MOTHER AND CHILD
Ida Starr, dismissed by the schoolmistress, ran quickly homewards. She
was unusually late, and her mother would be anxious. Still, when she
came within sight of the door, she stopped and stood panting. How
should she tell of her disgrace? It was not fear that made her shrink
from repeating Miss Rutherford's message; nor yet shame, though she
would gladly have hidden herself away somewhere in the dark from every
eye; her overwhelming concern was for the pain she knew she was going
to cause one who had always cherished her with faultless
tenderness,--tenderness which it had become her nature to repay with a
child's unreflecting devotion.
Her home was in Milton Street. On the front-door was a brass-plate
which bore the inscription: "Mrs. Ledward, Dressmaker;" in the window
of the ground-floor was a large card announcing that "Apartments" were
vacant. The only light was one which appeared in the top storey, and
there Ida knew that her mother was waiting for her, with tea ready on
the table as usual. Mrs. Starr was seldom at home during the child's
dinner-hour, and Ida had not seen her at all to-day. For it was only
occasionally that she shared her mother's bedroom; it was the rule for
her to sleep with Mrs. Ledward, the landlady, who was a widow and
without children. The arrangement had held ever since Ida could
remember; when she had become old enough to ask for an explanation of
this, among other singularities in their mode of life, she was told
that her mother slept badly, and must have the bed to herself.
But the night had come on, and every moment of delay doubtless
increased the anxiety she was causing. Ida went up to the door, stood
on tiptoe to reach the knocker, and gave her usual two distinct raps.
Mrs. Ledward opened the door to her in person; a large woman, with
pressed lips and eyes that squinted very badly; attired, however,
neatly, and looking as good-natured as a woman who was at once landlady
and dressmaker could be expected to look.
"How 's 't you're so late?" she asked, without looking at the child;
her eyes, as far as one could guess, fixed upon the houses opposite,
her hands in the little pocket on each side of her apron. "Your
mother's poorly."
"Oh, then I shall sleep with her to-night?" exclaimed Ida, forgetting
her trouble for the moment in this happy foresight.
"Dessay," returned Mrs. Ledward laconically.
Ida left her still standing in the doorway, and ran stairs. The chamber
she went into--after knocking and receiving permission to enter,
according to the rule which had been impressed upon her--was a
tolerably-furnished bedroom, which, with its bright fire, tasteful
little lamp, white coverlets and general air of fresh orderliness, made
a comfortable appearance. The air was scented, too, with some pleasant
odour of a not too pungent kind. But the table lacked one customary
feature; no tea was laid as it was wont to be at this hour. The child
gazed round in surprise. Her mother was in bed, lying back on raised
pillows, and with a restless, half-pettish look on her face.
"Where have you been?" she asked querulously, her voice husky and
feeble, as if from a severe cold. "Why are you so late?"
Ida did not answer at once, but went straight to the bed and offered
the accustomed kiss. Her mother waved her off.
"No, no; don't kiss me. Can't you see what a sore throat I've got? You
might catch it. And I haven't got you any tea," she went on, her face
growing to a calmer expression as she gazed at the child "Ain't I a
naughty mother? But it serves you half right for being late. Come and
kiss me; I don't think it's catching. No, perhaps you'd better not."
But Ida started forward at the granted leave, and kissed her warmly.
"There now," went on the hoarse voice complainingly, "I shouldn't
wonder if you catch it, and we shall both be laid up at once. Oh, Ida,
I do feel that poorly, I do! It's the draught under the door; what else
can it be? I do, I do feel that poorly!"
She began to cry miserably. Ida forgot all about the tale she had to
tell; her own eyes overflowed in sympathy. She put her arm under her
mother's neck, and pressed cheek to cheek tenderly.
"Oh, how hot you are, mother! Shall I get you a cup of tea, dear?
Wouldn't it make your throat better?"
"Perhaps it would; I don't know. Don't go away, not just yet. You'll
have to be a mother to me to-night, Ida. I almost feel I could go to
sleep, if you held me like that."
