"If you wish to preserve your _incognito_," said Holmes, smiling, "I
should suggest that you cease to write your name upon the lining of your
hat, or else that you turn the crown towards the person whom you are
addressing. I was about to say that my friend and I have listened to
many strange secrets in this room, and that we have had the good fortune
to bring peace to many troubled souls. I trust that we may do as much
for you. Might I beg you, as time may prove to be of importance, to
furnish me with the facts of your case without further delay?"
Our visitor again passed his hand over his forehead as if he found it
bitterly hard. From every gesture and expression I could see that he was
a reserved, self-contained man, with a dash of pride in his nature, more
likely to hide his wounds than to expose them. Then suddenly with a
fierce gesture of his closed hand, like one who throws reserve to the
winds, he began.
[Illustration: "OUR VISITOR SPRANG FROM HIS CHAIR."]
"The facts are these, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I am a married man, and
have been so for three years. During that time my wife and I have loved
each other as fondly, and lived as happily, as any two that ever were
joined. We have not had a difference, not one, in thought, or word, or
deed. And now, since last Monday, there has suddenly sprung up a barrier
between us, and I find that there is something in her life and in her
thoughts of which I know as little as if she were the woman who brushes
by me in the street. We are estranged, and I want to know why.
"Now there is one thing that I want to impress upon you before I go any
further, Mr. Holmes. Effie loves me. Don't let there be any mistake
about that. She loves me with her whole heart and soul, and never more
than now. I know it--I feel it. I don't want to argue about that. A man
can tell easily enough when a woman loves him. But there's this secret
between us, and we can never be the same until it is cleared."
"Kindly let me have the facts, Mr. Munro," said Holmes, with some
impatience.
"I'll tell you what I know about Effie's history. She was a widow when I
met her first, though quite young--only twenty-five. Her name then was
Mrs. Hebron. She went out to America when she was young and lived in the
town of Atlanta, where she married this Hebron, who was a lawyer with a
good practice. They had one child, but the yellow fever broke out badly
in the place, and both husband and child died of it. I have seen his
death certificate. This sickened her of America, and she came back to
live with a maiden aunt at Pinner, in Middlesex. I may mention that her
husband had left her comfortably off, and that she had a capital of
about four thousand five hundred pounds, which had been so well invested
by him that it returned an average of 7 per cent. She had only been six
months at Pinner when I met her; we fell in love with each other, and we
married a few weeks afterwards.
"I am a hop merchant myself, and as I have an income of seven or eight
hundred, we found ourselves comfortably off, and took a nice
eighty-pound-a-year villa at Norbury. Our little place was very
countrified, considering that it is so close to town. We had an inn and
two houses a little above us, and a single cottage at the other side of
the field which faces us, and except those there were no houses until
you got half-way to the station. My business took me into town at
certain seasons, but in summer I had less to do, and then in our country
home my wife and I were just as happy as could be wished. I tell you
that there never was a shadow between us until this accursed affair
began.
"There's one thing I ought to tell you before I go further. When we
married, my wife made over all her property to me--rather against my
will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my business affairs went
wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was done. Well, about six
weeks ago she came to me.
"'Jack,' said she, 'when, you took my money you said that if ever I
wanted any I was to ask you for it.'
"'Certainly,' said I, 'it's all your own.'
"'Well,' said she, 'I want a hundred pounds.'
"I was a bit staggered at this, for I had imagined it was simply a new
dress or something of the kind that she was after.
"'What on earth for?' I asked.
"'Oh,' said she, in her playful way, 'you said that you were only my
banker, and bankers never ask questions, you know.'
"'If you really mean it, of course you shall have the money,' said I.
"'Oh, yes, I really mean it.'
"'And you won't tell me what you want it for?'
"'Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.'
"So I had to be content with that, though it was the first time that
there had ever been any secret between us. I gave her a cheque, and I
never thought any more of the matter. It may have nothing to do with
what came afterwards, but I thought it only right to mention it.
"Well, I told you just now that there is a cottage not far from our
house. There is just a field between us, but to reach it you have to go
along the road and then turn down a lane. Just beyond it is a nice
little grove of Scotch firs, and I used to be very fond of strolling
down there, for trees are always neighbourly kinds of things. The
cottage had been standing empty this eight months, and it was a pity,
for it was a pretty two-storied place, with an old-fashioned porch and
honeysuckle about it. I have stood many a time and thought what a neat
little homestead it would make.
"Well, last Monday evening I was taking a stroll down that way when I
met an empty van coming up the lane, and saw a pile of carpets and
things lying about on the grass-plot beside the porch. It was clear that
the cottage had at last been let. I walked past it, and then stopping,
as an idle man might, I ran my eye over it, and wondered what sort of
folk they were who had come to live so near us. And as I looked I
suddenly became aware that a face was watching me out of one of the
upper windows.
"I don't know what there was about that face, Mr. Holmes, but it seemed
to send a chill right down my back. I was some little way off, so that I
could not make out the features, but there was something unnatural and
inhuman about the face. That was the impression I had, and I moved
quickly forwards to get a nearer view of the person who was watching me.
But as I did so the face suddenly disappeared, so suddenly that it
seemed to have been plucked away into the darkness of the room. I stood
for five minutes thinking the business over, and trying to analyze my
impressions. I could not tell if the face was that of a man or a woman.
It had been too far from me for that. But its colour was what had
impressed me most. It was of a livid, dead yellow, and with something
set and rigid about it, which was shockingly unnatural. So disturbed was
I, that I determined to see a little more of the new inmates of the
cottage. I approached and knocked at the door, which was instantly
opened by a tall, gaunt woman, with a harsh, forbidding face.
"'What may you be wantin'?' she asked, in a northern accent.
