From that heaving grey wilderness of water called the North Sea we pass
now to that lively wilderness of bricks and mortar called London.
West-end mansions are not naturally picturesque or interesting subjects
either for the brush or the pen, and we would not willingly drag our
readers into one of them, did not circumstances--over which we have not
a shadow of control--compel us to do so.
The particular mansion to which we now direct attention belonged to a
certain Mrs Dotropy, whose husband's ancestors, by the way, were said
to have come over with the Conqueror--whether in his own ship or in one
of the bumboats that followed is not certain. They were De Tropys at
that time, but, having sunk in the social scale in the course of
centuries, and then risen again in succeeding centuries through the
medium of trade, they reappeared on the surface with their patronymic
transformed as now presented.
"Mother," said Ruth Dotropy to a magnificent duchess-like woman, "I've
come to ask you about the poor--"
"Ruth, dear," interrupted the mother, "I wish you would not worry me
about the poor! They're a troublesome, ill-doing set; always grumbling,
dirty, ill-natured, suspicious, and envious of the rich--as if it was
our fault that we are rich! I don't want to hear anything more about
the poor."
Ruth, who was a soft-cheeked, soft-handed, and soft-hearted girl of
eighteen, stood, hat in hand, before her mother with a slight smile on
her rosy lips.
"You are not quite just to the poor, mother," returned Ruth, scarce able
to restrain a laugh at her parent's vehemence. "Some of them are all
that you say, no doubt, but there are many, even among the poorest of
the poor, who are good-natured, well-doing, unsuspicious, and
respectful, not only to the rich but also to each other and to
everybody. There is Mrs Wolsey, for instance, she--"
"Oh! but she's an exception, you know," said Mrs Dotropy, "there are
not many like Mrs Wolsey."
"And there is Mrs Gladman," continued Ruth.
"Yes, but she's another exception."
"And Mrs Robbie."
"Why, Ruth, what's the use of picking out all the exceptions to prove
your point? Of course the exception proves the rule--at least so the
proverb says--but a great many exceptions prove nothing that I know of,
except--that is--but what's the use of arguing, child, you'll never be
convinced. Come, how much do you want me to give?"
Easy-going Mrs Dotropy's mind, we need scarcely point out, was of a
confused type, and she "hated argument." Perhaps, on the whole, it was
to the advantage of her friends and kindred that she did so.
"I only want you to give a little time, mother," replied Ruth, swinging
her hat to and fro, while she looked archly into Mrs Dotropy's large,
dignified, and sternly-kind countenance, if we may venture on such an
expression,--"I want you to go with me and see--"
"Yes, yes, I know what you're going to say, child, you want me to go and
`see for myself,' which means that I'm to soil my boots in filthy
places, subject my ears to profanity, my eyes to horrible sights, and my
nose to intolerable smells. No, Ruth, I cannot oblige you. Of what use
would it be? If my doing this would relieve the miseries of the poor,
you might reasonably ask me to go among them, but it would not. I give
them as much money as I can afford to give, and, as far as I can see, it
does them no good. They never seem better off, and they always want
more. They are not even grateful for it. Just look at Lady Openhand.
What good does she accomplish by her liberality, and her tearful eyes,
and sympathetic heart, even though her feelings are undoubtedly genuine?
Only the other day I chanced to walk behind her along several streets
and saw her stop and give money to seven or eight beggars who accosted
her. She never _can_ refuse any one who asks with a pitiful look and a
pathetic cock-and-bull story. Several of them were young and strong,
and quite undeserving of charity. Three, I observed, went straight to a
public-house with what she had given them, and the last, a small street
boy, went into fits of suppressed laughter after she had passed, and
made faces at her--finishing off by putting the thumb of his left hand
to his nose, and spreading out his fingers as wide as possible. I do
not understand the exact significance of that action, but there is
something in it so intensely insolent that it is quite incompatible with
the idea of gratitude."
"Yes, mother, I saw him too," said Ruth, with a demure look; "it
curiously enough happened that I was following you at the time. You
afterwards passed the same boy with a refusal, I suppose?"
"Yes, child, of course--and a reproof."
"I thought so. Well, after you had passed, he not only applied his left
thumb to his nose and spread his fingers, but also put the thumb of his
right hand against the little finger of his left, and spread out the
other five fingers at _you_. So, whatever he meant Lady Openhand to
receive, he meant you to have twice as much. But Lady Openhand makes a
mistake, I think, she does not _consider_ the poor; she only feels
deeply for them and gives to them."
"_Only_ feels and gives!" repeated Mrs Dotropy, with a look of solemn
amazement.
Being quite incapable of disentangling or expressing the flood of ideas
that overwhelmed her, the good lady relieved herself after a few broken
sentences, with the assertion that it was of no use arguing with Ruth,
for Ruth would never be convinced.
She was so far right, in that her daughter could not change her mind on
the strength of mere dogmatic assertion, even although she was a pliant
and teachable little creature. So, at least, Mr Lewis, her pastor, had
found her when he tried to impress on her a few important lessons--such
as, that it is better to give than to receive; that man _is_ his
brother's keeper; that we are commanded to walk in the footsteps of
Jesus, who came to save the lost, to rescue the perishing, and who fed
the hungry.
