Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration]
PHIL'S MOTHER.
BY
EGLANTON THORNE
Author of "The Two Crowns," "The Old Worcester Jug," etc.
[Illustration]
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56 PATERNOSTER ROW, AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAP.
I. "SOMETHING HAPPENS" TO PHIL
II. IN THE HOSPITAL
III. PHIL RECEIVES TWO VISITORS
IV. PHIL IN HIS "TANTRUMS"
V. A PLAN FOR PHIL'S BENEFIT
VI. PHIL QUITS THE HOSPITAL
VII. A BURDENED SOUL
VIII. DISAPPOINTMENT
IX. MOLL CHANGES HER ABODE
X. PHIL HAS A TRYING DAY
XI. A SAD STORY
XII. NEWS OF PHIL
XIII. PHIL'S PRAYER IS ANSWERED
XIV. PARDON AND PEACE
PHIL'S MOTHER.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
"SOMETHING HAPPENS" TO PHIL.
[Illustration] "I SAY, Phil, you'd best get out of the way. Your
mother's coming."
No need to utter the warning twice. Phil, a ragged, yellow-haired
boy, picked himself up from the doorstep in a moment, signified his
gratitude to Fan the flower-girl by an expressive nod and wink, and
scuttled down the narrow alley, and was out of sight with all the speed
his thin bare legs could accomplish.
Moll Dutton was approaching from the other end of the alley. A coarse,
repulsive-looking woman, wearing torn and draggled garments, and
carrying a huge bundle in her arms, she came staggering along, the
stagger resulting, not from her burden, since the bundle, though
cumbersome, was not very heavy, but from the glass or two to which she
had treated herself on the strength of the excellent bargain in old
clothes which she had been able to effect. Her low, receding forehead,
flat face, narrow, cunning eyes, and cruel mouth told all too plainly
the history of her life and character.
The dwellers in that dim, narrow alley, where scarce six feet of
paving-stone separated the houses on one side from the houses on the
other, had little to commend them. Integrity and uprightness could
not be attributed to any, but there were varying degrees of evil in
the sinful, sorrowful lives lived there. Amongst all, no one was more
hardened in sin, more relentless in cruelty, more lost to all true
womanly feeling, than was Moll Dutton.
"Phil, Phil!" she shouted, as she staggered to the door of the house
in which she occupied a room. "Where's that good-for-nothing young
rascal? Where's he hiding, the lazy imp? He'd better make haste to show
himself, or I'll break every bone in his body when I do find him!"
"Phil's away about his business," said Fan, leaning from an upper
window opposite, whence she could address Moll with impunity. "It's no
use calling to him."
"Business, indeed! The young lazybones!" returned Moll angrily. "It's
little enough business he does. He brought me only a few coppers
yesterday. There's no teaching that boy anything. What's the good
of his blue eyes and his baby face, if he can't make use of them to
wheedle folks into giving?" So saying, she passed into the house.
Phil had indeed gone about his business, with a sudden awakening to a
sense of duty at the news of his mother's approach. He did not like
his "business," which, as the reader will have guessed, was neither
more nor less than begging. Moll had done her best to teach him to
cry and whine and tell untruths calculated to touch the hearts of the
charitable, but she was not pleased with the result of her endeavours.
Phil showed no aptitude for his irregular profession. He succeeded best
when most passive, for a wistful, pleading glance from the childish
blue eyes was more eloquent than the would-be pitiful stories which he
could never utter so glibly as Moll tried to make him.
The alley in which Phil lived lay midway between Lincoln's Inn Fields
and High Holborn. Hurrying from it, he made his way by many a short cut
into Oxford Street. It was time he began to beg, if he would escape a
severe beating from his mother when the day was over.
