A PRESENT OF TEA-LEAVES.
How went on Honey Fair? Better and worse, better and worse, according to
custom; the worse prevailing over the better.
Of all its inhabitants, none had advanced so well as Robert East.
Honestly to confess it, that is not saying much; since the greater
portion, instead of advancing in the world's social scale, had
retrograded. Robert had left the manufactory he had worked for and was
now second foreman at Mr. Ashley's. He was also becoming through
perseverance an excellent scholar in a plain way. He had had one friend
to help him; and that was William Halliburton.
The Easts had removed to a better house; one of those which had a garden
in front of it. No garden was more fragrant than theirs; and it was kept
in order by Robert and Thomas East. The house was larger than they
required, and part of it was occupied by Stephen Crouch and his
daughter. It was known that the Easts were putting by money: and Honey
Fair wondered: for none lived more comfortably, more respectably. Honey
Fair--taking it as a whole--lived neither comfortably nor respectably.
The Fishers had never come out of the workhouse, and Joe was dead. The
Crosses, turned from their home, their furniture sold, had found
lodgings; two rooms. Improvident as ever, were they. They did not
attempt to rise even to their former condition; but grovelled on, living
from hand to mouth. The Masons, man and wife, passed their time
agreeably in quarrels. At least, that it was agreeable may be assumed,
for the quarrels never ceased. Now and then they were diversified by a
fight. The children were growing up without training; and Caroline--ah!
I don't know that it will do much good to ask after her. Caroline, years
ago, had taken a false step; and, try as she would, she could not
regain her footing. She lived in a garret alone. She had so lived a long
while; and she worked her fingers to the bone to keep body and soul
together, and went about with her head down. Honey Fair looked askance
at her, and gathered up its petticoats when they saw her coming, as you
saw Eliza Tyrrett gather up hers, lest they should come into contact
with those contaminations. The Carters thrived; the Brumms, also, were
better off than they used to be; and the Buffles did so excellently that
a joke went about that they would be retiring on their fortune: but the
greater portion of Honey Fair was full of trouble and improvidence.
William Halliburton frequently found himself in Honey Fair. It was the
most direct road from his house to that of Monsieur Colin, the French
master. William, sociably inclined by nature, had sometimes dropped in
at one or other of the houses. He would find Robert East labouring at
his books much more than he need have laboured had some little
assistance been given him in his progress. William good-naturedly
undertook to supply it. It became quite a common thing for him to go
round and pass an hour with the Easts and Stephen Crouch.
The unpleasant social features of Honey Fair thus obtruded themselves on
William Halliburton's notice; it was impossible that any one passing
much through Honey Fair should not be struck with them. Could nothing be
done to rescue the people from this degraded condition?--and a degraded
one it was, compared with what it might have been. Young and
inexperienced as he was, it was a question that sometimes arose to
William's mind. Dirty homes, scolding mothers, ragged and pining
children, rough and swearing husbands! Waste, discomfort, evil. The
women laid the blame on the men: reproached them with wasting their
evenings and their money at the public-house. The men retorted upon the
women, and said they had not a home "fit for a pig to come into."
Meanwhile the money, whether earned by husband or wife, _went_. It went
somehow, bringing apparently nothing to show for it, and the least
possible return of good. Thus they struggled and squabbled on, their
lives little better than one continued scene of scramble, discomfort,
and toil. At a year's end they were not in the least bettered, not in
the least raised, socially, morally, or physically, from their condition
at the year's commencement. Nothing had been achieved; except that they
were one year nearer to the great barrier which separates time from
eternity.
Ask them what they were toiling and struggling for. They did not know.
What was their end, their aim? They had none. If they could only rub on,
and keep body and soul together (as poor Caroline Mason was trying to do
in her garret), it appeared to be all they cared for. They did not
endeavour to lift up their hopes or their aspirations above that; they
were willing so to go on until death should come. What a life! what an
end!
A feeling would now and then come over William that he might in some way
help them to attempt better things. To do so was a duty which seemed to
be lying across his path, that he might take it up and make it his. How
to set about it, he knew no more than the Man in the Moon. Now and then
disheartening moments would come upon him. To attempt to sweep away the
evils of Honey Fair appeared a far more formidable task than to cleanse
the Augean Stables could ever have appeared to Hercules. He knew that
any endeavour, whether on his part or on that of others, who might be
far more experienced and capable than he, would be utterly fruitless
unless the incentive to exertion, to strive to do better, should be
first born within themselves. Ah, my friends! the aid of others may be
looked upon as a great thing; but without self-struggle and self-help
little good will be effected.
