A WOMAN OF THE PEOPLE.
Bourke Street is a more crowded thoroughfare than Collins Street,
especially at night. The theatres that it contains are in themselves
sufficient for the gathering of a considerable crowd. It is a grimy
crowd for the most part. Round the doors of the hotels a number of
ragged and shabby-looking individuals collect, waiting till some kind
friend shall invite them to step inside. Further on a knot of
horsey-looking men are to be seen standing under the Opera House
verandah giving and taking odds about the Melbourne Cup, or some other
meeting. Here and there are ragged street Arabs, selling matches and
newspapers; and against the verandah post, in the full blaze of the
electric light, leans a weary, draggled-looking woman, one arm clasping
a baby to her breast, and the other holding a pile of newspapers, while
she drones out in a hoarse voice, "'ERALD, third 'dition, one penny!"
until the ear wearies of the constant repetition. Cabs rattle
incessantly along the street; here, a fast-looking hansom, with a
rakish horse, bearing some gilded youth to his Club--there, a
dingy-looking vehicle, drawn by a lank quadruped, which staggers
blindly down the street. Alternating with these, carriages dash along
with their well-groomed horses, and within, the vision of bright eyes,
white dresses, and the sparkle of diamonds. Then, further up, just on
the verge of the pavement, three violins and a harp are playing a
German waltz to an admiring crowd of attentive spectators. If there is
one thing which the Melbourne folk love more than another, it is music.
Their fondness for it is only equalled by their admiration for
horse-racing. Any street band which plays at all decently, may be sure
of a good audience, and a substantial remuneration for their
performance. Some writer has described Melbourne, as Glasgow with the
sky of Alexandria; and certainly the beautiful climate of Australia, so
Italian in its brightness, must have a great effect on the nature of
such an adaptable race as the Anglo-Saxon. In spite of the dismal
prognostications of Marcus Clarke regarding the future Australian, whom
he describes as being "a tall, coarse, strong-jawed, greedy, pushing,
talented man, excelling in swimming and horsemanship," it is more
likely that he will be a cultured, indolent individual, with an intense
appreciation of the arts and sciences, and a dislike to hard work and
utilitarian principles. Climatic influence should be taken into account
with regard to the future Australian, and our posterity will no more
resemble us than the luxurious Venetians resembled their hardy
forefathers, who first started to build on those lonely sandy islands
of the Adriatic.
This was the conclusion at which Mr. Calton arrived as he followed his
guide through the crowded streets, and saw with what deep interest the
crowd listened to the rhythmic strains of Strauss and the sparkling
melodies of Offenbach. The brilliantly-lit street, with the
never-ceasing stream of people pouring along; the shrill cries of the
street Arabs, the rattle of vehicles, and the fitful strains of music,
all made up a scene which fascinated him, and he could have gone on
wandering all night, watching the myriad phases of human character
constantly passing before his eyes. But his guide, with whom
familiarity with the proletarians had, in a great measure, bred
indifference, hurried him away to Little Bourke Street, where the
narrowness of the thoroughfare, with the high buildings on each side,
the dim light of the sparsely scattered gas-lamps, and the few
ragged-looking figures slouching along, formed a strong contrast to the
brilliant and crowded scene they had just left. Turning off Little
Bourke Street, the detective led the way down a dark lane. It was as
hot as a furnace from the accumulated heat of the day. To look up at
the clear starlit sky was to experience a sensation of delicious
coolness.
"Keep close to me," whispered Kilsip, touching the barrister on the
arm; "we may meet some nasty customers about here."
