black and gurgling,for it was intensely dark, and the tide half ebb at the time. Theturbid waters chafed noisily on the stone piers as if the sins andsorrows of the great city had been somehow communicated to them.
But the distance from the parapet to the surface of the stream wasgreat. It seemed awful in the woman's eyes. She shuddered and drewback.
"Oh! for courage--only for one minute!" she murmured, clasping thebundle closer to her breast.
The action drew off a corner of the scanty rag which she called a shawl,and revealed a small and round, yet exceedingly thin face, the blackeyes of which seemed to gaze in solemn wonder at the scene of darknessvisible which was revealed. The woman stood between two lamps in thedarkest place she could find, but enough of light reached her to glitterin the baby's solemn eyes as they met her gaze, and it made a pitifulattempt to smile as it recognised its mother.
"God help me! I can't," muttered the woman with a shiver, as if anice-block had touched her heart.
She drew the rag hastily over the baby's head again, pressed it closerto her breast, retraced her steps, and dived into the shadows from whichshe had emerged.
This was one of the "lower orders" to whom Sir Richard Brandon had suchan objection, whom he found it, he said, so difficult to deal with, (nowonder, for he never tried to deal with them at all, in any sense worthyof the name), and whom it was, he said, useless to assist, because all_he_ could do in such a vast accumulation of poverty would be a meredrop in the bucket. Hence Sir Richard thought it best to keep the dropin his pocket where it could be felt and do good--at least to himself,rather than dissipate it in an almost empty bucket. The bucket,however, was not quite empty--thanks to a few thousands of people whodiffered from the knight upon that point.
The thin woman hastened through the streets as regardless of passers-byas they were of her, until she reached the neighbourhood of CommercialStreet, Spitalfields.
Here she paused and looked anxiously round her. She had left the mainthoroughfare, and the spot on which she stood was dimly lighted.Whatever she looked or waited for, did not, however, soon appear, forshe stood under a lamp-post, muttering to herself, "I _must_ git rid ofit. Better to do so than see it starved to death before my eyes."
Presently a foot-fall was heard, and a man drew near. The woman gazedintently into his face. It was not a pleasant face. There was a scowlon it. She drew back and let him pass. Then several women passed, butshe took no notice of them. Then another man appeared. His face seemeda jolly one. The woman stepped forward at once and confronted him.
"Please, sir," she began, but the man was too sharp for her.
"Come now--you've brought out that baby on purpose to humbug people withit. Don't fancy you'll throw dust in _my_ eyes. I'm too old a cock forthat. Don't you know that you're breaking the law by begging?"
"I'm _not_ begging," retorted the woman, almost fiercely.
"Oh! indeed. Why do you stop me, then?"
"I merely wished to ask if your name is Thompson."
"Ah hem!" ejaculated the man with a broad grin, "well no, madam, my nameis _not_ Thompson."
"Well, then," rejoined the woman, still indignantly, "you may move on."
She had used an expression all too familiar to herself, and the man,obeying the order with a bow and a mocking laugh, disappeared like thosewho had gone before him.
For some time no one else appeared save a policeman. When heapproached, the woman went past him down the street, as if bent on somebusiness, but when he was out of sight she returned to the old spot,which was near the entrance to an alley.
At last the woman's patience was rewarded by the sight of a burly littleelderly man, whose face of benignity was unmistakably genuine.Remembering the previous man's reference to the baby, she covered it upcarefully, and held it more like a bundle.
Stepping up to the newcomer at once, she put the same question as toname, and also asked if he lived in Russell Square.
"No, my good woman," replied the burly little man, with a look ofmingled surprise and pity, "my name is _not_ Thompson. It is Twitter--Samuel Twitter, of Twitter, Slime and--, but," he added, checkinghimself, under a sudden and rare impulse of prudence, "why do you ask myname and address?"