One evening in passing the house partially occupied by the Crosses the
door was flung violently open, a girl of fifteen flew shrieking out and
a saucer of wet tea-leaves came flying after her. The tea-leaves
alighted on the girl's neck, just escaping William's arm. It was the
youngest girl of the family, Patty. The tea-leaves had come from Mrs.
Cross. Her face was red with passion, her voice loud; the girl, on her
part, was insulting and abusive. Mrs. Cross had her hands stretched out,
to scratch, or tear, or pull hair, and a personal skirmish would
inevitably have ensued but for the chance of William's being there. He
received the hands upon his arm and contrived to detain them.
"What's the matter, Mrs. Cross?"
"Matter!" raved Mrs. Cross. "She's a idle, impedent wicked huzzy--that's
what's the matter. She knows I've my gloving to get in for Saturday, and
not a stroke'll she help. There's the dishes lying dirty from dinner,
the tea-cups lying from tea, and touch 'em she won't. She expects me to
do it, and me with my gloving to find 'em in food! I took hold of her
arm to make her do it, and she turned and struck at me, the
good-for-nothing faggot! I hope none on it didn't go on you, sir," added
Mrs. Cross, somewhat modifying her voice, and pausing to recover breath.
"Better that it had gone on my coat than on Patty's neck," replied he,
in a good-natured, half-joking tone; though, indeed, the girl, with her
evil look at her mother, her insolent air, stood there scarcely worth
his defence. "If my mother asked me to wash tea-things or do anything
else, Patty, I should do it, and think it a pleasure to help her," he
added, to the girl.
Patty pushed her tangled hair behind her ears, and turned a defiant look
upon her mother. Hidden as she had thought it from William, he saw it.
"You just wait," nodded Mrs. Cross, in answer as defiant. "I'll make
your back smart by-and-by."
Which of the two was the more in fault? It was hard to say. The girl had
never been brought up to know her duty, or to do it. The mother from her
earliest childhood had given abuse and blows; no kindly, persuasive
words; no training. Little wonder, now Patty was growing up, that she
turned again. It was the usual sort of maternal government throughout
Honey Fair. In these, and similar cases, where could interference or
counsel avail, unless the spirit of the mothers and daughters could be
changed?
William walked on, after the little episode of the tea-leaves. He could
not help contrasting these homes with his home; their life with his
life. He was given to reflection beyond his years, and he wished these
people could be aroused to improvement both of mind and body. They were
living for no end; toiling only to satisfy the wants of the day--nay, to
arrest the wants, rather than to satisfy them. How many of them were so
much as thinking of another world? Their toil and turmoil in this was
too great to enable them to cast a thought to the next.
"I wonder," mused William, as he stepped towards M. Colin's, "whether
some of the better-conducted of the men might not be induced to come
round to East's in an evening? It might be a beginning, at any rate.
Once wean the men from the public-houses, and there's no knowing what
reform might be effected. I would willingly give up an hour or two of my
evenings to them!"
His visit to M. Colin over, he retraced his steps to Honey Fair and
turned into Robert East's. It was past eight o'clock then. Robert and
Stephen Crouch were home from work, and were getting out their books.
Charlotte sat by, at work as usual, and Tom East was drawing Charlotte's
head towards him, to whisper something to her.
"Robert," said William, speaking impulsively, the moment he entered, "I
wonder whether you could induce a few of your neighbours to come here of
an evening?"
"What for, sir?" asked Robert turning round from the book-shelves where
he stood, searching for some volume.
"It might be so much better for them. It might end in being so. I wish,"
he added with sudden warmth, "we could get all Honey Fair here!"
"All Honey Fair!" echoed Stephen Crouch in astonishment.
"I mean what I say, Crouch."
"Why, sir, the room wouldn't hold a quarter or a tenth part, or a
hundredth part of them."
William laughed. "No, that it would not, practically. There is so much
discomfort around us, and--and ill-doing--I must call it so, for want of
a better name--that I sometimes wish we could mend it a little."
"Who mend it, sir?"