"'I am your neighbour over yonder,' said I, nodding towards my house. 'I
see that you have only just moved in, so I thought that if I could be of
any help to you in any----'
"'Aye, we'll just ask ye when we want ye,' said she, and shut the door
in my face. Annoyed at the churlish rebuff, I turned my back and walked
home. All the evening, though I tried to think of other things, my mind
would still turn to the apparition at the window and the rudeness of the
woman. I determined to say nothing about the former to my wife, for she
is a nervous, highly-strung woman, and I had no wish that she should
share the unpleasant impression which had been produced upon myself. I
remarked to her, however, before I fell asleep that the cottage was now
occupied, to which she returned no reply.
[Illustration: "WHAT MAY YOU BE WANTIN'?"]
"I am usually an extremely sound sleeper. It has been a standing jest in
the family that nothing could ever wake me during the night; and yet
somehow on that particular night, whether it may have been the slight
excitement produced by my little adventure or not, I know not, but I
slept much more lightly than usual. Half in my dreams I was dimly
conscious that something was going on in the room, and gradually became
aware that my wife had dressed herself and was slipping on her mantle
and her bonnet. My lips were parted to murmur out some sleepy words of
surprise or remonstrance at this untimely preparation, when suddenly my
half-opened eyes fell upon her face, illuminated by the candle light,
and astonishment held me dumb. She wore an expression such as I had
never seen before--such as I should have thought her incapable of
assuming. She was deadly pale, and breathing fast, glancing furtively
towards the bed, as she fastened her mantle, to see if she had disturbed
me. Then, thinking that I was still asleep, she slipped noiselessly from
the room, and an instant later I heard a sharp creaking, which could
only come from the hinges of the front door. I sat up in bed and rapped
my knuckles against the rail to make certain that I was truly awake.
Then I took my watch from under the pillow. It was three in the morning.
What on this earth could my wife be doing out on the country road at
three in the morning?
"I had sat for about twenty minutes turning the thing over in my mind
and trying to find some possible explanation. The more I thought the
more extraordinary and inexplicable did it appear. I was still puzzling
over it when I heard the door gently close again and her footsteps
coming up the stairs.
"'Where in the world have you been, Effie?' I asked, as she entered.
"She gave a violent start and a kind of gasping cry when I spoke, and
that cry and start troubled me more than all the rest, for there was
something indescribably guilty about them. My wife had always been a
woman of a frank, open nature, and it gave me a chill to see her
slinking into her own room, and crying out and wincing when her own
husband spoke to her.
"'You awake, Jack?' she cried, with a nervous laugh. 'Why, I thought
that nothing could awaken you.'
"'Where have you been?' I asked, more sternly.
"'I don't wonder that you are surprised,' said she, and I could see that
her fingers were trembling as she undid the fastenings of her mantle.
'Why, I never remember having done such a thing in my life before. The
fact is, that I felt as though I were choking, and had a perfect longing
for a breath of fresh air. I really think that I should have fainted if
I had not gone out. I stood at the door for a few minutes, and now I am
quite myself again.'
"All the time that she was telling me this story she never once looked
in my direction, and her voice was quite unlike her usual tones. It was
evident to me that she was saying what was false. I said nothing in
reply, but turned my face to the wall, sick at heart, with my mind
filled with a thousand venomous doubts and suspicions. What was it that
my wife was concealing from me? Where had she been during that strange
expedition? I felt that I should have no peace until I knew, and yet I
shrank from asking her again after once she had told me what was false.
All the rest of the night I tossed and tumbled, framing theory after
theory, each more unlikely than the last.
"I should have gone to the City that day, but I was too perturbed in my
mind to be able to pay attention to business matters. My wife seemed to
be as upset as myself, and I could see from the little questioning
glances which she kept shooting at me, that she understood that I
disbelieved her statement and that she was at her wits' ends what to do.
We hardly exchanged a word during breakfast, and immediately afterwards
I went out for a walk that I might think the matter out in the fresh
morning air.
"I went as far as the Crystal Palace, spent an hour in the grounds, and
was back in Norbury by one o'clock. It happened that my way took me past
the cottage, and I stopped for an instant to look at the windows and to
see if I could catch a glimpse of the strange face which had looked out
at me on the day before. As I stood there, imagine my surprise, Mr.
Holmes, when the door suddenly opened and my wife walked out!
"I was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight of her, but my
emotions were nothing to those which showed themselves upon her face
when our eyes met. She seemed for an instant to wish to shrink back
inside the house again, and then, seeing how useless all concealment
must be, she came forward with a very white face and frightened eyes
which belied the smile upon her lips.
"'Oh, Jack!' she said, 'I have just been in to see if I can be of any
assistance to our new neighbours. Why do you look at me like that, Jack?
You are not angry with me?'
"'So,' said I, 'this is where you went during the night?'
"'What do you mean?' she cried.
"'You came here. I am sure of it. Who are these people that you should
visit them at such an hour?'
"'I have not been here before.'
"'How can you tell me what you know is false?' I cried. 'Your very voice
changes as you speak. When have I ever had a secret from you? I shall
enter that cottage and I shall probe the matter to the bottom.'
"'No, no, Jack, for God's sake!' she gasped, in incontrollable emotion.
Then as I approached the door she seized my sleeve and pulled me back
with convulsive strength.
[Illustration: "'TRUST ME, JACK!' SHE CRIED."]
"'I implore you not to do this, Jack,' she cried. 'I swear that I will
tell you everything some day, but nothing but misery can come of it if
you enter that cottage.' Then, as I tried to shake her off, she clung to
me in a frenzy of entreaty.
"'Trust me, Jack!' she cried. 'Trust me only this once. You will never
have cause to regret it. You know that I would not have a secret from
you if it were not for your own sake. Our whole lives are at stake on
this. If you come home with me all will be well. If you force your way
into that cottage, all is over between us.'
"There was such earnestness, such despair in her manner that her words
arrested me, and I stood irresolute before the door.