She closed her eyes, but only for a moment, then started up anxiously.
"What am I thinking about! Of course you want your tea."
"No, no; indeed I don't, mother."
"Nonsense; of course you do. See, the kettle is on the hob, and I think
it's full. Go away; you make me hotter. Let me see you get your tea,
and then perhaps it'll make me feel I could drink a cup. There, you've
put your hair all out of order; let me smooth it. Don't trouble to lay
the cloth; just use the tray; it's in the cupboard."
Ida obeyed, and set about the preparations. Compare her face with that
which rested sideways upon the pillows, and the resemblance was as
strong as could exist between two people of such different ages: the
same rich-brown hair, the same strongly-pencilled eye-brows; the
deep-set and very dark eyes, the fine lips, the somewhat prominent
jaw-bones, alike in both. The mother was twenty-eight, the daughter
ten, yet the face on the pillow was the more childish at present. In
the mother's eyes was a helpless look, a gaze of unintelligent misery,
such as one could not conceive on Ida's countenance; her lips, too,
were weakly parted, and seemed trembling to a sob, whilst sorrow only
made the child close hers the firmer. In the one case a pallor not
merely of present illness, but that wasting whiteness which is only
seen on faces accustomed to borrow artificial hues; in the other, a
healthy pearl-tint, the gleamings and gradations of a perfect
complexion. The one a child long lost on weary, woeful ways, knowing,
yet untaught by, the misery of desolation; the other a child still
standing upon the misty threshold of unknown lands, looking around for
guidance, yet already half feeling that the sole guide and comforter
was within.
It was strange that talk which followed between mother and daughter.
Lotty Starr (that was the name of the elder child, and it became her
much better than any more matronly appellation), would not remain
silent, in spite of the efforts it cost her to speak, and her
conversation ran on the most trivial topics. Except at occasional
moments, she spoke to Ida as to one of her own age, with curious
neglect of the relationship between them; at times she gave herself up
to the luxury of feeling like an infant dependent on another's care;
and cried just for the pleasure of being petted and consoled. Ida had
made up her mind to leave her disclosure till the next morning;
impossible to grieve her mother with such shocking news when she was so
poorly. Yet the little girl with difficulty kept a cheerful
countenance; as often as a moment's silence left her to her own
reflections she was reminded of the heaviness of heart which made
speaking an effort. To bear up under the secret thought of her crime
and its consequences required in Ida Starr a courage different alike in
quality and degree from that of which children are ordinarily capable.
One compensation alone helped her; it was still early in the evening,
and she knew there were before her long hours to be spent by her
mother's side.
"Do you like me to be with you, mother?" she asked, when a timid
question had at length elicited assurance of this joy. "Does it make
you feel better?"
"Yes, yes. But it's my throat, and you can't make that better; I only
wish you could. But you are a comfort to me, for all that; I don't know
what I should do without you. Oh, I sha'n't be able to speak a word
soon, I sha'n't!"
"Don't, don't talk, dear. I'll talk instead, and you listen. Don't you
think, mother dear, I could--could always sleep with you? I wouldn't
disturb you; indeed, indeed I wouldn't! You don't know how quiet I lie.
If I'm wakeful ever I seem to have such a lot to think about, and I lie
so still and quiet, you can't think. I never wake Mrs. Led ward,
indeed. Do let me, mother; just try me!"
Lotty broke out into passionate weeping, wrung her hands, and hid her
face in the pillow. Ida was terrified, and exerted every effort to
console this strange grief. The outburst only endured a minute or two,
however; then a mood of vexed impatience grew out of the anguish and
despair, and Lotty pushed away the child fretfully.
"I've often told you, you can't, you mustn't bother me. There, there;
you don't mean any harm, but you put me out, bothering me, Ida. Tell
me, what do you think about when you lay awake? Don't you think you'd
give anything to get off to sleep again? I know I do; I can't bear to
think; it makes my head ache so."
"Oh, I like it. Sometimes I think over what I've been reading, in the
animal book, and the geography-book; and--and then I begin my
wishing-thoughts. And oh, I've such lots of wishing-thoughts, you
couldn't believe!"
