ANTECEDENTS
It would not have been easy to find another instance of a union of keen
intellect and cold heart so singular as that displayed in the character
of Abraham Woodstock. The man s life had been strongly consistent from
the beginning; from boyhood a powerful will had borne him triumphantly
over every difficulty, and in each decisive instance his will had been
directed by a shrewd intelligence which knew at once the strength of
its own resources and the multiplied weaknesses of the vast majority of
men. In the pursuit of his ends he would tolerate no obstacle which his
strength would suffice to remove. In boyhood and early manhood the
exuberance of his physical power was wont to manifest itself in brutal
self-assertion. At school he was the worst kind of bully, his
ferociousness tempered by no cowardice. Later on, he learned that a too
demonstrative bearing would on many occasions interfere with his
success in life; he toned down his love of muscular victory, and only
allowed himself an outbreak every now and then, when he felt he could
afford the indulgence. Put early into an accountant's office, and
losing his father about the same time (the parent, who had a diseased
heart, was killed by an outburst of fury to which Abraham gave way on
some trivial occasion), he had henceforth to fight his own battle, and
showed himself very capable of winning it. In many strange ways he
accumulated a little capital, and the development of commercial genius
put him at a comparatively early age on the road to fortune. He kept to
the business of an accountant, and by degrees added several other
distinct callings. He became a lender of money in several shapes,
keeping both a loan-office and a pawnbroker's shop. In middle age he
frequented the race-course, but, for sufficient reasons, dropped that
pursuit entirely before he had turned his fiftieth year. As a youth he
had made a good thing of games of skill, but did not pursue them as a
means of profit when he no longer needed the resource.
He married at the age of thirty. This, like every other step he took,
was well planned; his wife brought him several thousand pounds, being
the daughter of a retired publican with whom Woodstock had had business
relations.
Two years after his marriage was born his first and only child, a girl
whom they called Lotty. Lotty, as she grew up, gradually developed an
unfortunate combination of her parents' qualities; she had her mother's
weakness of mind, without her mother's moral sense, and from her father
she derived an ingrained stubbornness, which had nothing in common with
strength of character. Doubly unhappy was it that she lost her mother
so early; the loss deprived her of gentle guidance during her youth,
and left her without resource against her father's coldness or
harshness. The result was that the softer elements of her character
unavoidably degenerated and found expression in qualities not at all
admirable, whilst her obstinacy grew the ally of the weakness from
which she had most to fear.
Lotty was sent to a day-school till the age of thirteen, then had to
become her father's housekeeper. Her friends were very few, none of
them likely to be of use to her. Left very much to her own control, she
made an acquaintance which led to secret intimacy and open disaster.
Rather than face her father with such a disclosure, she left home, and
threw herself upon the mercy of the man who had assisted her to go
astray. He was generous enough to support her for about a year, during
which time her child was born. Then his help ceased.
The familiar choice lay before her--home again, the streets, or
starvation. Hardship she could not bear; the second alternative she
shrank from on account of her child; she determined to face her father.
For him she had no affection, and knew that he did not love her; only
desperation could drive her back. She came one Sunday evening, found
Mr. Woodstock at home, and, without letting the servant say who was
come, went up and entered his presence, the child in her arms. Abraham
rose and looked at her calmly. Her disappearance had not troubled him,
though he had exerted himself to discover why and whither she was gone,
and her return did not visibly affect him. She was a rebel against his
authority--so he viewed the matter--and consequently quite beyond the
range of his sympathies. He listened to all she had to say, beheld
unmoved her miserable tears, and, when she became silent, coolly
delivered his ultimatum. For her he would procure a situation, whereby
she could earn her living, and therewith his relations to her would
end; the child he would put into other hands and have it cared for, but
Lotty would lose sight of it for ever. The girl hesitated, but the
maternal instinct was very strong in her; the little one began to cry,
as if fearing separation from its mother; she decided to refuse.