"'I will trust you on one condition, and on one condition only,' said I
at last. 'It is that this mystery comes to an end from now. You are at
liberty to preserve your secret, but you must promise me that there
shall be no more nightly visits, no more doings which are kept from my
knowledge. I am willing to forget those which are passed if you will
promise that there shall be no more in the future.'
"'I was sure that you would trust me,' she cried, with a great sigh of
relief. 'It shall be just as you wish. Come away, oh, come away up to
the house!' Still pulling at my sleeve she led me away from the cottage.
As we went I glanced back, and there was that yellow livid face watching
us out of the upper window. What link could there be between that
creature and my wife? Or how could the coarse, rough woman whom I had
seen the day before be connected with her? It was a strange puzzle, and
yet I knew that my mind could never know ease again until I had solved
it.
"For two days after this I stayed at home, and my wife appeared to abide
loyally by our engagement, for, as far as I know, she never stirred out
of the house. On the third day, however, I had ample evidence that her
solemn promise was not enough to hold her back from this secret
influence which drew her away from her husband and her duty.
"I had gone into town on that day, but I returned by the 2.40 instead of
the 3.36, which is my usual train. As I entered the house the maid ran
into the hall with a startled face.
"'Where is your mistress?' I asked.
"'I think that she has gone out for a walk,' she answered.
"My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs to make
sure that she was not in the house. As I did so I happened to glance out
of one of the upper windows, and saw the maid with whom I had just been
speaking running across the field in the direction of the cottage. Then,
of course, I saw exactly what it all meant. My wife had gone over there
and had asked the servant to call her if I should return. Tingling with
anger, I rushed down and hurried across, determined to end the matter
once and for ever. I saw my wife and the maid hurrying back together
along the lane, but I did not stop to speak with them. In the cottage
lay the secret which was casting a shadow over my life. I vowed that,
come what might, it should be a secret no longer. I did not even knock
when I reached it, but turned the handle and rushed into the passage.
"It was all still and quiet upon the ground-floor. In the kitchen a
kettle was singing on the fire, and a large black cat lay coiled up in a
basket, but there was no sign of the woman whom I had seen before. I ran
into the other room, but it was equally deserted. Then I rushed up the
stairs, but only to find two other rooms empty and deserted at the top.
There was no one at all in the whole house. The furniture and pictures
were of the most common and vulgar description save in the one chamber
at the window of which I had seen the strange face. That was comfortable
and elegant, and all my suspicions rose into a fierce, bitter blaze when
I saw that on the mantelpiece stood a full-length photograph of my wife,
which had been taken at my request only three months ago.
"I stayed long enough to make certain that the house was absolutely
empty. Then I left it, feeling a weight at my heart such as I had never
had before. My wife came out into the hall as I entered my house, but I
was too hurt and angry to speak with her, and pushing past her I made my
way into my study. She followed me, however, before I could close the
door.
"'I am sorry that I broke my promise, Jack,' said she, 'but if you knew
all the circumstances I am sure that you would forgive me.'
"'Tell me everything, then,' said I.
"'I cannot, Jack, I cannot!' she cried.
"'Until you tell me who it is that has been living in that cottage, and
who it is to whom you have given that photograph, there can never be any
confidence between us,' said I, and breaking away from her I left the
house. That was yesterday, Mr. Holmes, and I have not seen her since,
nor do I know anything more about this strange business. It is the first
shadow that has come between us, and it has so shaken me that I do not
know what I should do for the best. Suddenly this morning it occurred to
me that you were the man to advise me, so I have hurried to you now, and
I place myself unreservedly in your hands. If there is any point which I
have not made clear, pray question me about it. But above all tell me
quickly what I have to do, for this misery is more than I can bear."
[Illustration: "'TELL ME EVERYTHING,' SAID I."]
Holmes and I had listened with the utmost interest to this extraordinary
statement, which had been delivered in the jerky, broken fashion of a
man who is under the influence of extreme emotion. My companion sat
silent now for some time, with his chin upon his hand, lost in thought.
"Tell me," said he at last, "could you swear that this was a man's face
which you saw at the window?"
"Each time that I saw it I was some distance away from it, so that it is
impossible for me to say."
"You appear, however, to have been disagreeably impressed by it."
"It seemed to be of an unnatural colour and to have a strange rigidity
about the features. When I approached, it vanished with a jerk."
"How long is it since your wife asked you for a hundred pounds?"
"Nearly two months."
"Have you ever seen a photograph of her first husband?"
"No, there was a great fire at Atlanta very shortly after his death, and
all her papers were destroyed."
"And yet she had a certificate of death. You say that you saw it?"
"Yes, she got a duplicate after the fire."
"Did you ever meet anyone who knew her in America?"
"No."
"Did she ever talk of revisiting the place?"
"No."
"Or get letters from it?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Thank you. I should like to think over the matter a little now. If the
cottage is permanently deserted we may have some difficulty; if on the
other hand, as I fancy is more likely, the inmates were warned of your
coming, and left before you entered yesterday, then they may be back
now, and we should clear it all up easily. Let me advise you, then, to
return to Norbury and to examine the windows of the cottage again. If
you have reason to believe that it is inhabited do not force your way
in, but send a wire to my friend and me. We shall be with you within an
hour of receiving it, and we shall then very soon get to the bottom of
the business."
"And if it is still empty?"
"In that case I shall come out to-morrow and talk it over with you.
Good-bye, and above all do not fret until you know that you really have
a cause for it."
"I am afraid that this is a bad business, Watson," said my companion, as
he returned after accompanying Mr. Grant Munro to the door. "What did
you make of it?"
"It had an ugly sound," I answered.
"Yes. There's blackmail in it, or I am much mistaken."
"And who is the blackmailer?"
"Well, it must be this creature who lives in the only comfortable room
in the place, and has her photograph above his fireplace. Upon my word,
Watson, there is something very attractive about that livid face at the
window, and I would not have missed the case for worlds."
