ARMINE'S TRUST.
A FEW minutes passed before Mrs. Rule came back with her tray.
"I stopped to boil a couple of eggs for you, Mrs. Collins; for I know
you take more of a meal at this hour than I felt inclined for to-day,
so I had nothing but a bit of cheese, and that's not very tempting."
"How do you manage to get such fresh eggs, Mrs. Rule? Them French eggs
seem never fresh, and the others are so dear."
"Well, I have two little hens that live out in that scrap of a yard,
and eat just whatever I give them—crumbs and scraps—and they really lay
very constantly."
"Ah, they must be a great worry, though! I never could manage that.
Well, now, Mrs. Rule, you did take me by surprise just now; you really
might have knocked me down with a feather. I'd have thought you the
last person in the world to run such a risk."
"Indeed, and so would I; that's nothing but the truth. But you see
how it is. I know the little book says no more than the truth, and
that one ought to do something for some one. And it will be easier and
pleasanter to me, having a child in the house—for you'll maybe hardly
believe me, but I'm very fond of children by nature—pleasanter, and
more to my taste than going out looking for some one to help a bit. You
see, I didn't get on with you, and poor Mary Graham's gone. I began as
nursery maid, and, dear me! I was fond of the children, especially Miss
Geraldine."
Mrs. Collins felt very thankful that she had not more plainly mentioned
her idea that Mrs. Rule meant to take a husband, as she felt that it
would have given great offence. She looked wise, and remarked—
"Indeed, I think you're wise; though, as to not getting on with me,
what's a cross word between friends? And I've forgiven and forgotten
long ago. But, of course, you are well able to give a child every
comfort, and you can make her useful by-and-by. Moreover, I'm told the
pay is very good; so in all ways you're the gainer."
"It's not a matter of pay at all. I don't want any. I'm to take the
child altogether, to be like my own child. It was Mrs. Anstruther told
me of this place."
"What place? You've told me nothing of it as yet."
"Didn't I? I thought you spoke as if you knew."
"Oh no; you were under a mistake."
"It is an orphanage. Many of them are foundlings."
"But, gracious, Hannah Rule, you're never going to adopt a foundling!"
"Or an orphan that has no relations! Yes, I am. You see, I've no
relations, so far as I know, and I've saved a pretty penny, and since
I lost poor Mary Graham, I do feel lonely. I mean to bring her up, and
teach her all I know, so that when I'm gone, she'll be able to do well
for herself."
"Hannah Rule, it is not often I interfere by giving advice and
experience, but you were kind to me once, and kindness is what I never
forgive—forget, I mean. You'll live to repent if you do this thing.
Once I myself took a poorhouse girl to teach to be a servant. I just
thought every day a week till I was rid of her, and I trundled her back
at the month's end. The dirtiest, idlest, most untruthfulest young
baggage! As mischievous as a monkey, and as stupid as an owl! Once I
let her wash my good tea-set, and she broke more than half of it—there
was hardly a handle left to a cup. I did think to get a little rest
when I took her, but she couldn't and wouldn't do a thing. And the
language that awful child made use of! I truly thought my roof would
fly off."
"What! Was she as bad as me about the Pharisees?" inquired Hannah,
dryly. "But, at all events, poorhouse children and these children are
not quite the same; these girls are better cared for."
Mrs. Collins would not hear of this. No care would make a bit
of difference; girls were girls, and charity girls the worst of
all—except, indeed, foundlings. She uttered such dark hints of "things
I know if I was free to mention 'em," and found herself free to tell
such terrible tales of the experience of deluded people who "took in"
charity girls, that poor Hannah, a truthful woman, and therefore not
apt to suspect another of fiction, began to get alarmed.
"I'll do nothing in a hurry," she said at last.
"Nor without hurry either, if you'll take 'my' advice. But time is
going, and Miss Hallam will be home and wanting her tea, and mighty
cranky if kept waiting; so I must get my bit of business done. 'Tis
to pay you the rest of the five pounds you lent me, Mrs. Rule, that
time when I was so poorly, and I'm for ever obliged to you. Just count
it over; thirty-five shillings it ought to be, but I'm not good at
counting. I hope it's all there."
She emptied a small bag, cunningly contrived out of the toe of a
stocking, displaying a miscellaneous heap of small coin and many pence.
Hannah counted it, and handed back three-and-sixpence, saying—
"You're 'more' than honest this time."
"Well, that's clear gain, at all events!" said the old woman,
gleefully. "I thought I had too much, but I never could get it quite
right. Well, now, good-bye, Mrs. Rule; I must really be going."
Next day Hannah was going out to a day's work in the cooking line, when
the door of No. 6 was opened, and Mrs. Collins appeared.
"I saw you coming. Well, have you made up your mind about that charity
foundling yet?"
"I'm not going after her now, at all events. General St. John's giving
a big dinner, and his cook's ill, and the Frenchman he employs won't do
a thing unless he has skilled help. I could do as well without him! But
some people don't believe in what they can get cheap."