It was not quite dark, for the atmosphere had that luminous kind of
haze so observable in Australian twilights, and this weird light was
just sufficient to make the darkness visible. Kilsip and the barrister
kept for safety in the middle of the alley, so that no one could spring
upon them unaware, and they could see sometimes on the one side, a man
cowering back into the black shadow, or on the other, a woman with
disordered hair and bare bosom, leaning out of a window trying to get a
breath of fresh air. There were also some children playing in the
dried-up gutter, and their shrill young voices came echoing strangely
through the gloom, mingling with a bacchanalian sort of song, sung by a
man, as he slouched along unsteadily over the rough stones. Now and
then a mild-looking string of Chinamen stole along, clad in their
dull-hued blue blouses, either chattering shrilly, like a lot of
parrots, or moving silently down the alley with a stolid Oriental
apathy on their yellow faces. Here and there came a stream of warm
light through an open door, and within, the Mongolians were gathered
round the gambling-tables, playing fan-tan, or leaving the seductions
of their favourite pastime, to glide soft-footed to the many
cook-shops, where enticing-looking fowls and turkeys already cooked
were awaiting purchasers. Kilsip turning to the left, led the barrister
down another and still narrower lane, the darkness and gloom of which
made the lawyer shudder, as he wondered how human beings could live in
such murky places.
At last, to Calton's relief, for he felt somewhat bewildered by the
darkness and narrowness of the lanes through which he had been taken,
the detective stopped before a door, which he opened, and stepping
inside, beckoned to the barrister to follow. Calton did so, and found
himself in a low, dark, ill-smelling passage. At the end a faint light
glimmered. Kilsip caught his companion by the arm and guided him
carefully along the passage. There was much need of this caution, for
Calton could feel that the rotten boards were full of holes, into which
one or the other of his feet kept slipping from time to time, while he
could hear the rats squeaking and scampering away on all sides. Just as
they got to the end of this tunnel, for it could be called nothing
else, the light suddenly went out, and they were left in complete
darkness.
"Light that," cried the detective in a peremptory tone of voice. "What
do you mean by dowsing the glim?"
Thieves' argot was, evidently, well understood here, for there was a
shuffle in the dark, a muttered voice, and someone lit a candle. Calton
saw that the light was held by an elfish-looking child. Tangled masses
of black hair hung over her scowling white face. As she crouched down
on the floor against the damp wall she looked up defiantly yet
fearfully at the detective.
"Where's Mother Guttersnipe?" asked Kilsip, touching her with his foot.
She seemed to resent the indignity, and rose quickly to her feet.
"Upstairs," she replied, jerking her head in the direction of the right
wall.
Following her direction, Calton--his eyes now somewhat accustomed to
the gloom--could discern a gaping black chasm, which he presumed was
the stair alluded to.
"Yer won't get much out of 'er to-night; she's a-going to start 'er
booze, she is."
"Never mind what she's doing or about to do," said Kilsip, sharply,
"take me to her at once."
The girl looked him sullenly up and down, then she led the way into the
black chasm and up the stairs. They were so shaky as to make Calton
fear they might give way. As they toiled slowly up the broken steps he
held tightly to his companion's arm. At last they stopped at a door
through the cracks of which a faint glimmer of light was to be seen.
Here the girl gave a shrill whistle, and the door opened. Still
preceded by their elfish guide, Calton and the detective stepped
through the doorway. A curious scene was before them. A small square
room, with a low roof, from which the paper mildewed and torn hung in
shreds; on the left hand, at the far end, was a kind of low stretcher,
upon which a woman, almost naked, lay, amid a heap of greasy clothes.
She appeared to be ill, for she kept tossing her head from side to side
restlessly, and every now and then sang snatches of song in a cracked
voice. In the centre of the room was a rough deal table, upon which
stood a guttering tallow candle, which but faintly illuminated the
scene, and a half empty rectangular bottle of Schnapps, with a broken
cup beside it. In front of these signs of festivity sat an old woman
with a pack of cards spread out before her, and from which she had
evidently been telling the fortune of a villainous-looking young man
who had opened the door, and who stood looking at the detective with no
very friendly expression of countenance. He wore a greasy brown velvet
coat, much patched, and a black wide-awake hat, pulled down over his
eyes. From his expression--so scowling and vindictive was it--the
barrister judged his ultimate destiny to lie between Pentridge and the
gallows.