The short November day was already drawing to its close. A cold drizzle
filled the air, the roads were slushy, the pavements greasy; it was
not weather in which people were disposed to linger. City men, closely
buttoned in the thickest overcoats, were hastening westwards, eager
to gain the shelter and comfort of their homes. Ladies passed by, too
intent upon caring for their skirts and picking their way through the
mud to give a single glance at the white, thin face of the six years
old lad who pleaded for a copper, saying that he had eaten nothing that
day.
Phil began to feel rather hopeless, as one after another turned a deaf
ear to his appeals or pushed aside his uplifted palm. Presently an
old gentleman, short of stature, and very trim in appearance, came in
sight, who took his way through the mud with much caution, and seemed
to have a keen perception of all that passed before his eyes. Phil's
quick instincts warned him that this old gentleman was not one who
could be easily imposed upon, nor one who would too readily part with
his money. Yet he begged of him, though with little hope of success.
At the sound of the boy's voice, the old gentleman stopped short and
surveyed Phil with his shrewd grey eyes. Phil's words faltered, as
beneath their stern gaze, he tried to tell his tale.
"Mother dead, is she? Got no one to take care of you, and have eaten
nothing to-day, eh?" he said, repeating the details of Phil's story in
cold, ironical tones. "My boy, I don't believe a word of it! Now look
at me and tell me the truth; you're too young to have quite forgotten
how to speak it, and I shall know if you tell me a lie. Your mother is
living, isn't she, and she has made up this story for you and sent you
out to beg? It is so, is it not?"
"Yes, sir," faltered Phil, surprised into speaking the very truth,
"but—but—I wish she were dead."
"What!" exclaimed the gentleman, startled and shocked. "You wish that
your mother were dead! Do you know what you are saying?"
"Yes," said Phil stolidly; "I wish that she were dead. She knocks me
about awful sometimes. I do wish that she were dead."
His words but deepened the old gentleman's horror. "You bad boy! You
hard-hearted little wretch!" he exclaimed. "I have always detested
boys, but you are the worst I ever did meet with. Calmly wishing that
his own mother were dead!"
And, raising his hands in horrified protest, the gentleman passed on,
more convinced than before of the enormity of boy-nature. He was a
just and worthy man, the son of a good mother, the husband of a good
wife, but his mind and sympathies were somewhat narrow, and he had not
sufficient imagination to conceive of such a mother as Moll Dutton.
"The boy must be thoroughly bad, to speak of his mother so," he said to
himself.
Phil stood looking after him in bewilderment. He was disappointed at
missing the penny of which he had felt certain when the gentleman
paused to speak to him. He made mental note of the effect produced by
his truth-speaking, and resolved that, if ever again forced to admit
that his mother was living, he would refrain from stating that the fact
was not in accordance with his wishes.
Phil shivered as he looked at his scanty store of coppers. His ragged
garments were wet through, but he did not dare to return home till he
had gained some more pence. Seeing a policeman near, he slunk away,
resolved to try his fortune in a fresh field.
Hurrying along through the narrow dingy streets he knew so well, Phil
soon reached the Strand. The carriages drawn up at the entrance to one
of the theatres made him aware that an afternoon performance was taking
place, and that the audience might soon be expected to disperse. Here
was an opportunity worth waiting for, Phil thought. He stole beneath
the portico, and sat down in the shadow of one of the heavy pillars.
Waiting is a trial of patience at the best of times, and Phil,
shivering in the raw evening air, found it wearisome indeed. He was
hungry too, and a dull weight of misery lay upon his childish heart.
There seemed small chance of his escaping a beating from his mother
that night. He turned up one of his ragged coat-sleeves, and looked
ruefully at certain dark bruises which appeared on his thin little arm.
"I hate her," he said, half aloud; "I do wish that she were dead! Why
shouldn't I? I'd be glad if something 'ud happen to her. If she was to
be found dead in her bed, like old Toiler, I'd be real glad, I would."