"Then I shall go on the streets!" she exclaimed passionately. "There's
nothing else left for me."
"You can go where you please," returned Abraham.
She tried to obtain work, of course fruitlessly. She got into debt with
her landlady, and only took the fatal step when at length absolutely
turned adrift.
That was not quite ten years gone by; she was then but eighteen. Let
her have lost her child, and she would speedily have fallen into the
last stages of degradation. But the little one lived. She had called it
Ida, a name chosen from some tale in the penny weeklies, which were the
solace of her misery. She herself took the name of Starr, also from a
page of fiction.
Balancing the good and evil of this life in her dark little mind, Lotty
determined that one thing there was for which it was worth while to
make sacrifices, one end which she felt strong enough to keep
persistently in view. Ida should be brought up "respectably"--it was
her own word; she should be kept absolutely free from the contamination
of her mother's way of living; nay, should, when the time came, go to
school, and have good chances. And at the end of all this was a far-off
hope, a dim vision of possibilities, a vague trust that her daughter
might perchance prove for her a means of returning to that world of
"respectability" from which she was at present so hopelessly shut out.
She would keep making efforts to get into an honest livelihood as often
as an occasion presented itself; and Ida should always live with
"respectable" people, cost what it might.
The last resolution was only adhered to for a few months. Lotty could
not do without her little one, and eventually brought it back to her
own home. It is not an infrequent thing to find little children living
in disorderly houses. In the profession Lotty had chosen there are, as
in all professions, grades and differences. She was by no means a
vicious girl, she had no love of riot for its own sake; she would
greatly have preferred a decent mode of life, had it seemed
practicable. Hence she did not associate herself with the rank and file
of abandoned women; her resorts were not the crowded centres; her abode
was not in the quarters consecrated to her business. In all parts of
London there are quiet by-streets of houses given up to
lodging-letting, wherein are to be found many landladies, who, good
easy souls, trouble little about the private morals of their lodgers,
so long as no positive disorder comes about and no public scandal is
occasioned. A girl who says that she is occupied in a workroom is never
presumed to be able to afford the luxury of strict virtue, and if such
a one, on taking a room, says that "she supposes she may have friends
come to see her?" the landlady will understand quite well what is
meant, and will either accept or refuse her for a lodger as she sees
good. To such houses as these Lotty confined herself. After some three
or four years of various experiences, she hit upon the abode in Milton
Street, and there had dwelt ever since. She got on well with Mrs.
Ledward, and had been able to make comfortable arrangements for Ida.
The other lodgers in the house were generally very quiet and orderly
people, and she herself was quite successful in arranging her affairs
so as to create no disturbance. She had her regular _clientele_; she
frequented the roads about Regent's Park and Primrose Hill; and she
supported herself and her child.
Ida Starr's bringing up was in no respect inferior to that she would
have received in the home of the average London artisan or small
tradesman. At five years old she had begun to go to school; Mrs.
Ledward's daughter, a girl of seventeen, took her backwards and
forwards every day. At this school she remained three years and a half;
then her mother took her away, and put her under the care of Miss
Rutherford, a better teacher. When at home, she either amused herself
in Lotty's room, or, when that was engaged, made herself comfortable
with Mrs. Ledward's family, with one or other of whom she generally
passed the night. She heard no bad language, saw nothing improper,
listened to no worse conversation than any of the other children at
Miss Rutherford's. Even at her present age of ten it never occurred to
her to inquire how her mother supported herself. The charges brought by
Harriet Smales conveyed to her mind no conception of their true
meaning; they were to her mere general calumnies of vague application.
Her mother "bad," indeed! If so, then what was the meaning of goodness?
For poor Lotty's devotion to the child had received its due reward
herein, that she was loved as purely and intensely as any most virtuous
parent could hope to be; so little regard has nature for social codes,
so utterly is she often opposed to all the precepts of respectability.
