CHAPTER FIVE.
TREATS STILL FURTHER OF RICHES, POVERTY, BABIES, AND POLICE.
When Mr and Mrs Twitter had dismissed the few friends that night, theysat down at their own fireside, with no one near them but the littlefoundling, which lay in the youngest Twitter's disused cradle, gazing atthem with its usual solemnity, for it did not seem to require sleep.They opened up their minds to each other thus:--
"Now, Samuel," said Mrs Twitter, "the question is, what are you goingto do with it?"
"Well, Mariar," returned her spouse, with an assumption of profoundgravity, "I suppose we must send it to the workhouse."
"You know quite well, Sam, that you don't mean that," said Mrs Twitter,"the dear little forsaken mite! Just look at its solemn eyes. It hasbeen clearly cast upon us, Sam, and it seems to me that we are bound tolook after it."
"What! with six of our own, Mariar?"
"Yes, Sam. Isn't there a song which says something about luck in oddnumbers?"
"And with only 500 pounds a year?" objected Mr Twitter.
"_Only_ five hundred. How can you speak so? We are _rich_ with fivehundred. Can we not educate our little ones?"
"Yes, my dear."
"And entertain our friends?"
"Yes, my love,--with crumpets and tea."
"Don't forget muffins and bloater paste, and German sausage andoccasional legs of mutton, you ungrateful man!"
"I don't forget 'em, Mariar. My recollection of 'em is powerful; I mayeven say vivid."
"Well," continued the lady, "haven't you been able to lend small sums onseveral occasions to friends--"
"Yes, my dear,--and they are _still_ loans," murmured the husband.
"And don't we give a little--I sometimes think too little--regularly tothe poor, and to the church, and haven't we got a nest-egg laid by inthe Post-office savings-bank?"
"All true, Mariar, and all _your_ doing. But for your thrifty ways, andeconomical tendencies, and rare financial abilities, I should have beenbankrupt long ere now."
Mr Twitter was nothing more than just in this statement of his wife'scharacter. She was one of those happily constituted women who make thebest and the most of everything, and who, while by no means turning hereyes away from the dark sides of things, nevertheless gave people theimpression that she saw only their bright sides. Her economy would havedegenerated into nearness if it had not been commensurate with herliberality, for while, on the one hand, she was ever anxious, almosteager, to give to the needy and suffering every penny that she couldspare, she was, on the other hand, strictly economical in trifles.Indeed Mrs Twitter's vocabulary did not contain the word trifle. Oneof her favourite texts of Scripture, which was always in her mind, andwhich she had illuminated in gold and hung on her bedroom walls withmany other words of God, was, "Gather up the fragments, that nothing belost." Acting on this principle with all her heart, she gathered up thefragments of time, so that she had always a good deal of that commodityto spare, and was never in a hurry. She gathered up bits of twine andmade neat little rings of them, which she deposited in a basket--apretty large basket--which in time became such a repository of wealth inthat respect that the six Twitters never failed to find the exact sizeand quality of cordage wanted by them--and, indeed, even after theeldest, Sammy, came to the years of discretion, if he had suddenlyrequired a cable suited to restrain a first-rate iron-clad, his mindwould, in the first blush of the thing, have reverted to mother'sbasket! If friends wrote short notes to Mrs Twitter--which they oftendid, for the sympathetic find plenty of correspondents--the blank leaveswere always torn off and consigned to a scrap-paper box, and the pilegrew big enough at last to have set up a small stationer in business.And so with everything that came under her influence at home or abroad.She emphatically did what she could to prevent waste, and became aliving fulfilment of the well-known proverb, for as she wasted not shewanted not.
But to return from this digression--
"Well, then," said Mrs Twitter, "don't go and find fault, Samuel," (sheused the name in full when anxious to be impressive), "with whatProvidence has given us, by putting the word `only' to it, for we are_rich_ with five hundred a year."
Mr Twitter freely admitted that he was wrong, and said he would be morecareful in future of the use to which he put the word "only."
"But," said he, "we haven't a hole or corner in the house to put thepoor thing in. To be sure, there's the coal-cellar and the scuttlemight be rigged up as a cradle, but--"
He paused, and looked at his wife. The deceiver did not mean all thisto be taken as a real objection. He was himself anxious to retain theinfant, and only made this show of opposition to enlist Maria morecertainly on his side.
