THE DUSTMAN’S FAMILY.
Nearly three years have passed since the night of the fire at Trinity
Hall. It is a cold wintry afternoon, not a clear frost, but raw and
foggy. The ice is forming rapidly, and the costermongers are reaping a
rich harvest. All the ponds near London are centres of noisy groups of
men with carts, of all sizes and sorts, from the large two-horse vehicle
down to mere boxes upon wheels drawn by diminutive donkeys. The drivers
are striving and quarrelling, and exchanging volleys of abusive language
with each other, in their anxiety for priority of place and right of
filling their carts. Those next to the water are engaged in breaking the
ice with poles, or with iron weights attached to cords. With these they
draw the ice to the shore, pulling it up with rakes, and shovelling and
lifting it into the carts. When they are filled they drive off to
dispose of their loads to confectioners and fishmongers.
Although it is nearly dusk there are still a good many strollers by the
banks of the Serpentine looking at the state of the ice, and calculating
on the chances of skating. On the other side of the bridge, on the long
water, the ice is already strong, and will probably bear after another
night’s frost; but the Serpentine itself, from its greater breadth and
depth, is still thin in many places, and will require two or three days
more frost before it will be safe. The ice is everywhere smooth and
black, and it is agreed that if the frost holds there will be capital
skating.
Frank Maynard is walking along the side of the Serpentine with his
friend Prescott. He has been for two years upon the Continent, and this
is his first winter in England since he left college.
“It will be splendid ice for skating if the frost holds, Prescott. I
must certainly invest in a pair of new skates. I have some somewhere,
but where I have not the remotest idea. You must put by your books, and
keep me company, at any rate for a day or two.”
“I don’t think I can do that, Frank. I don’t like breaking in upon my
regular work; and, indeed, I don’t care very much for skating. It must
be very pleasant for a really good skater, who can wheel about like a
bird, and perform all those intricate figures; otherwise, especially the
first day or two of the season, it is very fatiguing and straining. If I
could put by my books for a month, I would devote myself to it with all
my heart, but for one or two days the pleasure does not pay for the
pain. Look, Frank! there is something the matter.”
A knot of people were standing together at the edge of the water,
apparently watching some small black object upon the ice, but it was
already too dusk for the friends, until they came quite close, to see
what was the matter. A small dog had run out upon the ice, which was in
most places quite strong enough to bear it, but there were many patches,
over the powerful springs which well-up in parts of the Serpentine,
where the ice had as yet formed a mere skin. On one of these treacherous
places the little animal had run, and had at once gone through. All
round it the ice was extremely thin, and, as the dog endeavoured to
scramble out, it broke under its fore-paws, until a good-sized space of
water was cleared, round which the poor little animal kept swimming. Had
it continued its efforts only in the line towards the shore, the dog
would speedily have broken its way to stronger ice. This, however, it
had not sense to do, although the men called and whistled to it, and
endeavoured in every way to encourage it to swim towards them. But the
poor thing continued swimming round and round in its narrow circle,
making occasional efforts to get out, but only falling back again, and
giving from time to time a pitiful whimper. Its mistress, a little girl
of about ten years old, was crying bitterly.
“This is very painful, Prescott,” Frank Maynard said, after looking on
for some time in silence; “the poor little brute’s cries go through me.”
“Come away, Frank,” Prescott said, turning to go. “I don’t know that I
ever saw anything more pitiful. Let us get away; it is impossible to do
anything for him.”
Frank did not move, but stood looking on irresolutely. At last he said—
“It’s no use, I can’t help it. Here, Prescott, take my coat and
waistcoat, I must go in for it.”
“Nonsense, Frank. My dear fellow, it would be madness!”
Frank paid no attention to his friend’s remonstrances, but sat down on
the gravel, and began to unlace his boots. He was however anticipated.
There was a movement among the crowd near, and a lad of about fourteen,
without jacket or boots, stepped into the water, breaking the ice as he
did so, amidst a general cheer and some few expostulations from the
crowd. Frank Maynard pushed forward impetuously to the spot.
“Can you swim well, my boy?” he asked.
“Ay,” the boy answered; “I bathe in the Serpentine every morning, winter
and summer, except when it’s frozen.”
“They’re gone to fetch the ropes,” a man said; “you had better wait till
they come back.”
“No, no,” the lad said, “it will be too late—he’s pretty nigh done
already;” and he went deeper into the water.
“That’s right, my lad,” Frank called out; “lose no time, or you will get
numbed by the cold; and don’t be afraid: if you want help, sing out, and
I will come in for you.”
Frank unlaced his boots ready to kick them off in a moment, unbuttoned
his waistcoat, handed his watch to Prescott, and stood with the rest
watching the boy’s progress.
He was swimming now. It was slow work; for as he advanced he had to
break the ice, sometimes by strokes of his arm, sometimes by trying to
get on it and breaking it with his weight. At last he reached the thin
ice. It gave way readily enough before him; he gained the little open
piece of water which the dog had made, and then turned to come back. It
had not been far, not more than twenty yards, but it had taken a long
time, and he was evidently exhausted.