"You have a theory?"
"Yes, a provisional one. But I shall be surprised if it does not turn
out to be correct. This woman's first husband is in that cottage."
"Why do you think so?"
"How else can we explain her frenzied anxiety that her second one should
not enter it? The facts, as I read them, are something like this: This
woman was married in America. Her husband developed some hateful
qualities, or, shall we say, that he contracted some loathsome disease,
and became a leper or an imbecile. She fled from him at last, returned
to England, changed her name, and started her life, as she thought,
afresh. She had been married three years, and believed that her position
was quite secure--having shown her husband the death certificate of some
man, whose name she had assumed--when suddenly her whereabouts was
discovered by her first husband, or, we may suppose, by some
unscrupulous woman, who had attached herself to the invalid. They write
to the wife and threaten to come and expose her. She asks for a hundred
pounds and endeavours to buy them off. They come in spite of it, and
when the husband mentions casually to the wife that there are new-comers
in the cottage, she knows in some way that they are her pursuers. She
waits until her husband is asleep, and then she rushes down to endeavour
to persuade them to leave her in peace. Having no success, she goes
again next morning, and her husband meets her, as he has told us, as she
came out. She promises him then not to go there again, but two days
afterwards, the hope of getting rid of those dreadful neighbours is too
strong for her, and she makes another attempt, taking down with her the
photograph which had probably been demanded from her. In the midst of
this interview the maid rushes in to say that the master has come home,
on which the wife, knowing that he would come straight down to the
cottage, hurries the inmates out at the back door, into that grove of
fir trees probably which was mentioned as standing near. In this way he
finds the place deserted. I shall be very much surprised, however, if it
is still so when he reconnoitres it this evening. What do you think of
my theory?"
"It is all surmise."
"But at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our
knowledge, which cannot be covered by it, it will be time enough to
reconsider it. At present we can do nothing until we have a fresh
message from our friend at Norbury."
But we had not very long to wait. It came just as we had finished our
tea. "The cottage is still tenanted," it said. "Have seen the face again
at the window. I'll meet the seven o'clock train, and take no steps
until you arrive."
He was waiting on the platform when we stepped out, and we could see in
the light of the station lamps that he was very pale, and quivering with
agitation.
"They are still there, Mr. Holmes," said he, laying his hand upon my
friend's sleeve. "I saw lights in the cottage as I came down. We shall
settle it now, once and for all."
"What is your plan, then?" asked Holmes, as we walked down the dark,
tree-lined road.
"I am going to force my way in, and see for myself who is in the house.
I wish you both to be there as witnesses."
"You are quite determined to do this, in spite of your wife's warning
that it was better that you should not solve the mystery?"
"Yes, I am determined."
"Well, I think that you are in the right. Any truth is better than
indefinite doubt. We had better go up at once. Of course, legally we are
putting ourselves hopelessly in the wrong, but I think that it is worth
it."
It was a very dark night and a thin rain began to fall as we turned from
the high road into a narrow lane, deeply rutted, with hedges on either
side. Mr. Grant Munro pushed impatiently forward, however, and we
stumbled after him as best we could.
"There are the lights of my house," he murmured, pointing to a glimmer
among the trees, "and here is the cottage which I am going to enter."
We turned a corner in the lane as he spoke, and there was the building
close beside us. A yellow bar falling across the black foreground showed
that the door was not quite closed, and one window in the upper story
was brightly illuminated. As we looked we saw a dark blurr moving across
the blind.
"There is that creature," cried Grant Munro; "you can see for yourselves
that someone is there. Now follow me, and we shall soon know all."
We approached the door, but suddenly a woman appeared out of the shadow
and stood in the golden track of the lamp light. I could not see her
face in the darkness, but her arms were thrown out in an attitude of
entreaty.
"For God's sake, don't, Jack!" she cried. "I had a presentiment that you
would come this evening. Think better of it, dear! Trust me again, and
you will never have cause to regret it."
"I have trusted you too long, Effie!" he cried, sternly. "Leave go of
me! I must pass you. My friends and I are going to settle this matter
once and for ever." He pushed her to one side and we followed closely
after him. As he threw the door open, an elderly woman ran out in front
of him and tried to bar his passage, but he thrust her back, and an
instant afterwards we were all upon the stairs. Grant Munro rushed into
the lighted room at the top, and we entered it at his heels.
It was a cosy, well-furnished apartment, with two candles burning upon
the table and two upon the mantelpiece. In the corner, stooping over a
desk, there sat what appeared to be a little girl. Her face was turned
away as we entered, but we could see that she was dressed in a red
frock, and that she had long white gloves on. As she whisked round to us
I gave a cry of surprise and horror. The face which she turned towards
us was of the strangest livid tint, and the features were absolutely
devoid of any expression. An instant later the mystery was explained.
Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind the child's ear, a mask
peeled off from her countenance, and there was a little coal-black
negress with all her white teeth flashing in amusement at our amazed
faces. I burst out laughing out of sympathy with her merriment, but
Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand clutching at his throat.
[Illustration: "THERE WAS A LITTLE COAL-BLACK NEGRESS."]
"My God!" he cried, "what can be the meaning of this?"
"I will tell you the meaning of it," cried the lady, sweeping into the
room with a proud, set face. "You have forced me against my own judgment
to tell you, and now we must both make the best of it. My husband died
at Atlanta. My child survived."
"Your child!"
She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. "You have never seen this
open."
"I understood that it did not open."
She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a portrait
within of a man, strikingly handsome and intelligent, but bearing
unmistakable signs upon his features of his African descent.
"That is John Hebron, of Atlanta," said the lady, "and a nobler man
never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in order to wed
him; but never once while he lived did I for one instant regret it. It
was our misfortune that our only child took after his people rather than
mine. It is often so in such matches, and little Lucy is darker far than
ever her father was. But, dark or fair, she is my own dear little
girlie, and her mother's pet." The little creature ran across at the
words and nestled up against the lady's dress.