The woman gave an almost hysterical laugh at having been so successfulin her somewhat clumsy scheme, and, without uttering another word,darted down the alley. She passed rapidly round by a back way toanother point of the same street she had left--well ahead of the spotwhere she had stood so long and so patiently that night. Here shesuddenly uncovered the baby's face and kissed it passionately for a fewmoments. Then, wrapping it in the ragged shawl, with its little headout, she laid it on the middle of the footpath full in the light of alamp, and retired to await the result.
When the woman rushed away, as above related, Mr Samuel Twitter stoodfor some minutes rooted to the spot, lost in amazement. He was found inthat condition by the returning policeman.
"Constable," said he, cocking his hat to one side the better to scratchhis bald head, "there are strange people in this region."
"Indeed there are, sir."
"Yes, but I mean _very_ strange people."
"Well, sir, if you insist on it, I won't deny that some of them are_very_ strange."
"Yes, well--good-night, constable," said Mr Twitter, moving slowlyforward in a mystified state of mind, while the guardian of the nightcontinued his rounds, thinking to himself that he had just parted fromone of the very strangest of the people.
Suddenly Samuel Twitter came to a full stop, for there lay the smallbaby gazing at him with its solemn eyes, apparently quite indifferent tothe hardness and coldness of its bed of stone.
"Abandoned!" gasped the burly little man.
Whether Mr Twitter referred to the infant's moral character, or to itsbeing shamefully forsaken, we cannot now prove, but he instantly caughtthe bundle in his arms and gazed at it. Possibly his gaze may have beentoo intense, for the mild little creature opened a small mouth that boreno proportion whatever to the eyes, and attempted to cry, but theattempt was a failure. It had not strength to cry.
The burly little man's soul was touched to the centre by the sight. Hekissed the baby's forehead, pressed it to his ample breast, and hurriedaway. If he had taken time to think he might have gone to apolice-office, or a night refuge, or some such haven of rest for theweary, but when Twitter's feelings were touched he became a man ofimpulse. He did not take time to think--except to the extent that, onreaching the main thoroughfare, he hailed a cab and was driven home.
The poor mother had followed him with the intention of seeing him home.Of course the cab put an end to that. She felt comparatively easy,however, knowing, as she did, that her child was in the keeping of"Twitter, Slime and ---." That was quite enough to enable her to traceMr Twitter out. Comforting herself as well as she could with thisreflection, she sat down in a dark corner on a cold door-step, and,covering her face with both hands, wept as though her heart would break.
Gradually her sobs subsided, and, rising, she hurried away, shiveringwith cold, for her thin cotton dress was a poor protection against thenight chills, and her ragged shawl was--gone with the baby.
In a few minutes she reached a part of the Whitechapel district wheresome of the deepest poverty and wretchedness in London is to be found.Turning into a labyrinth of
small streets and alleys, she paused in theneighbourhood of the court in which was her home--if such it could becalled.
"Is it worth while going back to him?" she muttered. "He nearly killedbaby, and it wouldn't take much to make him kill me. And oh! he was sodifferent--once!"
While she stood irresolute, the man of whom she spoke chanced to turnthe corner, and ran against her, somewhat roughly.
"Hallo! is that you?" he demanded, in tones that told too clearly wherehe had been spending the night.
"Yes, Ned, it's me. I was just thinking about going home."
"Home, indeed--'stime to b'goin' home. Where'v you bin? The babby 'll'v bin squallin' pretty stiff by this time."
"No fear of baby now," returned the wife almost defiantly; "it's gone."
"Gone!" almost shouted the husband. "You haven't murdered it, haveyou?"
"No, but I've put it in safe keeping, where _you_ can't get at it, and,now I know that, I don't care what you do to _me_."
"Ha! we'll see about that. Come along."
He seized the woman by the arm and hurried her towards their dwelling.
It was little better than a cellar, the door being reached by a descentof five or six much-worn steps. To the surprise of the couple the door,which was usually shut at that hour, stood partly open, and a brightlight shone within.