This phrase of Harriet's was the very first breathing against her
mother's character that Ida had ever heard. Lotty had invented fables,
for the child's amusement, about her own earlier days. The legend was,
that her husband had died about a year after marriage. Of course Ida
implicitly believed all this. Her mind contained pictures of a
beautiful little house just outside London in which her mother had once
lived, and her imagination busied itself with the time when they would
both live in just that same way. She was going to be a teacher, so it
had been decided in confidential chats, and would one day have a school
of her own. In such a future Lotty herself really believed. The child
seemed to her extraordinarily clever, and in four more years she would
be as old as a girl who had assisted with the little ones in the first
school she went to. Lotty was ambitious. Offers of Mrs. Ledward to
teach Ida dressmaking, she had put aside; it was not good enough.
Yet Ida was not in reality remarkable either for industry or quickness
in learning. At both schools she had frequently to be dealt with
somewhat severely. Ability she showed from time to time, but in
application she was sadly lacking. Books were distasteful to her, more
even than to most children; she learned sometimes by listening to the
teacher, but seldom the lessons given her to prepare. At home there
were no books to tempt her to read for herself; her mother never read,
and would not have known how to set about giving her child a love for
such occupation, even had she deemed it needful. And yet Ida always
seemed to have abundance to think about; she would sit by herself for
hours, without any childlike employment, and still not seem weary. When
asked what her thoughts ran upon, she could not give very satisfactory
answers; she was always rather slow in expressing herself, and never
chattered, even to her mother. One queer and most unchildlike habit she
had, which, as if thinking it wrong, she only indulged when quite
alone; she loved to sit before a looking-glass and gaze into her own
face. At such times her little countenance became very sad without any
understood reason.
The past summer had been to her a time of happiness, for there had come
comparatively little bad weather, and sunshine was like wine to Ida.
The proximity of the park was a great advantage. During the weeks of
summer holiday, she spent whole days wandering about the large, grassy
tracts by herself, rejoicing in the sensation of freedom from
task-work. If she were especially in luck, a dog would come and play
about her, deserting for a minute its lawful master or mistress, and
the child would roll upon the grass in delighted sport. Or she would
find out a warm, shady nook quite near to the borders of the Zoological
Gardens, and would lie there with ear eager to catch the occasional
sounds from the animals within. The roar of the lion thrilled her with
an exquisite trembling; the calls of the birds made her laugh with joy.
Once, three years ago, her mother had taken her to Hastings for a week,
and when she now caught the cry of the captive sea-gulls, it brought
back marvellous memories of the ocean flashing in the sun, of the music
of breakers, of the fresh smell of the brine.
Now there had come upon her the first great grief. She had caused her
mother bitter suffering, and her own heart was filled with a
commensurate pain. Had she been a little older she would already have
been troubled by another anxiety; for the last two years her mother's
health had been falling away; every now and then had come a fit of
illness, and at other times Lotty suffered from a depression of spirits
which left her no energy to move about. Ida knew that her mother was
often unhappy, but naturally could not dwell long on this as soon as
each successive occasion had passed away. Indeed, in her heart, she
almost welcomed such times, since she was then allowed to sleep
upstairs, one of her greatest joys. Lotty was only too well aware of
the physical weakness which was gaining upon her. She was mentally
troubled, moreover. Ida was growing up; there would come a time, and
that very shortly, when it would be necessary either for them to part,
or else for herself to change her mode of life. Indeed, she had never
from the first quite lost sight of her intention to seek for an honest
means of support; and of late years the consciousness of her hopeless
position had grown to an ever-recurring trouble. She knew the proposed
step was in reality impossible to her, yet she persistently thought and
talked of it. To Mrs. Ledward she confided at least once a week,
generally when she paid her rent, her settled intention to go and find
work of some kind in the course of the next two or three days; till at
length this had become a standing joke with the landlady, who laughed
merrily as often as the subject was mentioned. Lotty had of late let
her thoughts turn to her father, whom she had never seen since their
parting. Not with any affection did she think of him, but, in her
despairing moments, it seemed to her impossible that he should still
refuse aid if she appealed to him for it. Several times of late she had
been on the point of putting her conviction to the test. She had passed
his house from time to time, and knew that he still lived there.