As they entered, the fortune-teller raised her head, and, shading her
eyes with one skinny hand, looked curiously at the new comers. Calton
thought he had never seen such a repulsive-looking old crone; and, in
truth, her ugliness was, in its very grotesqueness well worthy the
pencil of a Dore. Her face was seamed and lined with innumerable
wrinkles, clearly defined by the dirt which was in them; bushy grey
eyebrows, drawn frowningly over two piercing black eyes, whose light
was undimmed by age; a hook nose, like the beak of a bird of prey, and
a thin-lipped mouth devoid of teeth. Her hair was very luxurious and
almost white, and was tied up in a great bunch by a greasy bit of black
ribbon. As to her chin, Calton, when he saw it wagging to and fro,
involuntarily quoted Macbeth's lines--
"Ye should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That ye are so."
She was no bad representative of the weird sisters.
As they entered she eyed them viciously, demanding,
"What the blazes they wanted."
"Want your booze," cried the child, with an elfish laugh, as she shook
back her tangled hair.
"Get out, you whelp," croaked the old hag, shaking one skinny fist at
her, "or I'll tear yer 'eart out."
"Yes, she can go." said Kilsip, nodding to the girl, "and you can
clear, too," he added, sharply, turning to the young man, who stood
still holding the door open.
At first he seemed inclined to dispute the detective's order, but
ultimately obeyed him, muttering, as he went out, something about "the
blooming cheek of showin' swells cove's cribs." The child followed him
out, her exit being accelerated by Mother Guttersnipe, who, with a
rapidity only attained by long practice, seized the shoe from one of
her feet, and flung it at the head of the rapidly retreating girl.
"Wait till I ketches yer, Lizer," she shrieked, with a volley of oaths,
"I'll break yer 'ead for ye!"
Lizer responded with a shrill laugh of disdain, and vanished through
the shaky door, which she closed after her.
When she had disappeared Mother Guttersnipe took a drink from the
broken cup, and, gathering all her greasy cards together in a
business-like way, looked insinuatingly at Calton, with a suggestive
leer.
"It's the future ye want unveiled, dearie?" she croaked, rapidly
shuffling the cards; "an' old mother 'ull tell--"
"No she won't," interrupted the detective, sharply. "I've come on
business."
The old woman started at this, and looked keenly at him from under her
bushy eyebrows.
"What 'av the boys been up to now?" she asked, harshly. "There ain't no
swag 'ere this time."
Just then the sick woman, who had been restlessly tossing on the bed,
commenced singing a snatch of the quaint old ballad of "Barbara Allen"--
"Oh, mither, mither, mak' my bed,
An' mak' it saft an' narrow;
Since my true love died for me to-day
I'll die for him to-morrow."
"Shut up, cuss you!" yelled Mother Guttersnipe, viciously, "or I'll
knock yer bloomin' 'ead orf," and she seized the square bottle as if to
carry out her threat; but, altering her mind, she poured some of its
contents into the cup, and drank it off with avidity.
"The woman seems ill," said Calton, casting a shuddering glance at the
stretcher.
"So she are," growled Mother Guttersnipe, angrily. "She ought to be in
Yarrer Bend, she ought, instead of stoppin' 'ere an' singin' them
beastly things, which makes my blood run cold. Just 'ear 'er," she
said, viciously, as the sick woman broke out once more--
"Oh, little did my mither think,
When first she cradled me,
I'd die sa far away fra home,
Upon the gallows tree."
"Yah!" said the old woman, hastily, drinking some more gin out of the
cup. "She's allays a-talkin' of dyin' an' gallers, as if they were nice
things to jawr about."
"Who was that woman who died here three or four weeks ago?" asked
Kilsip, sharply.
"'Ow should I know?" retorted Mother Guttersnipe, sullenly. "I didn't
kill 'er, did I? It were the brandy she drank; she was allays drinkin',
cuss her."
"Do you remember the night she died?"
