IN WHICH A GREAT CHANGE IN MY CIRCUMSTANCES TAKES PLACE.
When I recovered from the fever of which the experiences just recorded
were the prelude, I found that we had removed from the house in which
I was born, and that we were occupying apartments. We had removed also
from the neighbourhood; the streets were strange, the people were
strange; I saw no familiar faces. Hitherto we had been living in
Hertford, and many a time had I watched the barges going lazily to and
fro on the River Lea. The place we were in now was nothing but a
village; my mother told me it was called Chipping Barnet. I cannot
tell exactly what it was that restrained me from asking why the change
had been made; it must have been from an intuitive consciousness that
the subject was painful to my mother. But when, after the lapse of a
year or so, we moved away from Chipping Barnet, and began to live in
very humble fashion in two small rooms, I asked the reason.
'My dear,' said my mother, 'we cannot afford better.'
I looked into her face; it was pale and cheerful. But I saw, although
no signs of repining were there, that care had made its mark. She
smiled at me.
'We are very poor, dear child,' she said; and added quickly, with a
light in her eyes, 'but that is no reason why we should not be happy.'
She did her best to make me so, and poor as our home was, it contained
many sweet pleasures. By this time I had completely lost sight of
Snaggletooth and all our former friends and acquaintances. I did not
miss them; I had my mother with me, and I wished for no one else.
Already, my former life and my former friends were becoming to me
things of long ago. My mother often spoke of London, and of her wish
to go there.
'I think it would be better for us, Chris,' she said.
'Is London a very large place?' I asked. 'As large as this?'
stretching out my arms to gain an idea of its extent.
My mother told me what she knew of London, which was not much, for she
had only been there once, for a couple of days, and I said I was sure
I should not like it; there were too many people in it. My idea of
perfect happiness was to live with my mother in some pretty country
place, where there were fields and shady walks and turnstiles and
narrow lanes, and perhaps a river. I described the very place, and
artistically dotted it with lazy cattle listening for mysterious signs
in earth or air, or looking with steady solemn gaze far into the
horizon, as if they were observing signs hidden from human gaze. I
also put some lazy barges on the river, 'Creeping, creeping,
creeping,' I said, 'as if they were _so_ tired!'
'And we would go and live in that very place, my dear,' said my
mother, 'if we had money enough.'
'When you get money enough, mother, we _will_ go.'
'Yes, my dear.'
Other changes were made, but not in the direction I desired. Like a
whirlpool, London was drawing us nearer and nearer to its depths, and
by the time I was twelve years of age we were nearly at the bottom of
the hill down which we had been steadily going. My clothes were very
much patched and mended now; all our furniture was sold, and we were
living in one room, which was rented to us ready furnished. The
knowledge of the struggle in which my mother was engaged loomed
gradually upon me, and distressed me in a vague manner. We were really
now in London, although not in the heart of the City; and my mother,
whose needle brought us bread and very little butter, often walked
four miles to the workshop, and four miles back, on a fruitless
errand. Things were getting worse and worse with us. My mother grew
thinner and paler, but she never looked at me without a smile on her
lips--a smile that was often sad, but always tender. At night, while
she worked, she taught me to read and write; there was no free school
near us, and she could not afford to pay for my learning. But no
schoolmaster could have taught me as well as she did. She had a thin,
sweet voice, and often when I was in bed I fell asleep with her
singing by my side. I used to love to lie thus peacefully with closed
eyes, and float into dreamland upon the wings of her sweet melodies. I
woke up sometimes late in the night, and saw her dear face bending
over her work. It was always meek and cheerful; I never saw anger or
bad passion in it.
'Mother,' I said one night, after I had lain and watched her for a
long time.
She gave a start. 'Dear child; I thought you were asleep.'
'So I have been; but I woke up, and I've been watching you for a long,
long time. Mother, when I am a man I shall work for you.'
'That's right, dear. You give me pleasure and delight. I know my good
boy will try to be a good man.'
'I will try to; as good as you are. I want to be like you. Could I not
work now, mother?'
'No, dear child; you are not strong enough yet.'
'I wish I could grow into a strong man in a night,' I thought.
My mother came to the bedside and rested her fingers upon my neck.
What tenderness dwells in a loving mother's touch! I imprisoned her
fingers in mine. She leant towards me caressingly and kissed me. Sleep
stole upon me in that kiss of love.