"When I left her in America," she continued, "it was only because her
health was weak, and the change might have done her harm. She was given
to the care of a faithful Scotchwoman who had once been our servant.
Never for an instant did I dream of disowning her as my child. But when
chance threw you in my way, Jack, and I learned to love you, I feared to
tell you about my child. God forgive me, I feared that I should lose
you, and I had not the courage to tell you. I had to choose between you,
and in my weakness I turned away from my own little girl. For three
years I have kept her existence a secret from you, but I heard from the
nurse, and I knew that all was well with her. At last, however, there
came an overwhelming desire to see the child once more. I struggled
against it, but in vain. Though I knew the danger I determined to have
the child over, if it were but for a few weeks. I sent a hundred pounds
to the nurse, and I gave her instructions about this cottage, so that
she might come as a neighbour without my appearing to be in any way
connected with her. I pushed my precautions so far as to order her to
keep the child in the house during the daytime, and to cover up her
little face and hands, so that even those who might see her at the
window should not gossip about there being a black child in the
neighbourhood. If I had been less cautious I might have been more wise,
but I was half crazy with fear lest you should learn the truth.
[Illustration: "HE LIFTED THE LITTLE CHILD."]
"It was you who told me first that the cottage was occupied. I should
have waited for the morning, but I could not sleep for excitement, and
so at last I slipped out, knowing how difficult it is to awaken you. But
you saw me go, and that was the beginning of my troubles. Next day you
had my secret at your mercy, but you nobly refrained from pursuing your
advantage. Three days later, however, the nurse and child only just
escaped from the back door as you rushed in at the front one. And now
to-night you at last know all, and I ask you what is to become of us, my
child and me?" She clasped her hands and waited for an answer.
It was a long two minutes before Grant Munro broke the silence, and when
his answer came it was one of which I love to think. He lifted the
little child, kissed her, and then, still carrying her, he held his
other hand out to his wife and turned towards the door.
"We can talk it over more comfortably at home," said he. "I am not a
very good man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one than you have
given me credit for being."
Holmes and I followed them down to the lane, and my friend plucked at my
sleeve as we came out. "I think," said he, "that we shall be of more use
in London than in Norbury."
Not another word did he say of the case until late that night when he
was turning away, with his lighted candle, for his bedroom.
"Watson," said he, "if it should ever strike you that I am getting a
little over-confident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case than
it deserves, kindly whisper 'Norbury' in my ear, and I shall be
infinitely obliged to you."
_Illustrated Interviews._
No. XX.--DR. BARNARDO, F.R.C.S. Ed.
[Illustration: 'BABIES' CASTLE, HAWKHURST. _From a Photo. by Elliot &
Fry._]
When it is remembered that the Homes founded and governed by Dr.
Barnardo comprise fifty distinct institutions; that since the foundation
of the first Home, twenty-eight years ago, in Stepney, over 22,000 boys
and girls have been rescued from positions of almost indescribable
danger; that to-day five thousand orphans and destitute children,
constituting the largest family in the world, are being cared for,
trained, and put on a different footing to that of shoeless and
stockingless, it will be at once understood that a definite and
particular direction must be chosen in which to allow one's thoughts and
investigations to travel. I immediately select the babies--the little
ones of five years old and under; and it is possible that ere the last
words of this paper are written, the Doctor may have disappeared from
these pages, and we may find ourselves in fancy romping and playing with
the babes in the green fields--one day last summer.
There is no misjudging the character of Dr. Barnardo--there is no
misinterpreting his motives. Somewhat below the medium height, strong
and stoutly built, with an expression at times a little severe, but with
benevolent-looking eyes, which immediately scatter the lines of
severity: he at once impresses you as a man of immovable disposition and
intentions not to be cast aside. He sets his heart on having a thing
done. It _is_ done. He conceives some new departure of rescue work.
There is no rest for him until it is accomplished. His rapidity of
speech tells of continual activity of mind. He is essentially a business
man--he needs must be. He takes a waif in hand, and makes a man or woman
of it in a very few years. Why should the child's unparentlike parent
now come forward and claim it once more for a life of misery and
probable crime? Dr. Barnardo thinks long before he would snap the
parental ties between mother and child; but if neglect, cruelty, or
degradation towards her offspring have been the chief evidences of her
relationship, nothing in the wide world would stop him from taking the
little one up and holding it fast.
I sat down to chat over the very wide subject of child rescue in Dr.
Barnardo's cosy room at Stepney Causeway. It was a bitter cold night
outside, the streets were frozen, the snow falling. In an hour's time we
were to start for the slums--to see baby life in the vicinity of Flower
and Dean Street, Brick Lane, and Wentworth Street--all typical
localities where the fourpenny lodging-house still refuses to be
crushed by model dwellings. Over the comforting fire we talked about a
not altogether uneventful past.
Dr. Barnardo was born in 1845, in Dublin. Although an Irishman by birth,
he is not so by blood. He is really of Spanish descent, as his name
suggests.
[Illustration: DR. BARNARDO. _From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
"I can never recollect the time," he said, "when the face and the voice
of a child has not had power to draw me aside from everything else.
Naturally, I have always had a passionate love for children. Their
helplessness, their innocence, and, in the case of waif children, their
misery, constitute, I feel, an irresistible appeal to every humane
heart.
"I remember an incident which occurred to me at a very early age, and
which made a great impression upon me.
"One day, when coming home from school, I saw standing on the margin of
the pavement a woman in miserable attire, with a wretched-looking baby
in her arms. I was then only a schoolboy of eleven years old, but the
sight made me very unhappy. I remember looking furtively every way to
see if I was observed, and then emptying my pockets--truly they had not
much in them--into the woman's hands. But sauntering on, I could not
forget the face of the baby--it fascinated me; so I had to go back, and
in a low voice suggested to the woman that if she would follow me home I
would try to get her something more.