Looking at the boy's innocent, childish face, his blue eyes, his yellow
curls, no one would have judged him capable of uttering such unnatural
sentiments. Yet was he to blame if for him the sacred name of mother
had no charm, conveying no sense of protecting love and comforting
tenderness? No motherless child had known a sorer lack of love than
Phil.
Yet he knew that love existed in the sad, dark world into which he had
been born, for the boy's heart cherished a dim memory of a day far back
in the past, when a pale-faced, sweet-voiced woman had come to his
dismal home, a woman who had taken him on to her lap and pressed him
to her bosom, whilst she stroked his curls, and called him "Phil" in
tones which made his name sound something quite new and pleasant. He
remembered the sweet golden butter and the eggs she had brought, and,
what was better, the bunch of roses, which he had kept till they were
brown and dead. Never had Phil tasted such food as he enjoyed that day
seated on the stranger's lap.
A tear had splashed on his cheek as he ate. And looking up, he saw that
she was crying, and wondered why, though the fact had no power to break
his deep content at the moment. He had asked her what was her name, and
she had answered "Lizzie," and told him that he might call her "Aunt
Lizzie," if he liked.
All too soon his mother had come upon the scene, and then the gentle
stranger went away, and Phil had never seen her since, though he had
often dreamed of her.
Something had recalled this one bright spot of memory to Phil's mind
now, as he lingered at the door of the theatre.
"I wish she would come again," he thought, "but that won't never be. If
only something might happen, so that I need not go home any more!"
But he was roused from these unprofitable musings by the bustle which
announced that the play was over. As the people poured out through
the open doors, he made his appeal to one and another with all the
effect he could command. But the opportunity was not so good as he
had imagined. Coming from the warm, bright house into the chill, damp
night, every one was intent upon getting home as speedily as possible,
and Phil found none to listen to him. He was roughly pushed aside
by those who were struggling to secure cab or omnibus. Phil was not
alarmed by the crowding and pushing. He dodged in and out amongst the
people, diving under the heads of horses or creeping behind the wheels
of carriages in his endeavours to follow up those who seemed most
likely to be moved by compassion.
"Now then, boy, don't stand there begging, but be of use if you can,"
an excitable old lady charged him. "I'll give you twopence if you can
get me a cab. See, there is one over the way. Run, quick!"
Phil needed no urging. In another moment he was in the road, fearlessly
running between the passing vehicles. But ere the boy could reach the
other side, the cab was in motion, a signal from some one else having
attracted the driver's attention. Quick as thought, Phil doubled back,
hoping to arrest it midway as it crossed the road. Intent upon his
object, he forgot the dangers of the crowded thoroughfare.
A shout from behind startled him. He looked round, and saw two
prancing, high-bred horses just upon him. Phil darted back, but,
alas! he but escaped one peril to fall into another. The shaft of a
passing cab struck him, and the shock threw him on the ground right in
front of a heavily-laden van drawn by two powerful horses, which were
being driven at a smart pace. There was no time to draw them in—no
possibility of preventing what happened. An agonizing cry rang out on
the air as over Phil's body rolled the heavy wheel.
The usual crowd gathered. A policeman came forward and took charge of
the case. Under his directions, Phil's crushed form was lifted from the
ground and conveyed to the nearest hospital.
"What is it all about?" some people were asking, as they watched the
gathering crowd from the shelter of the theatre portico.
"Only a little boy run over. Such accidents happen every day; and it
is a wonder there are not more of them. Killed, is he? Ah, poor little
fellow! It is a shame that children are allowed to run about so in
London."
And thus dismissing from their minds the commonplace occurrence, the
play-goers went their way, and the stream of traffic flowed on as
before along the Strand. The old lady who had sent Phil on his fatal
errand had secured another cab almost immediately, and had driven off
without caring to remember that she had bade the boy fetch her one.
Perhaps she would have felt some twinges of self-reproach had she known
what befell him.
Poor little Phil! His wish had found a terrible fulfilment. Something
had indeed happened to prevent him from returning to his unhappy home.