"And what are the wishing-thoughts about?" inquired the mother, in a
matter-of-fact way.
"I often wish I was grown up. I feel tired of being a child; I want to
be a woman. Then I should know so much more, and I should be able to
understand all the things you tell me I can't now. I don't care for
playing at games and going to school."
"You'll be a woman soon enough, Ida," said Lotty, with a quiet sadness
unusual in her. "But go on; what else?"
"And then I often wish I was a boy. It must be so much nicer to be a
boy. They're stronger than girls, and they know more. Don't you wish I
was a boy, mother?"
"Yes, I do, I often do!" exclaimed Lotty. "Boys aren't such a trouble,
and they can go out and shift for themselves."
"Oh, but I won't be a trouble to you," exclaimed Ida. "When I'm old
enough to leave school--"
She interrupted herself, for the moment she had actually forgotten the
misfortune which had come upon her. But her mother did not observe the
falling of her countenance, nor yet the incomplete sentence.
"Ida, have I been a bad mother to you?" Lotty sobbed out presently. "If
I was to die, would you be sorry?"
"Mother!"
"I've done my best, indeed I've done my best for yon! How many mothers
like me would have brought you up as I've done? How many, I'd like to
know? And some day you'll hate me; oh yes, you will! Some day you'll
wish to forget all about me, and you'll never come to see where I'm
buried, and you'll get rid of everything that could remind you of me.
How I wish I'd never been born!"
Ida had often to comfort her mother in the latter's fits of low
spirits, but had never heard such sad words as these before. The poor
child could say nothing in reply; the terrible thought that she herself
was bringing new woes to be endured almost broke her heart. She clung
about her mother's neck and wept passionately.
Lotty shortly after took a draught from a bottle which the child
reached out of a drawer for her, and lay pretty still till drowsiness
came on. Ida undressed and crept to her side. They had a troubled
night, and, when the daylight came again, Lotty was no better. Ida rose
in anguish of spirit, torturing herself to find a way of telling what
must be told. Yet she had another respite; her mother said that, as it
was Saturday, she might as well stay away from school and be a little
nurse. And the dull day wore through; the confession being still
postponed.
But by the last post at night came Miss Rutherford's letter. Ida was
still sitting up, and Lotty had fallen into a doze, when the landlady
brought the letter upstairs. The child took it in, answered an inquiry
about her mother in a whisper, and returned to the bedside. She knew
the handwriting on the envelope. The dreaded moment had come.
She must have stood more than a quarter of an hour, motionless, gazing
on her mother's face, conscious of nothing but an agonised expectation
of seeing the sleeper's eyes open. They did open at length, and quickly
saw the letter.
"It's from Miss Rutherford, mother," said Ida, her own voice sounding
very strange to herself.
"Oh, is it?" said Lotty, in the hoarse whisper which was all she could
command "I suppose she wants to know why you didn't go. Read it to me."
Ida read, and, in reading, suffered as she never did again throughout
her life.
"DEAR MRS. STARR,--I am very sorry to have to say that Ida must not
return to school. I had better leave the explanation to herself; she is
truthful, and will tell you what has compelled me to take this step. I
grieve to lose her, but have really no choice.--I am, yours truly,
H. RUTHERFORD."
No tears rose; her voice was as firm as though she had been reading in
class; but she was pale and cold as death.
Lotty rose in bed and stared wildly.
"What have you done, child?--what ever have you done? Is--is it
anything--about _me_."
"I hit Harriet Smales with a slate, and covered her all over with
blood, and I thought I'd killed her."
She could not meet her mother's eyes; stood with head hung down, and
her hands clasped behind her.
"What made you do it?" asked Lotty in amazement.
"I couldn't help it, mother; she--she said you were a bad woman."
