In a former chapter we described, to some extent, the person and
belongings of a very poor man with five thousand a year. Let us now
make the acquaintance of a very rich one with an income of five hundred.
He has already introduced himself to the reader under the name of Samuel
Twitter.
On the night of which we write Mrs Twitter happened to have a "few
friends" to tea. And let no one suppose that Mrs Twitter's few friends
were to be put off with afternoon tea--that miserable invention of
modern times--nor with a sham meal of sweet warm water and thin bread
and butter. By no means. We have said that Samuel Twitter was rich,
and Mrs Twitter, conscious of her husband's riches, as well as grateful
for them, went in for the substantial and luxurious to an amazing
extent.
Unlimited pork sausages and inexhaustible buttered toast, balanced with
muffins or crumpets, was her idea of "tea." The liquid was a secondary
point--in one sense--but it was always strong. It was the only strong
liquid in fact allowed in the house, for Mr Twitter, Mrs Twitter, and
all the little Twitters were members of the Blue Ribbon Army; more or
less enthusiastic according to their light and capacity.
The young Twitters descended in a graduated scale from Sammy, the
eldest, (about sixteen), down through Molly, and Willie, and Fred, and
Lucy, to Alice the so-called "baby"--though she was at that time a
remarkably robust baby of four years.
Mrs Twitter's few friends were aware of her tendencies, and appreciated
her hospitality, insomuch that the "few" bade fair to develop by degrees
into many.
Well, Mrs Twitter had her few friends to tea, and conviviality was at
its height. The subject of conversation was poverty. Mrs Loper, a
weak-minded but amiable lady, asserted that a large family with 500
pounds a year was a poor family. Mrs Loper did not know that Mrs
Twitter's income was five hundred, but she suspected it. Mrs Twitter
herself carefully avoided giving the slightest hint on the subject.
"Of course," continued Mrs Loper, "I don't mean to say that people with
five hundred are _very_ poor, you know; indeed it all depends on the
family. With six children like you, now, to feed and clothe and
educate, and with everything so dear as it is now, I should say that
five hundred was poverty."
"Well, I don't quite agree with you, Mrs Loper, on that point. To my
mind it does not so much depend on the family, as on the notions, and
the capacity to manage, in the head of the family. I remember one
family just now, whose head was cut off suddenly, I may say in the prime
of life. A hundred and fifty a year or thereabouts was the income the
widow had to count on, and she was left with five little ones to rear.
She trained them well, gave them good educations, made most of their
garments with her own hands when they were little, and sent one of her
boys to college, yet was noted for the amount of time she spent in
visiting the poor, the sick, and the afflicted, for whom she had always
a little to spare out of her limited income. Now, if wealth is to be
measured by results, I think we may say that that poor lady was rich.
She was deeply mourned by a large circle of poor people when she was
taken home to the better land. Her small means, having been judiciously
invested by a brother, increased a little towards the close of life, but
she never was what the world esteems rich."
Mrs Twitter looked at a very tall man with a dark unhandsome
countenance, as if to invite his opinion.
"I quite agree with you," he said, helping himself to a crumpet, "there
are some people with small incomes who seem to be always in funds, just
as there are other people with large incomes who are always hard-up.
The former are really rich, the latter really poor."
Having delivered himself of these sentiments somewhat sententiously, Mr
Crackaby,--that was his name,--proceeded to consume the crumpet.
There was a general tendency on the part of the other guests to agree
with their hostess, but one black sheep in the flock objected. He quite
agreed, of course, with the general principle that liberality with small
means was beautiful to behold as well as desirable to possess--the
liberality, not the small means--and that, on the other hand, riches
with a narrow niggardly spirit was abominable, but then--and the black
sheep came, usually, to the strongest part of his argument when he said
"but then"--it was an uncommonly difficult thing, when everything was up
to famine prices, and gold was depreciated in value owing to the
gold-fields, and silver was nowhere, and coppers were changed into
bronze,--exceedingly difficult to practise liberality and at the same
time to make the two ends meet.
As no one clearly saw the exact bearing of the black sheep's argument,
they all replied with that half idiotic simper with which Ignorance
seeks to conceal herself, and which Politeness substitutes for the more
emphatic "pooh," or the inelegant "bosh." Then, applying themselves
with renewed zest to the muffins, they put about ship, nautically
speaking, and went off on a new tack.
"Mr Twitter is rather late to-night, I think?" said Mr Crackaby,
consulting his watch, which was antique and turnipy in character.
"He is, indeed," replied the hostess, "business must have detained him,
for he is the very soul of punctuality. That is one of his many good
qualities, and it is _such_ a comfort, for I can always depend on him to
the minute,--breakfast, dinner, tea; he never keeps us waiting, as too
many men do, except, of course, when he is unavoidably detained by
business."
"Ah, yes, business has much to answer for," remarked Mrs Loper, in a
tone which suggested that she held business to be an incorrigibly bad
fellow; "whatever mischief happens with one's husband it's sure to be
business that did it."
"Pardon me, madam," objected the black sheep, whose name, by the way,
was Stickler, "business does bring about much of the disaster that often
appertains to wedded life, but mischief is sometimes done by other
means, such, for instance, as accidents, robberies, murders--"
"Oh! Mr Stickler," suddenly interrupted a stout, smiling lady, named
Larrabel, who usually did the audience part of Mrs Twitter's little tea
parties, "how _can_ you suggest such ideas, especially when Mr Twitter
is unusually late?"
Mr Stickler protested that he had no intention of alarming the company
by disagreeable suggestions, that he had spoken of accident, robbery,
and murder in the abstract.
"There, you've said it all over again," interrupted Mrs Larrabel, with
an unwonted frown.