"Indeed, then, they'll not get anything better, Frenchman or no
Frenchman, than your mutton pie, Mrs. Rule."
Hannah laughed till her eyes were full of tears at the idea of her
little mutton pie appearing at General St. John's dinner; and Mrs.
Collins, who did not see the joke, was rather inclined to be offended.
"Well," said she, "to-morrow, if you're inclined for anything but
laughing, there's a thing come into my mind that I'd like to talk over
with you. I'll come round if I don't see you go out."
She accordingly came round, as she termed it, though she had but a
few steps in a straight line to take. And, as she came "just in my
morning-dress and in the middle of my work," she looked so very dirty
and grimy that Hannah hastily said—
"You won't mind coming into the kitchen? I'm baking, and the oven ought
to be watched."
But she did not take Mrs. Collins in! And the dear old lady would fain
have told her so, with comments, but she checked herself, and only
bridled a little.
Such a kitchen! Such a tidy, black and white little place! Such
shining tin and brass! Such a polished range! What a waste of time,
thought Mrs. Collins, slaving to do all this for no one so much as to
see but herself! For never before had a neighbour beheld Mrs. Rule's
kitchen. But she held her tongue, for she could do so when she felt she
ought—that is, when she thought it for her own interest to do so.
"Baking bread," she remarked presently, when Hannah opened the oven
door; "beautiful light bread it looks too!"
"It's for Mr. Holcroft, my lodger. He likes my bread for breakfast."
"He may well! Well, Mrs. Rule, a notion took hold of me yesterday
evening—" then, as Hannah looked up, she corrected herself—"no, no, the
evening before, it was. Here are you and me, lone women. I'm good for
plenty of hard work still, but I feel lonely; and so, as you told me,
do you. Why not come together for our mutual help? The house next door
to you is to let. If you and me had these two houses between us, and
lived, together, I know the landlord would open a door between the two
for us, for he did it for Nos. 12 and 13, and we'd have four or five
sets of rooms to let, and, between us, the work would be nothing."
She held forth for some time on the advantages of her scheme—advantages
to Hannah; for all "she" wanted was not to be alone. If any one could
have seen Hannah's face as she listened, it would have proved worth
while. Half angry, half amused, she kept it resolutely turned towards
her oven, and let the old woman talk away. At last Mrs. Collins ceased.
"Now," thought Hannah,—"only my book says it can't be right to say
hurting words—only for that, I'd let her know that I see through her.
So this is why she had such tales about charity girls!"
"You're thinking, Mrs. Rule, that I'm hardly able for a fair half of
the work, but—"
"No, I'm not thinking about that at all," said Hannah, bluntly. "I'm
trying to find a civil way of saying that I couldn't hear of such a
thing."
"Well, now, but if you'd consider my reasons—"
"Oh, I do consider them, and know them better than you think for.
There's no use talking, Mrs. Collins, I believe you take me for a fool."
Which was very near the truth, though of course Mrs. Collins denied it.
"But really," she continued, after an ample protest, "I do 'not' see
why you won't think of it. You talk of wanting to help some one, and
sure I am no poor widow would be gladder of help and kind company than
myself."
"I dare say. But you just look round, and compare my kitchen with
yours; and remember how I used to fight you over everything I used
when I was trying to teach you to cook. Why, I'd be out of my mind in
a month, if I had to live in such dirt and messiness! No, don't say
another word about it. I'm trying hard not to say anything of a rude
hard sort, but I really find it hard to keep in."
"Well, well! Your temper 'does' amaze me! Ah, dear! If I gave way like
that, there'd be a reg'lar quarrel in no time, but I'm not going to
quarrel, Mrs. Rule, though 'tis news to me that you were trying to
teach me to cook—a thing I've been doing longer than you have, though
maybe not quite in the same way. Good day to you, ma'am, and I hope you
may not repent, too late, of saying 'No,' none too civilly, to a kind
offer. You'll be in a scrape yet with your queer notions, and I thought
to help you to keep straight."
"Keep straight, indeed!" said Hannah, when she had shut the door after
her retiring visitor. "A strait waistcoat would soon do that for me
if I had that poor dirty old soul always about under my eyes, to say
nothing of her shiftless, untidy ways. And the cunning of her! Putting
me off with stories of charity girls because she wanted to make her own
of me! Much work she'd have done! Well, I'll just tidy up and go 'at
once' to Armine's Trust: my mind's made up this time."
And in less than an hour Mrs. Collins saw her go. She thought sadly—
"Some folks never know what is good for them." "She" knew what was good
for her, beyond a doubt, but the selfishness of human nature pained
her. "Going searching for an orphan or a foundling to adopt, with me at
hand that's both an orphan and a widow—and childless too! But then I'm
'not' a foundling. No, I really 'cannot' go so far as that."