Ida had raised her eyes with a look of love and proud confidence. Lotty
shrank before her, clutched convulsively at the bed-clothes, then half
raised herself and dashed her head with fearful violence against the
wall by which the bed stood. She fell back, half stunned, and lay on
the pillows, whilst the child, with outstretched hands, gazed
horror-struck. But in a moment Ida had her arms around the distraught
woman, pressing the dazed head against her breast. Lotty began to utter
incoherent self-reproaches, unintelligible to her little comforter; her
voice had become the merest whisper; she seemed to have quite exhausted
herself. Just now there came a knock at the door, and Ida was relieved
to see Mrs. Ledward, whose help she begged. In a few minutes Lotty had
come to herself again, and whispered that she wished to speak to the
landlady alone. The latter persuaded Ida to go downstairs for a while,
and the child, whose tears had begun to flow, left the room, sobbing in
anguish.
"Ain't you better then?" asked the woman, with an apparent effort to
speak in a sympathetic tone which did not come easily to her.
"I'm very bad," whispered the other, drawing her breath as if in pain.
"Ay, you've got a bad cold, that's what it is. I'll make you some gruel
presently, and put some rum in it. You don't take care of yourself: I
told you how it 'ud be when you came in with those wringin' things on,
on Thursday night."
"They've found out about me at the school," gasped Lotty, with a
despairing look, "and Ida's got sent away."
"She has? Well, never mind, you can find another, I suppose. I can't
see myself what she wants with so much schoolin', but I suppose you
know best about your own affairs."
"Oh, I feel that bad! If I get over this, I'll give it up--God help me,
I will! I'll get my living honest, if there's any way. I never felt so
bad as I do now."
"Pooh!" exclaimed the woman. "Wait a bit till you get rid of your sore
throat, and you'll think different. Poorly people gets all sorts o'
fancies. Keep a bit quiet now, and don't put yourself out so."
"What are we to do? I've only got a few shillings--"
"Well, you'll have money again some time, I suppose. You don't suppose
I'll turn you out in the streets? Write to Fred on Monday, and he'll
send you something."
They talked till Lotty exhausted herself again, then Ida was allowed to
re-enter the room. Mrs. Ledward kept coming and going till her own
bed-time, giving what help and comfort she could in her hard,
half-indifferent way. Another night passed, and in the morning Lotty
seemed a little better. Her throat was not so painful, but she breathed
with difficulty, and had a cough. Ida sat holding her mother's hand. It
was a sunny morning, and the bells of neighbouring churches began to
ring out clearly on the frosty air.
"Ida," said the sick woman, raising herself suddenly, "get me some
note-paper and an envelope out of the box; and go and borrow pen and
ink, there's a good child."
The materials were procured, and, with a great effort, Lotty managed to
arrange herself so as to be able to write. She covered four pages with
a sad scrawl, closed the envelope, and was about to direct it, but
paused.
"The bells have stopped," she said, listening. "It's half-past eleven.
Put on your things, Ida."
The child obeyed, wondering.
"Give me my purse out of the drawer. See, there's a shilling. Now, say
this after me: Mr. Abra'm Woodstock, Number--, St. John Street Road."
Ida repeated the address.
"Now, listen, Ida. You put this letter in your pocket; you go down into
the Mary'bone road; you ask for a 'bus to the Angel. When you get to
the Angel, you ask your way to Number--, St. John Street Road; it isn't
far off. Knock at the door, and ask if Mr. Abra'm Woodstock is in. If
he is, say you want to see him, and then give him this letter,--into
his own hands, and nobody else's. If he isn't in, ask when he will be,
and, if it won't be long, wait."
Ida promised, and then, after a long gaze, her mother dropped back
again on the pillow, and turned her face away. A cough shook her for a
few moments. Ida waited.
"Well, ain't you gone?" asked Lotty faintly.
"Kiss me, mother."
They held each other in a passionate embrace, and then the child went
away.
She reached Islington without difficulty, and among the bustling and
loitering crowd which obstructs the corner at the Angel, found some one
to direct her to the street she sought. She had to walk some distance
down St. John Street Road, in the direction of the City, before
discovering the house she desired to find. When she reached it, it
proved to be a very dingy tenement, the ground-floor apparently used as
offices; a much-worn plate on the door exhibited the name of the
gentleman to whom her visit was, with his professional description
added. Mr. Woodstock was an accountant.
