CHAPTER XIII. THE LOSS OF THE CROSSING.
Despite the lateness of the hour before he got to rest, Percivalhad already breakfasted, when his valet informed him, with raised,supercilious eyebrows, that an uncommon ragged sort of a person insistedthat he had been told to call. Though Beck had been at the house before,and the valet had admitted him, so much thinner, so much more ragged washe now, that the trim servant--no close observer of such folk--didnot recognize him. However, at Percival's order, too well-bred toshow surprise, he ushered Beck up with much civility; and St. Johnwas painfully struck with the ravages a few weeks had made upon thesweeper's countenance. The lines were so deeply ploughed, the dry hairlooked so thin, and was so sown with gray that Beck might have beat allFarren's skill in the part of an old man.
The poor sweeper's tale, extricated from its peculiar phraseology, wassimple enough, and soon told. He had returned home at night to find hishoards stolen, and the labour of his life overthrown. How he passed thatnight he did not very well remember. We may well suppose that the littlereason he possessed was wellnigh bereft from him. No suspicion of theexact thief crossed his perturbed mind. Bad as Grabman's character mightbe, he held a respectable position compared with the other lodgers inthe house. Bill the cracksman, naturally and by vocation, suggested thehand that had despoiled him: how hope for redress or extort surrenderfrom such a quarter? Mechanically, however, when the hour arrived toreturn to his day's task, he stole down the stairs, and lo, at the verydoor of the house Bill's children were at play, and in the hand of theeldest he recognized what he called his "curril."
"Your curril!" interrupted St. John.
"Yes, curril,--vot the little 'uns bite afore they gets their teethin'."
St. John smiled, and supposing that Beck had some time or other beenpuerile enough to purchase such a bauble, nodded to him to continue.To seize upon the urchin, and, in spite of kicks, bites, shrieks, orscratches, repossess himself of his treasure, was the feat of a moment.The brat's clamour drew out the father; and to him Beck (pocketing thecoral, that its golden bells might not attract the more experiencedeye and influence the more formidable greediness of the paternal thief)loudly, and at first fearlessly, appealed. Him he charged and accusedand threatened with all vengeance, human and divine. Then, changing histone, he implored, he wept, he knelt. As soon as the startled cracksmanrecovered his astonishment at such audacity, and comprehended the natureof the charge against himself and his family, he felt the more indignantfrom a strange and unfamiliar consciousness of innocence. Seizing Beckby the nape of the neck, with a dexterous application of hand and foothe sent him spinning into the kennel.
"Go to Jericho, mud-scraper!" cried Bill, in a voice of thunder; "and ifever thou sayst such a vopper agin,--'sparaging the characters of them'ere motherless babes,--I'll seal thee up in a 'tato-sack, and sell theefor fiv'pence to No. 7, the great body-snatcher. Take care how I eversets eyes agin on thy h-ugly mug!"
With that Bill clapped to the door, and Beck, frightened out of hiswits, crawled from the kennel and, bruised and smarting, crept tohis crossing. But he was unable to discharge his duties that day; hisill-fed, miserable frame was too weak for the stroke he had received.Long before dusk he sneaked away, and dreading to return to his lodging,lest, since nothing now was left worth robbing but his carcass, Billmight keep his word and sell that to the body-snatcher, he took refugeunder the only roof where he felt he could sleep in safety.
And here we must pause to explain. In our first introduction of Beck wecontented ourselves with implying to the ingenious and practised readerthat his heart might still be large enough to hold something besides hiscrossing. Now, in one of the small alleys that have their vent in thegreat stream of Fleet Street there dwelt an old widow-woman who eked outher existence by charing,--an industrious, drudging creature, whose soleoccupation, since her husband, the journeyman bricklayer, fell from ascaffold, and, breaking his neck, left her happily childless as well aspenniless, had been scrubbing stone floors and cleaning out dingy houseswhen about to be let,--charing, in a word. And in this vocation had shekept body and soul together till a bad rheumatism and old age had putan end to her utilities and entitled her to the receipt of two shillingsweekly from parochial munificence. Between this old woman and Beck therewas a mysterious tie, so mysterious that he did not well comprehend ithimself. Sometimes he called her "mammy," sometimes "the h-old crittur."But certain it is that to her he was indebted for that name which hebore, to the puzzlement of St. Giles's. Becky Carruthers was the name ofthe old woman; but Becky was one of those good creatures who are alwayscalled by their Christian names, and never rise into the importance ofthe surname and the dignity of "Mistress;" lopping off the last syllableof the familiar appellation, the outcast christened himself "Beck."
"And," said St. John, who in the course of question and answer had gotthus far into the marrow of the sweeper's narrative, "is not this goodwoman really your mother?"
"Mother!" echoed Beck, with disdain; "no, I 'as a gritter mother norshe. Sint Poll's is my mother. But the h-old crittur tuk care on me."
"I really don't understand you. St. Paul's is your mother? How?"
Beck shook his head mysteriously, and without answering the question,resumed the tale, which we must thus paraphrastically continue todeliver.