"Not a corner!" she exclaimed, "why, is there not the whole parlour? Doyou suppose that a baby requires a four-post bed, and a wash-hand-stand,and a five-foot mirror? Couldn't we lift the poor darling in and out inhalf a minute? Besides, there is our own room. I feel as if there wasan uncomfortable want of some sort ever since _our_ baby wastransplanted to the nursery. So we will establish the old bassinet andput the mite there."
"And what shall we call it, Maria?"
"Call it--why, call it--call it--Mite--no name could be moreappropriate."
"But, my love, Mite, if a name at all, is a man's--that is, it soundslike a masculine name."
"Call it Mita, then."
And so it was named, and thus that poor little waif came to be adoptedby that "rich" family.
It seems to be our mission, at this time, to introduce our readers tovarious homes--the homes of England, so to speak! But let not ourreaders become impatient, while we lead the way to one more home, andopen the door with our secret latch-key.
This home is in some respects peculiar. It is not a poor one, for it iscomfortable and clean. Neither is it a rich one, for there are fewornaments, and no luxuries about it. Over the fire stoops a comelyyoung woman, as well as one can judge, at least, from the rather faintlight that enters through a small window facing a brick wall. The wallis only five feet from the window, and some previous occupant of therooms had painted on it a rough landscape, with three very green treesand a very blue lake, and a swan in the middle thereof, sitting on aninverted swan which was meant to be his reflection, but somehow seemedrather more real than himself. The picture is better, perhaps, than thebricks were, yet it is not enlivening. The only other objects in theroom worth mentioning are, a particularly small book-shelf in a corner;a cuckoo-clock on the mantel-shelf, an engraved portrait of QueenVictoria on the wall opposite in a gilt frame, and a portrait of SirRobert Peel in a frame of rosewood beside it.
On a little table in the centre of the room are the remains of a repast.Under the table is a very small child, probably four years of age.Near the window is another small, but older child--a boy of about six orseven. He is engaged in fitting on his little head a great black clothhelmet with a bronze badge, and a peak behind as well as before.
Having nearly extinguished himself with the helmet, the small boy seizesa very large truncheon, and makes a desperate effort to flourish it.
Close to the comely woman stands a very tall, very handsome, and verypowerful man, who is putting in the uppermost buttons of apolice-constable's uniform.
Behold, reader, the _tableau vivant_ to which we would call yourattention!
"Where d'you go on duty to-day, Giles," asked the comely young woman,raising her face to that of her husband.
"Oxford Circus," replied the policeman. "It is the first time I've beenput on fixed-point duty. That's the reason I'm able to breakfast withyou and the children, Molly, instead of being off at half-past five inthe morning as usual. I shall be on for a month."
"I'm glad of it, Giles, for it gives the children a chance of seeingsomething of you. I wish you'd let me look at that cut on yourshoulder. Do!"
"No, no, Molly," returned the man, as he pushed his wife playfully awayfrom him. "Hands off! You know the punishment for assaulting thepolice is heavy!
Now then, Monty," (to the boy), "give up my helmet andtruncheon. I must be off."
"Not yet, daddy," cried Monty, "I's a pleeceman of the A Division,Number 2, 'ats me, an' I'm goin' to catch a t'ief. I 'mell 'im."
"You smell him, do you? Where is he, d'you think?"
"Oh! I know," replied the small policeman--here he came close up to hisfather, and, getting on tiptoe, said in a very audible whisper, "he'sunder de table, but don' tell 'im I know. His name's Joe!"
"All right, I'll keep quiet, Monty, but look alive and nab him quick,for I must be off."
Thus urged the small policeman went on tiptoe to the table, made asudden dive under it, and collared his little brother.
The arrest, however, being far more prompt than had been expected, the"t'ief" refused to be captured. A struggle ensued, in the course ofwhich the helmet rolled off, a corner of the tablecloth was pulled down,and the earthenware teapot fell with a crash to the floor.
"It's my duty, I fear," said Giles, "to take you both into custody andlock you up in a cell for breaking the teapot as well as the peace, butI'll be merciful and let you off this time, Monty, if you lend yourmother a hand to pick up the pieces."
Monty agreed to accept this compromise. The helmet and truncheon wereput to their proper uses, and the merciful police-constable went out "onduty."