"But, mother," resumed Ruth, "I want you to go with me to-day to visit
some poor people who are _not_ troublesome, who are perfectly clean, are
never ill-natured, suspect nothing, and envy nobody."
"They must indeed be wonderful people," said Mrs Dotropy, with a laugh
at Ruth's enthusiasm, "quite angelic."
"They are as nearly so as mortals ever become, I think," returned Ruth,
putting on her hat; "won't you come, mother?"
Now, Mrs Dotropy had the faculty of giving in gracefully, although she
could not argue. Rising with an amused smile, she kissed Ruth's
forehead and went to prepare for a visit to the poor.
Let us now turn to a small street scarcely ten minutes' walk from the
mansion where the above conversation took place.
It was what may be styled a Lilliputian street. Almost everything in it
was small. The houses were small; the shops were small; the rents--
well, they were certainly not so small as they should have been, the
doors and windows were small; and the very children that played in the
gutter, with an exceedingly small amount of clothing on them, were
rather diminutive. Some of the doors stood open, revealing the fact
that it had been thought wise by the builders of the houses to waste no
space in lobbies or entrance halls. One or two, however, displayed
entries, or passages--dark and narrow--the doors to which were blistered
and severely battered, because, being the public property of several
families, they had no particular owner to protect them.
There was a small flat over a green-grocer's shop to which one of the
cleanest of those entries led. It consisted of two rooms, a
light-closet and a kitchen, and was low-ceilinged and poorly furnished,
but there was a distinct air of cleanliness about it, with a consequent
tendency to comfort. The carpet of the chief room was very old, but it
had been miraculously darned and patched. The table was little larger
than that of a gigantic doll's-house, but it was covered with a clean,
though threadbare, cloth, that had seen better days, and on it lay
several old and well-thumbed books, besides two work-baskets.
In an old--a very old--easy-chair at one side of the fire sat a lady
rather beyond middle age, with her hands clasped on her lap, and her
eyes gazing dreamily at the fire. Perhaps she was speculating on the
question how long two small lumps of coal and a little dross would last.
The grate in which that amount of fuel burned was a miniature specimen
of simplicity,--a mere hollow in the wall with two bars across. The
fire itself was so small that nothing but constant solicitude saved it
from extinction.
There was much of grey mingled with the fair tresses of the lady, and
the remains of beauty were very distinct on a countenance, the lines of
which suggested suffering, gentleness, submission, and humility.
Perchance the little sigh that escaped her as she gazed at the
preposterously small fire had reference to days gone by when health
revelled in her veins; when wealth was lavished in her father's house;
when food and fun were plentiful; when grief and care were scarce.
Whatever her thoughts might have been, they were interrupted by the
entrance of another lady, who sat down beside her, laid a penny on the
table, and looked at the lady in the easy-chair with a peculiar,
half-comical expression.
"It is our _last_, Jessie," she said, and as she said it the expression
intensified, yet it seemed a little forced.
There needed no magician to tell that these two were sisters. The
indescribable similarity was strong, yet the difference was great.
Jessie was evidently, though not much, the elder.
"It's almost absurd, Kate," she said, "to think that we should actually
have--come--at last--to--"
She stopped, and Kate looked earnestly at her. There was a tremulous
motion about the corners of both their mouths. Jessie laid her head on
Kate's shoulder, and both wept--gently. They did not "burst into
tears," for they were not by nature demonstrative. Their position made
it easy to slide down on their knees and bury their heads side by side
in the great old easy-chair that had been carefully kept when all the
rest was sold, because it had belonged to their father.
We may not record the scarce audible prayer. Those who have suffered
know what it was. Those who have not suffered could not understand it.
After the prayer they sat down in a somewhat tranquil mood to "talk it
over." Poor things--they had often talked it over, without much result,
except that blessed one of evolving mutual sympathy.
"If I were only a little younger and stronger," said Kate, who had been,
and still was of a lively disposition, "I would offer myself as a
housemaid, but that is out of the question now; besides, I could not
leave you, Jessie, the invalid of the family--that once was."
"Come, Kate, let us have no reference to the invalid of the family any
more. I am getting quite strong. Do you know I do believe that poverty
is doing my health good; my appetite is improving. I really feel quite
hungry now."
"We will have tea, then," said Kate, getting up briskly; "the things
that we got will make one good meal, at all events, though the cost of
them has reduced our funds to the low ebb of one penny; so, let us enjoy
ourselves while it lasts!"
Kate seized the poker as she spoke, and gave the fire a thrust that
almost extinguished it. Then she heaped on a few ounces of coal with
reckless indifference to the future, and put on a little kettle to boil.
Soon the small table was spread with a white cloth, a silver teapot,
and two beautiful cups that had been allowed them out of the family
wreck; a loaf of bread, a very small quantity of brown sugar, a smaller
quantity of skim-milk, and the smallest conceivable pat of salt butter.
"And this took all the money except one penny?" asked Jessie, regarding
the table with a look of mingled sadness and amazement.