"Any one who would try. You two might help towards it. If you could
seduce a few round here, and get them to be interested in your own
evening occupation--books and rational conversation--and so wean them
from the public-houses, it would be a great thing."
"There'd never be any good done with the men, take them as a whole, sir.
They are an ignorant, easy-going lot, and don't care to be better."
"That's just it, Crouch. They don't care to be better. But they might be
taught to care. It would be a very great thing if Honey Fair could be
brought to spend its evenings as you spend yours. If the men gave up
spending their money, and reeling home after it; and the women kept tidy
hearths and civil tongues. As Charlotte does," he added looking round at
her.
"There's no denying that, sir."
"I think something might be done. By degrees, you understand; not in a
hurry. Were you to take the men by storm--to say, 'We want you to lead
changed lives, and are going to show you how to do it,' your movement
would fail, and you would get laughed at into the bargain. Say to the
men, 'You shan't go to the public-house, because you waste your time,
your money, and your temper,' and, rely upon it, it would have as much
effect as if you spoke to the wind. But get them to come here as a sort
of change, and you may secure them for good if you make the evenings
pleasant to them. In short, give them some employment or attraction that
will outweigh the attractions of the public-house."
"It would certainly be a good thing," said Stephen Crouch, musingly.
"They might be for trying to raise themselves then."
"Ay," spoke William, with enthusiasm. "Once let them find the day-spring
within themselves, the wish to do right, to be raised above what they
are now, and the rest will be easy. When once that day-spring can be
found, a man is made. God never sent a man here, but he implanted that
within him. The difficulty is, to awaken it."
"And it is not always done, sir," said Charlotte, lifting her face from
her work with a kindling eye, a heightened colour. _She_ had found it.
"Charlotte, I fear it is rarely done, instead of not always. It lies
pretty dormant, to judge by appearances, in Honey Fair."
William was right. It is an epoch in a man's life, that finding what he
had not inaptly called the day-spring. Self-esteem, self-reliance, the
courage of long-continued patience, the striving to make the best of the
mind's good gifts--all are born of it. He who possesses it may soar to a
bright and, happy lot, bearing in mind--may he always bear it!--the rest
and reward promised hereafter.
"At any rate, it would be giving them a chance, as it seems to me,"
observed William. "I think I know one who would come. Andrew Brumm."
"Ah, _he_ would, and be glad to come," replied Robert East. "He is
different from many of them. I know another who would, sir; and that's
Adam Thornycroft."
Charlotte bent her head over her work.
"Since that cousin of his died of _delirium tremens_, Thornycroft has
said good-bye to the public-houses. He spends his evenings at home with
his mother: but I know he would like to spend them here. Tim Carter
would come, sir."
"If Mrs. Tim will let him," put in Tom East saucily. And a laugh went
round.
"Ever so few to begin with, will set the example to others," remarked
William. "There's no knowing what it may grow to. Small beginnings make
great endings. I have talked with my mother about Honey Fair. She has
always said: 'Before Honey Fair's conduct can be improved, its minds
must be improved.'"
"There will be the women yet, sir," spoke Charlotte. "If they are to
remain as they are, it will be of little use the men doing anything for
themselves."
"Charlotte, once begun, I say there's no knowing where the work may
end," he gravely answered.
The rain, which had been threatening all the evening, was coming down
pretty smartly as William walked through Honey Fair on his return.
Standing against a shutter near his own door was Jacob Cross. "Good
night, Jacob," said William.
"Goodnight, sir," answered Jacob sullenly.
"Are you standing in the rain that it may make you grow, as the children
say?" asked William in his ever-pleasant tone.
"I'm standing here 'cause I've nowhere else to stand," said the man, his
voice full of resentment. "I'm turned out of our room, and I have no
money for the Horned Ram."
"A good thing you have not," thought William. "What has turned you out
of your room?" he asked.
"I'm turned out, sir, by the row there is in it. Our Mary Ann's come
home."
"Mary Ann?" repeated William, not quite understanding.
"Our Mary Ann, what took and married Ben Tyrrett. A fine market she have
brought her pigs to!"
"What has she done?" questioned William.