"But then," continued Stickler, regardless of the interruption, "a
broken leg, or a rifled pocket and stunned person, or a cut windpipe,
may be applicable to the argument in hand without being applied to Mr
Twitter."
"Surely," said Mrs Loper, who deemed the reply unanswerable.
In this edifying strain the conversation flowed on until the evening
grew late and the party began to grow alarmed.
"I do hope nothing has happened to him," said Mrs Loper, with a
solemnised face.
"I think not. I have seen him come home much later than this--though
not often," said the hostess, the only one of the party who seemed quite
at ease, and who led the conversation back again into shallower
channels.
As the night advanced, however, the alarm became deeper, and it was even
suggested by Mrs Loper that Crackaby should proceed to Twitter's
office--a distance of three miles--to inquire whether and when he had
left; while the smiling Mrs Larrabel proposed to send information to
the headquarters of the police in Scotland Yard, because the police knew
everything, and could find out anything.
"You have no idea, my dear," she said, "how clever they are at Scotland
Yard. Would you believe it, I left my umbrellar the other day in a cab,
and I didn't know the number of the cab, for numbers won't remain in my
head, nor the look of the cabman, for I never look at cabmen, they are
so rude sometimes. I didn't even remember the place where I got into
the cab, for I can't remember places when I've to go to so many, so I
gave up my umbrellar for lost and was going away, when a policeman
stepped up to me and asked in a very civil tone if I had lost anything.
He was so polite and pleasant that I told him of my loss, though I knew
it would do me no good, as he had not seen the cab or the cabman.
"`I think, madam,' he said, `that if you go down to Scotland Yard
to-morrow morning, you may probably find it there.'
"`Young man,' said I, `do you take me for a fool!'
"`No, madam, I don't,' he replied.
"`Or do you take my umbrellar for a fool,' said I, `that it should walk
down to Scotland Yard of its own accord and wait there till I called for
it?'
"`Certainly not, madam,' he answered with such a pleasant smile that I
half forgave him.
"`Nevertheless if you happen to be in the neighbourhood of Scotland Yard
to-morrow,' he added, `it might be as well to call in and inquire.'
"`Thank you,' said I, with a stiff bow as I left him. On the way home,
however, I thought there might be something in it, so I did go down to
Scotland Yard next day, where I was received with as much civility as if
I had been a lady of quality, and was taken to a room as full of
umbrellas as an egg's full of meat--almost.
"`You'd know the umbrellar if you saw it, madam,' said the polite
constable who escorted me.
"`Know it, sir!' said I, `yes, I should think I would. Seven and
sixpence it cost me--new, and I've only had it a week--brown silk with a
plain handle--why, there it is!' And there it was sure enough, and he
gave it to me at once, only requiring me to write my name in a book,
which I did with great difficulty because of my gloves, and being so
nervous. Now, how did the young policeman that spoke to me the day
before know that my umbrellar would go there, and how did it get there?
They say the days of miracles are over, but I don't think so, for that
was a miracle if ever there was one."
"The days of miracles are indeed over, ma'am," said the black sheep,
"but then that is no reason why things which are in themselves
commonplace should not appear miraculous to the uninstructed mind. When
I inform you that our laws compel cabmen under heavy penalties to convey
left umbrellas and parcels to the police-office, the miracle may not
seem quite so surprising."
Most people dislike to have their miracles unmasked. Mrs Larrabel
turned from the black sheep to her hostess without replying, and
repeated her suggestion about making inquiries at Scotland Yard--thus
delicately showing that although, possibly, convinced, she was by no
means converted.
They were interrupted at this point by a hurried knock at the street
door.
"There he is at last," exclaimed every one.
"It is his knock, certainly," said Mrs Twitter, with a perplexed look,
"but rather peculiar--not so firm as usual--there it is again!
Impatient! I never knew my Sam impatient before in all our wedded life.
You'd better open the door, dear," she said, turning to the eldest
Twitter, he being the only one of the six who was privileged to sit up
late, "Mary seems to have fallen asleep."
Before the eldest Twitter could obey, the maligned Mary was heard to
open the door and utter an exclamation of surprise, and her master's
step was heard to ascend the stair rather unsteadily.
The guests looked at each other anxiously. It might be that to some
minds--certainly to that of the black sheep--visions of violated
blue-ribbonism occurred. As certainly these visions did _not_ occur to
Mrs Twitter. She would sooner have doubted her clergyman than her
husband. Trustfulness formed a prominent part of her character, and her
confidence in her Sam was unbounded.
Even when her husband came against the drawing-room door with an awkward
bang--the passage being dark--opened it with a fling, and stood before
the guests with a flushed countenance, blazing eyes, a peculiar
deprecatory smile, and a dirty ragged bundle in his arms, she did not
doubt him.
"Forgive me, my dear," he said, gazing at his wife in a manner that
might well have justified the black sheep's thought, "screwed," "I--I--
business kept me in the office very late, and then--" He cast an
imbecile glance at the bundle.
"What _ever_ have you got there, Sam?" asked his wondering wife.
"Goodness me! it moves!" exclaimed Mrs Loper.
"Live poultry!" thought the black sheep, and visions of police cells and
penal servitude floated before his depraved mental vision.
"Yes, Mrs Loper, it moves. It is alive--though not very much alive, I
fear. My dear, I've found--found a baby--picked it up in the street.
Not a soul there but me. Would have perished or been trodden on if I
had not taken it up. See here!"
He untied the dirty bundle as he spoke, and uncovered the round little
pinched face with the great solemn eyes, which gazed, still wonderingly,
at the assembled company.
It is due to the assembled company to add that it returned the gaze with
compound interest.