"Fortunately, I was able to let her into the hall without attracting
much attention, and then went down to the cook on my errand. I forget
what was done, except that I know a good meal was given to the 'mother'
and some milk to the baby. Just then an elder sister of mine came into
the hall, and was attracted as I had been to the infant; but observing
the woman she suddenly called out: 'Why, you are the woman I have spoken
to twice before, and this is a different baby; this is the third you
have had!'
"And so it came to pass that I had my first experience of a beggar's
shifts. The child was not hers; she had borrowed it, or hired it, and it
was, as my sister said, the third in succession she had had within a
couple of months. So I was somewhat humiliated as 'mother' and infant
were quietly, but quickly, passed out through the hall door into the
street, and I learned my first lesson that the best way to help the poor
is not necessarily to give money to the first beggar you meet in the
street, although it is well to always keep a tender heart for the
sufferings of children."
"Hire babies! Borrow babies!" I interrupted.
"Yes," replied the Doctor, "and buy them, too. I know of several
lodging-houses where I could hire a baby from fourpence to a shilling a
day. The prettier the child is the better; should it happen to be a
cripple, or possessing particularly thin arms and face, it is always
worth a shilling. Little girls always demand a higher price than boys. I
knew of one woman--her supposed husband sells chickweed and
groundsel--who has carried a baby exactly the same size for the last
nine or ten years! I myself have, in days gone by, bought children in
order to rescue them. Happily, such a step is now not needful, owing to
changes in the law, which enable us to get possession of such children
by better methods. For one girl I paid 10s. 6d., whilst my very first
purchase cost me 7s. 6d. It was for a little boy and girl baby--brother
and sister. The latter was tied up in a bundle. The woman--whom I found
sitting on a door-step--offered to sell the boy for a trifle,
half-a-crown, but not the mite of a girl, as she was 'her living.'
However, I rescued them both, for the sum I have mentioned. In another
case I got a poor little creature of two years of age--I can see her
now, with arms no thicker than my finger--from her drunken 'guardian'
for a shilling. When it came to washing the waif--what clothes it had on
consisted of nothing but knots and strings; they had not been untied for
weeks, perhaps months, and had to be cut off with a pair of scissors--we
found something tied round its waist, to which the child constantly
stretched out its wasted fingers and endeavoured to raise to its lips.
On examination it proved to be an old fish-bone wrapped in a piece of
cotton, which must have been at least a month old. Yet you must remember
that these 'purchases' are quite exceptional cases, as my children have,
for the most part, been obtained by legitimate means."
Yes, these little mites arrive at Stepney somewhat strangely at times. A
child was sent from Newcastle in a hamper. It bore a small tablet on the
wicker basket which read: "To Dr. Barnardo, London. With care." The
little girl arrived quite safe and perfectly sound. But the most
remarkable instance of all was that of little Frank. Few children reach
Dr. Barnardo whose antecedents cannot be traced and their history
recorded in the volumes kept for this purpose. But Frankie remains one
of the unknown. Some time ago a carrier delivered what was presumably a
box of Swiss milk at the Homes. The porter in charge received it, and
was about to place it amongst other packages, when the faintest possible
cry escaped through the cracks in the lid. The pliers were hastily
brought, the nails flew out, the lid came off, and there lay little
Frank in his diminutive baby's robe, peacefully sleeping, with the end
of the tube communicating with his bottle of milk still between his
lips!
[Illustration: "TO DR. BARNARDO, WITH CARE." _From a Photo._]
"That is one means of getting rid of children," said Dr. Barnardo, after
he had told me the story of Frank, "but there are others which might
almost amount to a respectable method. I have received offers of large
sums of money from persons who have been desirous of my receiving their
children into these Homes _without asking any questions_. Not so very
long ago a lady came to Stepney in her carriage. A child was in it. I
granted her an interview, and she laid down five £100 notes, saying they
were mine if I would take the child and ask no questions. I did not take
the child. Again. A well-known peer of the realm once sent his footman
here with £100, asking me to take the footman's son. No. The footman
could support his child. Gold and silver will never open my doors unless
there is real destitution. It is for the homeless, the actually
destitute, that we open our doors day and night, without money and
without price. It is a dark night outside, but if you will look up on
this building, the words, '_No destitute boy or girl ever refused
admission_, are large enough to be read on the darkest night and with
the weakest eyesight; and that has been true all these seven-and-twenty
years.
"On this same pretext of 'asking no questions,' I have been offered
£10,000 down, and £900 a year guaranteed during the lifetime of the
wealthy man who made the offer, if I would set up a Foundling
Institution. A basket was to be placed outside, and no attempt was ever
to be made either to see the woman or to discover from whence she came
or where she went. This, again, I refused. We _must_ know all we can
about the little ones who come here, and every possible means is taken
to trace them. A photo is taken of every child when it arrives--even in
tatters; it is re-photographed again when it is altogether a different
small creature."
Concerning these photographs, a great deal might be said, for the
photographic studio at Stepney is an institution in itself. Over 30,000
negatives have been taken, and the photograph of any child can be turned
up at a moment's notice. Out of this arrangement romantic incidents
sometimes grow.
Here is one of many. A child of three years old, discovered in a
village in Lancashire deserted by its parents, was taken to the nearest
workhouse. There were no other children in the workhouse at the time,
and a lady visitor, struck with the forlornness of the little girl waif,
beginning life under the shadow of the workhouse, benevolently wrote to
Dr. Barnardo, and after some negotiations the child was admitted to the
Homes and its photograph taken. Then it went down to the Girls' Village
Home at Ilford, where it grew up in one of the cottage families until
eleven years old.