"Wastin' coal and candle," growled the man with an angry oath, as heapproached.
"Hetty didn't use to be so extravagant," remarked the woman, in somesurprise.
As she spoke the door was flung wide open, and an overgrown but veryhandsome girl peered out.
"Oh! father, I thought it was your voice," she said. "Mother, is thatyou? Come in, quick. Here's Bobby brought home in a cab with a brokenleg."
On hearing this the man's voice softened, and, entering the room, hewent up to a heap of straw in one corner whereon our little friend BobbyFrog--the street-Arab--lay.
"Hallo! Bobby, wot's wrong with 'ee? You ain't used to come to grief,"said the father, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, and giving him arough shake.
Things oftentimes "are not what they seem." The shake was the man'smode of expressing sympathy, for he was fond of his son, regarding him,with some reason, as a most hopeful pupil in the ways of wickedness.
"It's o' no use, father," said the boy, drawing his breath quickly andknitting his brows, "you can't stir me up with a long pole now. I'mpast that."
"What! have 'ee bin runned over?"
"No--on'y run down, or knocked down."
"Who did it? On'y give me his name an' address, an' as sure as myname's Ned I'll--"
He finished the sentence with a sufficiently expressive scowl andclenching of a huge fist, which had many a time done great execution inthe prize ring.
"It wasn't a he, father, it was a she."
"Well, no matter, if I on'y had my fingers on her windpipe I'd squeezeit summat."
"If you did I'd bang your nose! She didn't go for to do it a-purpose,you old grampus," retorted Bobby, intending the remark to be taken as agentle yet affectionate reproof. "A doctor's bin an' set my leg,"continued the boy, "an' made it as stiff as a poker wi' what 'e callssplints. He says I won't be able to go about for ever so many weeks."
"An' who's to feed you, I wonder, doorin' them weeks? An' who sent forthe doctor? Was it him as supplied the fire an' candle to-night?"
"No, father, it was me," answered Hetty, who was engaged in stirringsomething in a small saucepan, the loose handle of which was attached toits battered body by only one rivet; the other rivet had given way on anoccasion when Ned Frog sent it flying through the doorway after hisretreating wife. "You see I was paid my wages to-night, so I couldafford it, as well as to buy some coal and a candle, for the doctor saidBobby must be kept warm."
"Afford it!" exclaimed Ned, in rising wrath, "how can 'ee say you canafford it w'en I 'aven't had enough grog to _half_ screw me, an' not abrown left. Did the doctor ask a fee?"
"No, father, I offered him one, but he wouldn't take it."
"Ah--very good on 'im! I wonder them fellows has the cheek to ask feesfor on'y givin' advice. W'y, I'd give advice myself all day long at apenny an hour, an' think myself well off too if I got that--better offthan them as got the advice anyhow. What are you sittin' starin' at an'sulkin' there for?"
This last remark was addressed gruffly to Mrs Frog, who, during theprevious conversation, had seated herself on a low three-legged stool,and, clasping her hands over her knees, gazed at the dirty blank wallsin blanker despair.
The poor woman realised the situation better than her drunken husbanddid. As a bird-fancier he contributed little, almost nothing, to thegeneral fund on which this family subsisted. He was a huge, powerfulfellow, and had various methods of obtaining money--some obvious andothers mysterious--but nearly all his earnings went to the gin-palace,for Ned was a man of might, and could stand an enormous quantity ofdrink. Hetty, who worked, perhaps we should say slaved, for a firmwhich paid her one shilling a week, could not manage to find food forthem all. Mrs Frog herself with her infant to care for, had found ithard work at any time to earn a few pence, and now Bobby's active littlelimbs were reduced to inaction, converting him into a consumer insteadof a producer. In short, the glaring fact that the family expenseswould be increased while the family income was diminished, stared MrsFrog as blankly in the face as she stared at the dirty blank wall.