"All--every farthing," replied Kate, "and I consider the result a
triumph of domestic economy."
The sisters were about to sit down to enjoy their triumph when a
bounding step was heard on the stair.
"That's Ruth," exclaimed Kate, rising and hurrying to the door; "quick,
get out the other cup, Jessie. Oh! Ruth, darling, this is good of you.
We were sure you would come this week, as--"
She stopped abruptly, for a large presence loomed on the stair behind
Ruth.
"I have brought mamma to see you, Kate--the Misses Seaward, mamma; you
have often heard me speak of them."
"Yes, dear, and I have much pleasure in making the Misses Seaward's
acquaintance. My daughter is very fond of you, ladies, I know, and the
little puss has brought me here by way of a surprise, I suppose, for we
came out to pay a very different kind of visit. She--"
"Oh! but mamma," hastily exclaimed Ruth, who saw that her mother, whom
she had hitherto kept in ignorance of the circumstances of the poor
ladies, was approaching dangerous ground, "our visit here _has_ to do
with--with the people we were speaking about. I have come," she added,
turning quickly to Miss Jessie, "to transact a little business with
you--about those poor people, you remember, whom you were so sorry for.
Mamma will be glad to hear what we have to say about them. Won't you,
mamma?"
"Of course, of course, dear," replied Mrs Dotropy, who, however,
experienced a slight feeling of annoyance at being thus dragged into a
preliminary consideration of the affairs of poor people before paying a
personal visit to them. Being good-natured, however, and kind, she
submitted gracefully and took note, while chairs were placed round the
table for this amateur Board, that ladies with moderate means--obviously
_very_ moderate--appeared to enjoy their afternoon tea quite as much as
rich people. You see, it never entered into Mrs Dotropy's mind--how
could it?--that what she imagined to be "afternoon tea" was dinner, tea,
and supper combined in one meal, beyond which there lay no prospective
meal, except what one penny might purchase.
With a mysterious look, and a gleam of delight in her eyes, Ruth drew
forth a well-filled purse, the contents of which, in shillings,
sixpences, and coppers, she poured out upon the tea-table.
"There," she said triumphantly, "I have collected all that myself, and
I've come to consult you how much of it should be given to each, and how
we are to get them to take it."
"How kind of you, Ruth!" exclaimed Kate and Jessie Seaward, gazing on
the coin with intense, almost miserly satisfaction.
"Nonsense! it's not kind a bit," responded Ruth; "if you knew the
pleasure I've had in gathering it, and telling the sad story of the poor
people; and then, the thought of the comfort it will bring to them,
though it _is_ so little after all."
"It won't appear little in their eyes, Ruth," said Kate, "for you can't
think how badly off some of them are. I assure you when Jessie and I
think of it, as we often do, it makes us quite miserable."
Poor Misses Seaward! In their sympathy with the distress of others they
had quite forgotten, for the moment, their own extreme poverty. They
had even failed to observe that their own last penny had been
inadvertently but hopelessly mingled with the coin which Ruth had so
triumphantly showered upon the table.
"I've got a paper here with the name of each," continued the excited
girl, "so that we may divide the money in the proportions you think
best. That, however, will be easy, but I confess I have puzzled my
brain in vain to hit on a way to get poor Bella Tilly to accept
charity."
"That will be no difficulty," said Jessie, "because we won't offer her
charity. She has been knitting socks for sale lately, so we can buy
these."
"Oh! how stupid I am," cried Ruth, "the idea of buying something from
her never once occurred to me. We'll buy all her socks--yes, and put
our own price on them too; capital!"
"Who is Bella Tilly?" asked Mrs Dotropy.
"A young governess," replied Jessie, "whose health has given way. She
is an orphan--has not, I believe, a relative in the whole world--and has
been obliged to give up her last situation, not only because of her
health, but because she was badly treated."
"But how about poor Mr Garnet the musician?" resumed Ruth, "has _he_
anything to sell?"
"I think not," answered Kate; "the sweet sounds in which he deals can
now be no longer made since the paralytic stroke rendered his left arm
powerless. His flute was the last thing he had to sell, and he did not
part with it until hunger compelled him; and even then only after the
doctors had told him that recovery was impossible. But I daresay we
shall find some means of overcoming his scruples. He has relatives, but
they are all either poor or heartless, and between the two he is
starving."
Thus, one by one, the cases of those poor ones were considered until all
Ruth's money was apportioned, and Mrs Dotropy had become so much
interested, that she added a sovereign to the fund, for the express
benefit of Bella Tilly. Thereafter, Ruth and her mother departed,
leaving the list and the pile of money on the table, for the sisters had
undertaken to distribute the fund. Before leaving, however, Ruth placed
a letter in Kate's hand, saying that it had reference to an institution
which would interest them.
"Now isn't that nice?" said Kate, sitting down with a beaming smile,
when their visitors had gone, "so like Ruth. Ah! if she only knew how
much we need a little of that money. Well, well, we--"
"The tea is quite cold," interrupted Jessie, "and the fire has gone
out!"
"Jessie!" exclaimed Kate with a sudden look of solemnity--"the _penny_!"