One day a lady called on Dr. Barnardo and told him a sad tale concerning
her own child, a little girl, who had been stolen by a servant who owed
her a spite, and who was lost sight of years ago. The lady had done all
she could at the time to trace her child in vain, and had given up the
pursuit; but lately an unconquerable desire to resume her inquiries
filled her. Among other places, she applied to the police in London, and
the authorities suggested that she should call at Stepney.
Dr. Barnardo could, of course, give her no clue whatever. Eight years
had passed since the child had been lost; but one thing he could do--he
could turn to his huge photographic album, and show her the faces of all
the children who had been received within certain dates. This was done,
and in the course of turning over the pages the lady's eye fell on the
face of the little girl waif received from a Lancashire workhouse, and
with much agitation declared that she was her child. The girl was still
at Ilford. In an hour's time she was fetched up, and found to be a
well-grown, nice-mannered child of eleven years of age--to be folded
immediately in her mother's arms. "There could be no doubt," the Doctor
added, "of the parentage; they were so much alike." Of course, inquiries
had to be made as to the position of the lady, and assurances given that
she was really able to maintain the child, and that it would be well
cared for. These being satisfactory, Dorothy changed hands, and is now
being brought up under her mother's eye.
[Illustration: FRANKIE'S BOX, EXTERIOR.]
[Illustration: FRANKIE'S BOX, INTERIOR. _From a Photograph._]
The boys and girls admitted to the fifty Homes under Dr. Barnardo's care
are of all nationalities--black and white, even Hindus and Chinese. A
little while ago there were fourteen languages spoken in the Homes.
"And what about naming the 'unknown'?" I asked. "What about folk who
want to adopt a child and are willing to take one of yours?"
"In the naming of unknown children," the Doctor replied, "we have no
certain method, but allow ourselves to be guided by the facts of the
case. A very small boy, two years ago, was discovered destitute upon a
door-step in Oxford. He was taken to the workhouse, and, after more or
less investigation to discover the people who abandoned him, he came
into my hands. He had no name, but he was forthwith christened, and
given the name of a very celebrated building standing close to where he
was found.
"_Marie Perdu_ suggests at once the history which attaches to her.
_Rachel Trouvé_ is equally suggestive. That we have not more names of
this sort is due to the fact that we insist upon the most minute,
elaborate and careful investigation of every case; and it is, I think,
to the credit of our institutions that not more than four or five small
infants have been admitted from the first without our having been able
to trace each child home to its parentage, and to fill our records with
incidents of its early history.
"Regarding the question of adoption. I am very slow to give a child out
for adoption in England. In Canada--by-the-bye, during the year 1892,
720 boys and girls have emigrated to the Colonies, making a grand total
of 5,834 young folks who have gone out to Canada and other British
Colonies since this particular branch was started. As I was saying, in
Canada, if a man adopts a child it really becomes as his own. If a girl,
he must provide her with a marriage dowry."
"But the little ones--the very tiny ones, Dr. Barnardo, where do they
go?" I interrupted.
"To 'Babies' Castle' at Hawkhurst, in Kent. A few go to Ilford, where
the Girls' Village Home is. It is conducted on the cottage
principle--which means _home_. I send some there--one to each cottage.
Others are 'boarded out' all over the kingdom, but a good many,
especially the feebler ones who need special medical and nursing care,
go to 'Babies' Castle,' where you were--one day last summer!"
One day last summer! It was remembered only too well, and more so when
we hurried out into the cold air outside and hastened our
footsteps--eastwards. And as we walked along I listened to the story of
Dr. Barnardo's first Arab boy. His love for waifs and strays as a child
increased with years; it had been impressed upon his boyish memory, and
when he became a young man and walked the wards of the London Hospital,
it increased.
It was the winter of 1866. Together with one or two fellow students he
conducted a ragged school in an old stable. The young student told the
children stories--simple and understandable, and read to them such works
as the "Pilgrim's Progress." The nights were cold, and the young
students subscribed together--in a practical move--for a huge fire. One
night young Barnardo was just about to go when, approaching the warming
embers to brace himself up for the snow outside, he saw a boy lying
there. He was in rags; his face pinched with hunger and suffering.
"Now then, my boy--it's time to go," said the medico.
"Please, sir, _do_ let me stop."
"I can't, my lad--it's time to go home. Where do you live?"
"_Don't live nowhere, sir!_"
"Nowhere! Where's your father and mother?"
"Ain't got none, sir!"
"For the first time in my life," said Dr. Barnardo as he was telling
this incident, "I was brought face to face with the misery of outcast
childhood. I questioned the lad. He had been sleeping in the streets for
two or three years--he knew every corner of refuge in London. Well, I
took him to my lodgings. I had a bit of a struggle with the landlady to
allow him to come in, but at last I succeeded, and we had some coffee
together.
"His reply to one question I asked him impressed me more than anything
else.
"'Are there many more like you?' I asked.
"'_Heaps, sir._'
"He spoke the truth. He took me to one spot near Houndsditch. There I
obtained my first view of real Arab life. Eleven lads--some only nine
and ten years of age--lay on the roof of a building. It was a strange
sight--the moon seemingly singling out every sleeper for me. Another
night we went together over to the Queen's Shades, near Billingsgate. On
the top of a number of barrels, covered with tarpaulin, seventy-three
fellows were sleeping. I had the whole lot out for a halfpenny apiece.
"'By God's help,' I cried inwardly, 'I'll help these fellows.'
"Owing to a meeting at Islington my experiences got into the daily
Press. The late Lord Shaftesbury sent for me, and one night at his house
at dinner I was chaffed for 'romancing.' When Lord Shaftesbury went with
me to Billingsgate that same night and found thirty-seven boys there, he
knew the terrible truth. So we started with fifteen or twenty boys, in
lodgings, friends paying for them. Then I opened a dilapidated house,
once occupied by a stock dealer, but with the help of brother medicos it
was cleaned, scrubbed, and whitewashed. We begged, borrowed, and very
nearly stole the needful bedsteads. The place was ready, and it was soon
filled with twenty-five boys. And the work grew--and grew--and grew--you
know what it is to-day!"