She rang the bell, and a girl appeared. Yes, Mr. Woodstock was at home.
Ida was told to enter the passage, and wait.
A door at her right hand as she entered was slightly ajar, and voices
could be heard from the other side of it. One of these voices very
shortly raised itself in a harsh and angry tone, and Ida could catch
what was said.
"Well, Mr. What's-your-name, I suppose I know my own business rather
better than you can teach me. It's pretty clear you've been doing your
best for some time to set the people against me, and I'm damned if I'll
have it! You go to the place on religious pretences, and what your real
object may be I don't know; but I do know one thing, and that is, I
won't have you hanging about any longer. I'll meet you there myself,
and if it's a third-floor window you get pitched out of, well, it won't
be my fault. Now I don't want any more talk with you. This is most
folks' praying-time; I wonder you're not at it. It's _my_ time for
writing letters, and I'd rather have your room than your company. I'm a
plain-spoken man, you see, a man of business, and I don't mince
matters. To come and dictate to me about the state of my houses and of
my tenants ain't a business-like proceeding, and you'll excuse me if I
don't take it kindly. There's the door, and good morning to you!"
The door opened, and a young man, looking pale and dismayed, came out
quickly, and at once left the house. Behind him came the last speaker.
At the sight of the waiting child he stood still, and the expression of
his face changed from sour annoyance to annoyed surprise.
"Eh? Well?" he exclaimed, looking closely at Ida, his eye-brows
contracting.
"I have a letter for Mr. Abra'm Woodstock, sir."
"Well, give it here. Who's it from?"
"Mrs. Starr, sir."
"Who's Mrs. Starr? Come in here, will you?"
His short and somewhat angry tone was evidently in some degree the
result of the interview that had just closed, but also pretty clearly
an indication of his general manner to strangers. He let the child pass
him, and followed her into the room with the letter in his hand. He did
not seem able to remove his eyes from her face. Ida, on her side, did
not dare to look up at him. He was a massively built, grey-headed man
of something more than sixty. Everything about him expressed strength
and determination, power alike of body and mind. His features were
large and heavy, but the forehead would have become a man of strong
intellect; the eyes were full of astonishing vital force, and the chin
was a physiognomical study, so strikingly did its moulding express
energy of character. He was clean-shaven, and scarcely a seam or
wrinkle anywhere broke the hard, smooth surface of his visage, its
complexion clear and rosy as that of a child.
Still regarding Ida, he tore open the envelope. At the sight of the
writing he, not exactly started, but moved his head rather suddenly,
and again turned his eyes upon the messenger.
"Sit down," he said, pointing to a chair. The room was an uncomfortable
office, with no fire. He himself took a seat deliberately at a desk,
whence he could watch Ida, and began to read. As he did so, his face
remained unmoved, but he looked away occasionally, as if to reflect.
"What's your name?" he asked, when he had finished, beginning, at the
same time, to tear the letter into very small pieces, which he threw
into a waste-paper basket.
"Ida, sir,--Ida Starr."
"Starr, eh?" He looked at her very keenly, and, still looking, and
still tearing up the letter, went on in a hard, unmodulated voice.
"Well, Ida Starr, it seems your mother wants to put you in the way of
earning your living." The child looked up in fear and astonishment.
"You can carry a message? You'll say to your mother that I'll undertake
to do what I can for you, on one condition, and that is that she puts
you in my hands and never sees you again."
"Oh, I can't leave mother!" burst from the child's lips involuntarily,
her horror overcoming her fear of the speaker.
"I didn't ask you if you could," remarked Mr. Woodstock, with something
like a sneer, tapping the desk with the fingers of his right hand. "I
asked whether you could carry a message. Can you, or not?"
"Yes, I can," stammered Ida.
"Then take _that_ message, and tell your mother it's all I've got to
say. Run away."
He rose and stood with his hands behind him, watching her. Ida made
what haste she could to the door, and sped out into the street.