"She's done enough," wrathfully answered Cross. "We told her when she
married Tyrrett that he was nothing but a jobber at fifteen shillings
a-week--and it's all he was, sir, as you know. 'Wait,' I says to her;
'somebody better than him'll turn up.' Her mother says 'Wait.' Others
says 'Wait.' No, not she; the girls are all marrying mad. Well, she took
her own way; she would take it; and they got married, and set up upon
nothing. Neither of 'em had saved a two-penny-piece; and Ben fond of the
public; and our Mary Ann fond of laziness and finery; and not knowing
how to keep house any more than her young sister Patty did."
William remembered the little interlude of that evening in which Miss
Patty had played her part. Jacob continued.
"It was all fine and sunshiny with 'em for a few days or a few weeks,
till the novelty wears off, and then they finds things going cranky. The
money, _that_ begins to run short; and Mary Ann, she finds that Ben
likes his glass; and Ben, he finds that she's just a doll, with no
gumption or management inside her. They quarrels--naterally, and they
comes to us to settle it. 'You was both red-hot for the bargain,' says
I, 'and you must just make the best of it and of one another.' And so
they went back: and it has gone on till this, quarrelling continual. And
now he's took to beat her, and home she came to-night, not half an hour
ago, with her three children and a black eye, vowing she'll stop at home
and won't go back to him again. And she and her mother's having words
over it, and the babies a-squalling--enough noise to raise the ceiling
off, and I come out of it. I wish I was dead, I do!"
Jacob's account of the noise was scarcely exaggerated. It penetrated to
where they stood, two or three houses off. William had moved closer,
that the umbrella might give Cross part of its shelter. "Not a very
sensible wish, that of yours, is it, Cross?" remarked he.
"I have wished it long, sir, sensible or not sensible. I slaves away my
days and have nothing but a pigsty to step into at home, and angry words
in it. A nice place for a tired man! I can't afford the public more than
three or four nights a-week; not that, always. They're getting corky at
the beer-shops, nowadays, and won't give trust. Wednesday this is;
Thursday, to-morrow; Friday, next night: three nights, and me without a
shelter to put my head in!"
"I should like to take you to one to-morrow night," said William. "Will
you go with me?"
"Where to?" ungraciously asked Cross.
"To Robert East's. You know how he and Crouch spend their evenings.
There's always something going on there interesting and pleasant."
"Crouch and East don't want me."
"Yes, they do. They will be only too glad if you, and a few more
intelligent men, will join them. Try it, Cross. There's a warm room to
sit in, at all events, and nothing to pay."
"Ah, it's all very fine for them Easts! We haven't their luck. Look at
me! Down in the world."
William put his hand on the man's shoulder. "Why should you be down in
the world?"
"Why should I?" repeated Cross, in surprise. "Because I am," he
logically answered.
"That is not the reason. The reason is because you do not try to rise in
the world."
"It's no use trying."
"Have you ever tried?"
"Why, no! How can I try?"
"You wished just now that you were dead. Would it not be better to wish
to live?"
"Not such a life as mine."
"But to wish to live would seem to imply that it must be a better life.
And why need your life be so miserable? You gain fair wages; your wife
earns money. Altogether I suppose you must have twenty-six or
twenty-eight shillings a week----"
"But there's no thrift with it," exclaimed Cross. "It melts away
somehow. Before the middle of the week comes, it's all gone."
"You spend some at the Horned Ram, you know," said William, not in a
reproving tone.
"She squanders away in rubbish more than that," was Jacob's answer,
pointing towards his house, and not giving at all a complimentary stress
upon the "she."
"And with nothing to show for it in return, either of you. Try another
plan, Jacob."
"I'd not be backward--if I could see one to try," said he, after a
pause.
"Be here at half-past eight to-morrow evening, and I will go in with you
to East's. If you cannot see any better way, you can spend a pleasant
evening. But now, Jacob, let me say a word to you, and do you note it.
If you find the evening pass agreeably, go the next evening, and the
next; go always. You can't tell all that may arise from it in time. I
know of one thing that will."
"What's that, sir?"
"Why, that instead of wishing yourself dead, you will grow to think life
too short, for the good you find in it."
He went on his way. Jacob Cross, deprived of the umbrella, stood in the
rain as before and looked after him, indulging his reflections.
"He is a young man, and things wear their bright side to him. But he has
a cordial way with him, and don't look at folks as if they was dirt."
And that had been the origin of the _soirees_ held at Robert East's. By
degrees ten or a dozen men took to going there, and--what was more--to
like to go, and to find an interest in it. It was a great improvement
upon the Horned Ram.