Perhaps the real reason of her hesitation was, not fear of him, but a
dread, which she would not confess to herself, lest he should indeed
prove obdurate, and so put an end to her last hope. For what would
become of her and of Ida if her health absolutely failed? The poor
creature shrank from the thought in horror. The hope connected with her
father grew more and more strong. But it needed some very decided
crisis to bring her to the point of overcoming all the apprehensions
which lay in the way of an appeal to the stern old man. This crisis had
arrived. The illness which was now upon her she felt to be more serious
than any she had yet suffered. Suppose she were to die, and Ida to be
left alone in the world. Even before she heard of the child's dismissal
from school she had all but made up her mind to write to her father,
and the shock of that event gave her the last impulse. She wrote a
letter of pitiful entreaty. Would he help her to some means of earning
a living for herself and her child? She could not part from Ida.
Perhaps she had not long to live, and to ask her to give up her child
would be too cruel. She would do anything, would go into service,
perform the hardest and coarsest toil. She told him how Ida had been
brought up, and implored his pity for the child, who at all events was
innocent.
When Ida reached home from her visit to the City, she saw her mother
risen and sitting by the fire. Lotty had found the suspense
insupportable as she lay still, and, though the pains in her chest grew
worse and the feeling of lassitude was gaining upon her, she had
half-dressed, and even tried to move about. Just before the child's
appearance, she seemed to have sunk into something of a doze on her
chair, for, as the door opened, she started and looked about her in
doubt.
"Where have you been so long?" she asked impatiently.
"I got back as quickly as I could, mother," said Ida, in some surprise.
"Got back? Is school over?"
"From the--the place you sent me to, mother."
"What am I thinking of!" exclaimed Lotty, starting to consciousness.
"Come here, and tell me. Did you see--see him, Ida? Mr. Woodstock, you
know."
"Yes, mother," began the child, with pale face, "and he--he said I was
to tell you--"
She burst into tears, and flew to her mother's neck.
"Oh, you won't send me away from you, mother dear? I can't go away from
you!"
Lotty felt she knew what this meant. Fear and trouble wrought with her
physical weakness to drive her almost distracted. She sprang up, caught
the child by the shoulders, and shook her as if in anger.
"Tell me, can't you?" she cried, straining her weak voice. "What did he
say? Don't be a little fool! Can't the child speak?"
She fell back again, seized with a cough which choked her. Ida stayed
her sobbing, and looked on in terror. Her mother motioned constantly to
her to proceed.
"The gentleman said," Ida continued, with calm which was the result of
extreme self-control, "that he would take me; but that you were never
to see me again."
"Did he say anything else about me?" whispered Lotty.
"No, nothing else."
"Go--go and tell him you'll come,--you'll leave me."
Ida stood in anguish, speechless and motionless. All at once her mother
seemed to forget what she was saying, and sat still, staring into the
fire. Several times she shivered. Her hands lay listlessly on her lap;
she breathed with difficulty.
Shortly afterwards, the landlady came into the room. She was alarmed at
Lotty's condition. Her attempts to arouse the sick woman to
consciousness were only partly successful. She went downstairs again,
and returned with another woman, a lodger in the house. These two
talked together in low tones. The result of their colloquy was that
Mrs. Ledward dressed Lotty as well as she could, whilst the other left
the house and returned with a cab.
"We're going to take your mother to the hospital," said Mrs. Ledward to
the child. "You wait here till we come back, there's a good girl. Now,
hold up a bit, Lotty; try and walk downstairs. That's better, my girl."
Ida was left alone.