When he was a little more than six years old, Beck began to earn his ownlivelihood, by running errands, holding horses, scraping together penceand halfpence. Betimes, his passion for saving began; at first with agood and unselfish motive,--that of surprising "mammy" at the week'send. But when "mammy," who then gained enough for herself, patted hishead and called him "good boy," and bade him save for his own uses,and told him what a great thing it would be if he could lay by a prettypenny against he was a man, he turned miser on his own account; and themiserable luxury grew upon him. At last, by the permission of the policeinspector, strengthened by that of the owner of the contiguous house,he made his great step in life, and succeeded a deceased negro in thedignity and emoluments of the memorable crossing. From that hour he felthimself fulfilling his proper destiny. But poor Becky, alas! hadalready fallen into the sere and yellow leaf; with her decline, hergood qualities were impaired. She took to drinking,--not to positiveintoxication, but to making herself "comfortable;" and, to satisfy hercraving, Beck, waking betimes one morning, saw her emptying his pockets.Then he resolved, quietly and without upbraiding her, to remove toa safer lodging. To save had become the imperative necessity of hisexistence. But to do him justice, Beck had a glimmering sense of whatwas due to the "h-old crittur." Every Saturday evening he called at herhouse and deposited with her a certain sum, not large even in proportionto his earnings, but which seemed to the poor ignorant miser, whogrudged every farthing to himself, an enormous deduction from his total,and a sum sufficient for every possible want of humankind, even tosatiety. And now, in returning, despoiled of all save the few pence hehad collected that day, it is but fair to him to add that not his leastbitter pang was in the remembrance that this was the only Saturday onwhich, for the first time, the weekly stipend would fail.
But so ill and so wretched did he look when he reached her little roomthat "mammy" forgot all thought of herself; and when he had told histale, so kind was her comforting, so unselfish her sympathy, that hisheart smote him for his old parsimony, for his hard resentment at hersingle act of peculation. Had not she the right to all he made? Butremorse and grief alike soon vanished in the fever that now seized him;for several days he was insensible; and when he recovered sufficientlyto be made aware of what was around him, he saw the widow seated besidehim, within four bare walls. Everything, except the bed he slept on,had been sold to support him in his illness. As soon as he could totterforth, Beck hastened to his crossing. Alas! it was preoccupied. Hisabsence had led to ambitious usurpation. A one-legged, sturdy sailor hadmounted his throne, and wielded his sceptre. The decorum of the streetforbade altercation to the contending parties; but the sailor referreddiscussion to a meeting at a flash
house in the Rookery that evening.There a jury was appointed, and the case opened. By the conventionallaws that regulate this useful community, Beck was still in his rights;his reappearance sufficed to restore his claims, and an appeal to thepoliceman would no doubt re-establish his authority. But Beck was stillso ill and so feeble that he had a melancholy persuasion that he couldnot suitably perform the duties of his office; and when the sailor, nota bad fellow on the whole, offered to pay down on the nail what reallyseemed a very liberal sum for Beck's peaceful surrender of his rights,the poor wretch thought of the bare walls at his "mammy's," of thelong, dreary interval that must elapse, even if able to work, before thefurniture pawned could be redeemed by the daily profits of his post, andwith a groan he held out his hand and concluded the bargain.
Creeping home to his "h-old crittur," he threw the purchase money intoher lap; then, broken-hearted and in despair, he slunk forth again in asort of vague, dreamy hope that the law, which abhors vagabonds, wouldseize and finish him.
When this tale was done, Percival did not neglect the gentle task ofadmonition, which the poor sweeper's softened heart and dull remorsemade easier. He pointed out, in soft tones, how the avarice he hadindulged had been perhaps mercifully chastised, and drew no ineloquentpicture of the vicious miseries of the confirmed miser. Beck listenedhumbly and respectfully; though so little did he understand of mercy andProvidence and vice that the diviner part of the homily was quite loston him. However, he confessed penitently that "the mattress had madehim vorse nor a beast to the h-old crittur;" and that "he was cured ofsaving to the end of his days."
"And now," said Percival, "as you really seem not strong enough tobear this out-of-door work (the winter coming on, too), what say you toentering into my service? I want some help in my stables. The work iseasy enough, and you are used to horses, you know, in a sort of a way."
Beck hesitated, and looked a moment undecided. At last he said, "Pleaseyour honour, if I bean't strong enough for the crossin', I 'se afearedI'm too h-ailing to sarve you. And voud n't I be vorse nor a wiper totake your vages and not vork for 'em h-as I h-ought?"
"Pooh! we'll soon make you strong, my man. Take my advice; don't letyour head run on the crossing. That kind of industry exposes you to badcompany and bad thoughts."
"That's vot it is, sir," said Beck, assentingly, laying his dexterforefinger on his sinister palm.
"Well! you are in my service, then. Go downstairs now and get yourbreakfast; by and by you shall show me your 'mammy's' house, and we'llsee what can be done for her."
Beck pressed his hands to his eyes, trying hard not to cry; but it wastoo much for him; and as the valet, who appeared to Percival's summons,led him down the stairs, his sobs were heard from attic to basement.