We had now reached Whitechapel. The night had increased in coldness, the
snow completely covered the roads and pavements, save where the ruts,
made by the slowly moving traffic and pedestrians' tread, were visible.
To escape from the keen and cutting air would indeed have been a
blessing--a blessing that was about to be realized in strange places.
Turning sharply up a side street, we walked a short distance and stopped
at a certain house. A gentle tap, tap at the door. It was opened by a
woman, and we entered. It was a vivid picture--a picture of low life
altogether indescribable.
The great coke fire, which never goes out save when the chimney is
swept, and in front of which were cooking pork chops, steaks,
mutton-chops, rashers of bacon, and that odoriferous marine delicacy
popularly known as a bloater, threw a strange glare upon "all
sorts and conditions of men." Old men, with histories written on
every wrinkle of their faces; old women, with straggling and
unkempt white hair falling over their shoulders; young men, some
with eyes that hastily dropped at your gaze; young women, some with
never-mind-let's-enjoy-life-while-we're-here expressions on their faces;
some with stories of misery and degradation plainly lined upon their
features--boys and girls; and little ones! Tiny little ones!
Still, look at the walls; at the ceiling. It is the time of Christmas.
Garlands of paper chains are stretched across; holly and evergreens are
in abundance, and even the bunch of mistletoe is not missing. But, the
little ones rivet my attention. Some are a few weeks old, others two,
three, four, and five years old. Women are nursing them. Where are their
mothers? I am told that they are out--and this and that girl is
receiving twopence or threepence for minding baby until mother comes
home once more. The whole thing is too terribly real; and now, now I
begin to understand a little about Dr. Barnardo's work and the urgent
necessity for it. "Save the children," he cries, "at any cost from
becoming such as the men and women are whom we see here!"
That night I visited some dozen, perhaps twenty, of these
lodging-houses. The same men and women were everywhere, the same fire,
the same eatables cooking--even the chains of coloured papers, the holly
and the bunch of mistletoe--and the wretched children as well.
Hurrying away from these scenes of the nowadays downfall of man and
woman, I returned home. I lit my pipe and my memory went away to the
months of song and sunshine--one day last summer!
I had got my parcel of toys--balls and steam-engines, dolls, and funny
little wooden men that jump about when you pull the string, and
what-not. But, I had forgotten the sweets. Samuel Huggins, however, who
is licensed to sell tobacco and snuff at Hawkhurst, was the friend in
need. He filled my pockets--for a consideration. And, the fine red-brick
edifice, with clinging ivy about its walls, and known as "Babies'
Castle," came in view.
Here they are--just on their way to dinner. Look at this little fellow!
He is leading on either side a little girl and boy. The little girl is a
blind idiot, the other youngster is also blind; yet he knows every child
in the place by touch. He knew what a railway engine was. And the poor
little girl got the biggest rubber ball in the pack, and for five hours
she sat in a corner bouncing it against her forehead with her two hands.
[Illustration: "LADDIE" AND "TOMMY". _From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
Here they come--the fifty yards' race down the corridor; a dozen of the
very smallest crawling along, chuckling and screaming with excitement.
Frank leads the way. Artful Frank! He is off bottles now, but he still
has an inclination that way, and, unless his miniature friends and
acquaintances keep a sharp look-out, he annexes theirs in the twinkling
of an eye. But, then, Frank is a veritable young prize-fighter. And as
the race continues, a fine Scotch collie--Laddie--jumps and flies over
the heads of the small competitors for the first in to lunch. You don't
believe it? Look at the picture of Tommy lying down with his head
resting peacefully on Laddie. Laddie! To him the children are as lambs.
When they are gambolling in the green fields he wanders about amongst
them, and "barks" them home when the time of play is done and the hour
of prayer has come, when the little ones kneel up in their cots and put
up their small petitions.
[Illustration: EVENING PRAYER. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
Here they are in their own particular dining-room. Never were such huge
bowls of meat soup set before children. Still, they'll eat every bit,
and a sweet or two on the top of that. I asked myself a hundred times,
Can these ever have been such children as I have seen in the slums? This
is little Daisy. Her name is not the only pretty thing about her. She
has a sweet face. Daisy doesn't know it; but her mother went mad, and
Daisy was born in a lunatic asylum. Notice this young man who seems to
take in bigger spoonfuls than all the others. He's got a mouth like a
money box--open to take all he can get. But when he first came to
"Babies' Castle" he was so weak--starved in truth--that for days he was
carried about on a pillow. Another little fellow's father committed
suicide. Fail not to observe and admire the appetite of Albert Edward.
He came with no name, and he was christened so. His companions call him
"The Prince!" Yet another. This little girl's mother is to-day a
celebrated beauty--and her next-door diner was farmed out and insured.
When fourteen months old the child only weighed fourteen pounds. Every
child is a picture--the wan cheeks are no more, a rosy hue and healthy
flush are on every face.
After dinner comes the mid-day sleep of two hours.
[Illustration: THE MID-DAY SLEEP. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
[Illustration: SISTER ALICE. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
Now, I must needs creep through the bedrooms, every one of which is a
pattern of neatness. The boots and shoes are placed under the bed--not a
sound is heard. Amongst the sleepers the "Midget" is to be found. It was
the "Midget" who came in the basket from Newcastle, "with care." I had
crept through all the dormitories save one, when a sight I had not seen
in any of the others met me. It was in a double bed--the only one at
"Babies' Castle." A little boy lay sleeping by the side of a
four-year-old girl. Possibly it was my long-standing leaning over the
rails of the cot that woke the elder child. She slowly opened her eyes
and looked up at me.
[Illustration: "ANNIE'S BATH." _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
"Who are you, my little one?" I whispered.