I saw a picture in a shop window of a girl whose bright fresh face
brought my mother's face before me. But the girl's face was full of
gladness, and her cheeks were glowing; my mother's cheeks were sunken
and wan. Still the likeness was unmistakably there, and I thought how
much I should love to see my mother as bright as this bright girl. I
spoke to her about it, and she went to see the picture, which was in
the next street to ours. She came back smiling.
'It _is_ like me, Chris,' she said; 'as I was once.'
'Then you must have been very, very pretty,' I said, stroking her
cheek.
My mother laughed melodiously.
'When I was young, my dear,' she said with innocent vanity, blushing
like a girl, 'I was thought not to be ugly.'
'Ugly, indeed!' I exclaimed, looking around defiantly. 'My mother
couldn't be ugly!'
'What do you call me now, Chris?'
'You are beautiful--beautiful!' with another defiant look. My mother
shook her hand in mild remonstrance. 'You are--you are! But you're
pale and thin, and you've got lines here--and here.' I smoothed them
with my hand. 'And, mother, you're not old!'
'I'm forty, Chris.'
'That is not old. Tell me--why did you alter so?'
'Time and trouble alter us, dear. We can't be always bright.'
I thought that I might be the trouble she referred to, and I asked the
question anxiously.
'You, my darling!' she said, drawing me to her side and petting me.
'You are my joy, my comfort! I live only for you, Chris--only for
you!'
I noticed something here, and, with a touch of that logical
argumentativeness for which I was afterwards not undistinguished, I
said:
'If I am your joy and comfort, you ought to be glad.'
'And am I not glad? What does my little boy mean by his roundabouts?'
'You cried when you said I was your joy and comfort.'
'They were tears of pleasure, my dear--tears that sprang from my love
for my boy. Then perhaps they sprang from the thought--for we will be
truthful always, Chris--that I should like to buy my boy a new pair of
boots and some new clothes, and that I couldn't because I hadn't money
enough.'
'You would buy them for me if you had money?'
'Ah! what would I not buy for my darling if I had money!'
How delicious it was to nestle in her arms as she poured out the love
of her heart for me! How I worshipped her, and kissed her, and patted
her cheek, and smoothed her hair.
'You are like a lover, my dear,' she said.
'I am your lover,' I replied, and murmured softly to myself, 'Wait
till I am a man! wait till I am a man!'
That night I coaxed my mother to talk to me of the time when she was
young, and she did, with many a smile and many a blush; and in our one
little room there was much delight. She picked out the daisies of her
life, and laid them before me to gladden my heart. Simple and
beautiful were they as Nature's own sweet flower. She showed me a
picture of herself as a girl, and I saw its likeness to the picture
I had admired in the shop window. She sang me to sleep with her dear
old songs, full of sweetness and simplicity. How different are our
modern songs from those sweet old airs! The charm of simplicity is
wanting--but, indeed, it is wanting in other modern things as well.
The spirit of simplicity dwells not in crowded places.
Then commenced my first conscious worship of woman. I held her in my
heart as a devotee holds a saint. How good was this world which
contained such goodness! How sweet this life which contained such
sweetness! She was the flower of both. Modesty, simplicity, and truth,
were with her invariably. To me she became the incarnation of purity.
Time went on, and low as we were we were still going down hill
steadily and surely. It is a long hill, and there are many depths in
it. Work grew slack, and in the struggle to make both ends meet, my
mother was frequently worsted; there was often a great gap between. I
do not wonder that hearts sometimes crack in that endeavour. Yet my
mother ('by hook and by crook,' as I have heard her say merrily)
generally managed in the course of the week to scrape together some
few coins which, jealously watched and jealously spent, sufficed in a
poor way to keep body and soul together. How it was managed is a
mystery to me. The winter came on: a hard winter. Bread went up in
price; every additional halfpenny on a four-pound loaf was a dagger in
my mother's breast. We rubbed through this hard time somehow, and
Christmas glided by and the new year came upon us. A cold spring set
in, and work, which had been getting slacker and slacker, could not
now be obtained. Still my mother did not lie down and yield. She tried
other shops, and received a little work--very little--at odd times.
There came a very hard week, and my mother was much distressed. On the
Friday night I heard her murmuring to herself in her sleep as I
thought, and I fancied I heard her sob. I called to her, but she did
not answer me. Her breath rose and fell in regular rhythm. Yes, she
was asleep, and the sob I thought I heard was born of my fancy. I was
thankful for that!