And her case was worse, even, than people in better circumstances mightimagine, for the family lived so literally from hand to mouth that therewas no time even to think when a difficulty arose or disaster befell.They rented their room from a man who styled it a furnished apartment,in virtue of a rickety table, a broken chair, a worn-out sheet or two, adilapidated counterpane, four ragged blankets, and the infirm saucepanbefore mentioned, besides a few articles of cracked or broken crockery.For this accommodation the landlord charged ninepence per day, which sumhad to be paid _every night_ before the family was allowed to retire torest! In the event of failure to pay they would have been turned outinto the street at once, and the door padlocked. Thus the necessity fora constant, though small, supply of cash became urgent, and theconsequent instability of "home" very depressing.
To preserve his goods from the pawnbroker, and prevent a moonlightflitting, this landlord had printed on his sheets the words "stolen from---" and on the blankets and counterpane were stamped the words "stopthief!"
Mrs Frog made no reply to her husband's gruff question, which inducedthe man to seize an empty bottle, as being the best way of rousing herattention.
"Come, you let mother alone, dad," suggested Bobby, "she ain'ta-aggrawatin' of you just now."
"Why, mother," exclaimed Hetty, who was so busy with Bobby's supper,and, withal, so accustomed to the woman's looks of hopeless misery thatshe had failed to observe anything unusual until her attention was thuscalled to her, "what ever have you done with the baby?"
"Ah--you may well ask that," growled Ned.
Even the boy seemed to forget his pain for a moment as he now observed,anxiously, that his mother had not the usual bundle on her breast.
"The baby's gone!" she said, bitterly, still keeping her eyes on theblank wall.
"Gone!--how?--lost? killed? speak, mother," burst from Hetty and theboy.
"No, only gone to where it will be better cared for than here."
"Come, explain, old woman," said Ned, again laying his hand on thebottle.
As Hetty went and took her hand gently, Mrs Frog condescended toexplain, but absolutely refused to tell to whose care the baby had beenconsigned.
"Well--it ain't a bad riddance, after all," said the man, as he rose,and, staggering into a corner where another bundle of straw was spreadon the floor, flung himself down. Appropriately drawing two of the"stop thief" blankets over him, he went to sleep.
Then Mrs Frog, feeling comparatively sure of quiet for the remainder ofthe night, drew her stool close to the side of her son, and held suchintercourse wit
h him as she seldom had the chance of holding while Bobbywas in a state of full health and bodily vigour. Hetty, meanwhile,ministered to them both, for she was one of those dusty diamonds of whatmay be styled the East-end diggings of London--not so rare, perhaps, asmany people may suppose--whose lustre is dimmed and intrinsic valuesomewhat concealed by the neglect and the moral as well as physicalfilth by which they are surrounded.
"Of course you've paid the ninepence, Hetty?"
"Yes, mother."
"You might 'ave guessed that," said Bobby, "for, if she 'adn't weshouldn't 'ave bin here."
"That and the firing and candle, with what the doctor ordered, has usedup all I had earned, even though I did some extra work and was paid forit," said Hetty with a sigh. "But I don't grudge it, Bobby--I'm onlysorry because there's nothing more coming to me till next week."
"Meanwhile there is nothing for _this_ week," said Mrs Frog with areturn of the despair, as she looked at her prostrate son, "for all Ican manage to earn will barely make up the rent--if it does even that--and father, you know, drinks nearly all he makes. God help us!"
"God _will_ help us," said Hetty, sitting down on the floor and gentlystroking the back of her mother's hand, "for He sent the trouble, andwill hear us when we cry to Him."
"Pray to Him, then, Hetty, for it's no use askin' me to join you. Ican't pray. An' don't let your father hear, else he'll be wild."
The poor girl bent her head on her knees as she sat, and prayedsilently. Her mother and brother, neither of whom had any faith inprayer, remained silent, while her father, breathing stertorously in thecorner, slept the sleep of the drunkard.