"No, I don't," answered the beldame, frankly. "I were drunk--blind,
bloomin', blazin' drunk--s'elp me."
"You're always drunk," said Kilsip.
"What if I am?" snarled the woman, seizing her bottle. "You don't pay
fur it. Yes, I'm drunk. I'm allays drunk. I was drunk last night, an'
the night before, an' I'm a-goin' to git drunk to-night"--with an
impressive look at the bottle--"an' to-morrow night, an' I'll keep it
up till I'm rottin' in the grave."
Calton shuddered, so full of hatred and suppressed malignity was her
voice, but the detective merely shrugged his shoulders.
"More fool you," he said, briefly. "Come now, on the night the 'Queen,'
as you call her, died, there was a gentleman came to see her?"
"So she said," retorted Mother Guttersnipe; "but, lor, I dunno
anythin', I were drunk."
"Who said--the 'Queen?'"
"No, my gran'darter, Sal. The 'Queen,' sent 'er to fetch the toff to
see 'er cut 'er lucky. Wanted 'im to look at 'is work, I s'pose, cuss
'im; and Sal prigged some paper from my box," she shrieked,
indignantly; "prigged it w'en I were too drunk to stop 'er?"
The detective glanced at Calton, who nodded to him with a gratified
expression on his face. They were right as to the paper having been
stolen from the Villa at Toorak.
"You did not see the gentleman who came?" said Kilsip, turning again to
the old hag.
"Not I, cuss you," she retorted, politely. "'E came about 'arf-past one
in the morning, an' you don't expects we can stop up all night, do ye?"
"Half-past one o'clock," repeated Calton, quickly. "The very time. Is
this true?"
"Wish I may die if it ain't," said Mother Guttersnipe, graciously. "My
gran'darter Sal kin tell ye."
"Where is she?" asked Kilsip, sharply.
At this the old woman threw back her head, and howled dismay.
"She's 'ooked it," she wailed, drumming on the ground with her feet.
"Gon' an' left 'er pore old gran' an' joined the Army, cuss 'em,
a-comin' round an' a-spilin' business."
Here the woman on the bed broke out again--
"Since the flowers o' the forest are a' wed awa."
"'Old yer jawr," yelled Mother Guttersnipe, rising, and making a dart
at the bed. "I'll choke the life out ye, s'elp me. D'y want me to
murder ye, singin' 'em funeral things?"
Meanwhile the detective was talking rapidly to Mr. Calton.
"The only person who can prove Mr. Fitzgerald was here between one and
two o'clock," he said, quickly, "is Sal Rawlins, as everyone else seems
to have been drunk or asleep. As she has joined the Salvation Army,
I'll go to the barracks the first thing in the morning and look for
her."
"I hope you'll find her," answered Calton, drawing a long breath. "A
man's life hangs on her evidence."
They turned to go, Calton having first given Mother Guttersnipe some
loose silver, which she seized on with an avaricious clutch.
"You'll drink it, I suppose?" said the barrister, shrinking back from
her.
"Werry likely," retorted the hag, with a repulsive grin, tying the
money up in a piece of her dress, which she tore off for the purpose.
"I'm a forting to the public-'ouse, I am, an' it's the on'y pleasure I
'ave in my life, cuss it."
The sight of money had a genial effect on her nature, for she held the
candle at the head of the stairs, as they went down, so that they
should not break their heads. As they arrived safely, they saw the
light vanish, and heard the sick woman singing, "The Last Rose of
Summer."
The street door was open, and, after groping their way along the dark
passage, with its pitfalls, they found themselves in the open street.
"Thank heaven," said Calton, taking off his hat, and drawing a long
breath. "Thank heaven we are safely out of that den!"
"At all events, our journey has not been wasted," said the detective,
as they walked along. "We've found out where Mr. Fitzgerald was on the
night of the murder, so he will be safe."
"That depends upon Sal Rawlins," answered Calton, gravely; "but come,
let us have a glass of brandy, for I feel quite ill after my experience
of low life."