The Armine Trust Refuge for Destitute Children was an old City charity,
which, if it had not quite advanced with the times, had at least not
fallen into bad ways like some of the old foundations. The money had
not been misappropriated, and the Refuge was still used as the founder
had wished. There was a house for boys as well as one for girls, but
they were quite distinct and at some distance from each other.
The house to which Mrs. Rule was now on her way was in Orfers Lane,
which was not a lane at all, but a broad street, paved with small
stones which still presented a smooth surface, so well had the work
been done. Probably "Orfer" may be traced to the French "orfèvre," as
Sir Paul Armine, who founded the Trust, was a wealthy goldsmith in days
long gone by. He was nearly forgotten now. There was a tradition that
he lost a large family by the Plague, on one of the many occasions when
it visited London, before that terrible scavenger, the Great Fire,
drove it away, let us hope, for ever.
Sir Paul comforted his sad heart by saving the many destitute children
who had survived their parents, from beggary and starvation. The
children originally numbered fifty-six, because he was fifty-six when
he lost his children. There was a housekeeper and a chaplain, and there
had been a small chapel in which the souls of the Armine family had
been duly prayed for. But the chapel was now the schoolroom, and there
was no chaplain, the children going to the nearest place of worship.
There was now a matron and a servant, and a schoolmaster who attended
daily. And there were only twenty girls, as the funds did not suffice
for more in these days.
Mrs. Rule reached the place at about twelve o'clock, when the children
were in what was known as the playground, having an hour to play
before dinner. It was a fine day, even in the City the air feels fresh
in April sometimes; but the children were not playing heartily, like
the children in the country schools that Hannah remembered. They were
sitting in forlorn little groups, gazing through the heavy old iron
railings into the street, the elder ones keeping behind the others,
evidently to conceal the shortness of their skimpy red cotton frocks.
They all wore little black poke bonnets over hair cut close to their
heads, long white stockings and strong hob-nailed shoes, fit for a day
labourer on a farm, completed a singularly ugly costume. There were
girls of every age, from sixteen down to a baby carried by one of the
elders, who, having something to do, looked less discontented than the
rest. They all looked clean and well fed, but dull; indeed, that was
not wonderful, for life in this establishment was terribly dull.
The salaries given to matron and schoolmaster were too low to secure
good service. The present matron had been a domestic servant in her
day—and her day was long gone by; she had no idea of taking unnecessary
trouble with the girls, though she saw after them fairly well, and was
never unkind. The master taught them to read and write, and to do sums;
more than this he could not teach, for the best reason in the world—he
knew no more. He kept order by using a cane rather freely. The dress
made going to church a misery, and going out for a walk impossible,
even if the matron could have walked with them.
The poor things were kept in school for several hours daily, and when
out of school were made to consider "keeping quiet" the whole duty
of girls! The elder ones did some of the housework, and minded the
babies. But for the girls of from ten years old to fourteen (when they
had generally learned all that the master could teach them) there was
literally nothing to do.
Hannah Rule drew near the gate, looking sometimes at the apathetic
faces, and wondering "what ailed the girls." But when she rang the
bell, a ray of intelligence lighted up one or two of them, and all
looked as if a breath of fresh air had passed over them.
"Maybe she wants one of us," they whispered. And one tall girl stepped
forward and said, "I will go for Mrs. Marner, ma'am."
So many were passing along the footpath that it was not pleasant
waiting, and Hannah said—
"Couldn't you open the door for me?"
The girls answered in chorus, "No, ma'am, 'tis locked."
And one added, "Here's Mrs. Marner."
A decent looking old woman, with a portentous bunch of keys in her
hand, came forward and unlocked the gate. Hannah entered, and gave her
a card which she had brought from Mrs. Anstruther.
"A card! Oh dear! Alice Hawthorne, is the master in the schoolroom?"
"No, ma'am, he's out."
"Then, Alice, read this card for me. My eyes, ma'am, are not what they
used to be."
This was true, but at no time had written character been easy reading
to Mrs. Marner. Alice bent her brows over the card, another tall girl
came to help her, and between them they made it out.
"Mrs. Hannah Rule, who is well-known to the writer, wishes to adopt
a girl from Armine's Trust. Mrs. Marner will kindly let her see the
girls, and give her every facility" (which was read "felicity") "to
make her choice. Mrs. John Anstruther will arrange for the girl
selected to be sent home next board day."
"Oh! Mrs. Anstruther! Yes, she's one of the ladies put on the board
lately, and I'm of opinion we did as well—But that's not my business.
Is it for a servant, ma'am, or just to adopt like, that you want her?"
"I'd like a child of about ten, or maybe a little more," said Hannah.
"Oh, we have 'em of all ages. Come into the schoolroom, ma'am, and you
shall see 'em all. One of you call the three girls that are in the
kitchen."
In a few minutes, twenty girls were ranged in a row, beginning with a
tall, rather pretty girl, who looked lamentably awkward and shy in her
queer short-waisted frock. And poor Hannah looked hardly less shy as
she turned her good-looking, fresh-coloured face from one to another.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]