“I must go in for him, or he will never get back,” Frank said, pulling
off his coat and waistcoat; but just as he was about to plunge in, there
was a shout from the bystanders, and a man came running up with a long
rope which he had fetched from the Humane Society’s house. Frank took it
from him and threw it to the boy, who caught the end, and was drawn
rapidly to the shore amidst the shouts of the crowd, the little dog
swimming behind with sharp barks of pleasure. The boy was terribly
exhausted, and it was proposed to carry him to the Society’s house; but
while the matter was being debated, he recovered himself a little, and
said—
Please would they leave him alone, he was only out of breath, and would
rather run home, for he was late already, and mother would be wondering
what had become of him.
Seeing that he really was coming round and was anxious to be off, it was
agreed to let him have his way. Two men accordingly chafed his arms and
hands. When the circulation was restored, his jacket was put on him, and
his hands encased in a pair of warm woollen gloves, sizes too large for
him, the gift of one of the lookers-on. In the meantime another of the
bystanders took off his hat, and went round among the crowd. He speedily
collected a goodly number of halfpence, sixpences, and shillings, and a
few half-crowns; Frank dropping in a sovereign for himself and Prescott.
By the time that the boy had finished his toilet, such as it was, and
had pronounced himself “all right,” the man came up with the amount
collected.
The boy opened his eyes in astonishment. “Is all this for me?”
“Yes, my boy, and you deserve it well.”
“But I did not do it for money,” he said; “I only did it because I could
not bear to hear the dog yelp so.”
“We know that, my lad,” Frank said; “and this money is not to pay you,
but only to show you how pleased we all are with your pluck. You are a
brave little fellow. What is your name? and where do you live? for I
should like to see if anything can be done for you.”
“My name is Evan Holl, sir; and I live in Moor Street, Knightsbridge.”
“I shall not forget you,” Frank said; “there, run along now, and don’t
stop till you get home.”
While they had been speaking, the man who had collected the money had
with difficulty put it into the pockets of the boy’s wet trousers, for
his hands were quite useless in the big gloves in which they were
enveloped.
“Thank you all kindly,” the boy said, when the man had finished; and was
preparing to start at a run, when he exclaimed, “But where is my tray?”
“Here it is, please,” the child to whom the dog belonged said; “you gave
it to me to keep; and, oh, I am so much obliged to you, and so is
Bobby.”
And here Bobby, who had up to this time been shaking himself, frisking
and yelping in the most outrageous way, came up and began to jump upon
Evan, in evident token of his gratitude.
The tray which the child brought up, was a small wooden one, apparently
at some time or other the lid of a box. In it were arranged sticks of
peppermint, bullseyes, and brandyballs, in which, during cold weather,
Evan drove a brisk trade on the ice. The contents were hastily tumbled
into a tin box, in which he carried them when not exposed for sale, and
with another “Thank you kindly,” the boy started at a run, and was soon
lost in the darkness. This, in the ten minutes which the incident had
occupied, had closed in rapidly, and the little crowd by the waterside
speedily dispersed, talking over the adventure.
Evan Holl continued running, slowly at first, for he was numbed and cold
to the bones, but gradually, as the blood began to circulate, at a
quicker pace. So along by the end of the Serpentine, across Rotten Row,
empty and deserted now, through the narrow alley by the side of the
barracks into the main road, and then down by the cabstand into
Knightsbridge.
Knightsbridge may be described geographically as the region bounded on
the north by Hyde Park, on the east by Apsley House and St. George’s
Hospital, and on the west by Brompton and the cavalry barracks; on the
south-east by Wilton Crescent and Lowndes Square, and on the south-west
by an unknown region of misery and want. A vast tide of traffic runs
through it, formed by the junction of three considerable streams. Two of
these are from the west; the one rises in the distant region of Richmond
and Brentford, and increases greatly in magnitude by tributaries at
Hammersmith and Kensington; the other has its source at Putney, but
receives its chief addition in its course through Brompton. The third
stream comes north from Chelsea, and is poured in by Sloane Street. This
great tide commences early, and sets eastward with great violence during
the early part of the day, beginning to ebb at about two o’clock, and
running west till past midnight, after which it may be said to be slack
tide until morning.
The stream which flows in at Sloane Street divides Knightsbridge into
two portions, differing more entirely in habits, manners, and almost in
language, than perhaps any similar division which could be cited. St.
George’s Channel, or even the Straits of Dover, do not separate peoples
more alien in every thought and action than does Sloane Street. It is,
as it were, the great gulf which divides wealth and luxury from poverty
and want.
Eastward are splendid shops, with their plate glass windows, filled with
costly and elegant objects. Long lines of carriages wait in front of
them, while their owners expend sums which would appear fabulous to the
inhabitants of the western side. On that side are small shops crowded
together, as if jostling for room, filled with the necessaries of life
for the working classes. Their customers do not arrive in carriages,
but, hurry up from obscure alleys behind, hastily make their little
purchases and are gone. At no time of the week is this difference so
strongly marked as on a Saturday evening.
Eastward the grand shops are all closed, their customers are at dinner
or the opera, and their owners off to their snug suburban villas till
Monday.
Westward the flood of business is at its highest. The bakers’ shops are
so piled with bread that it seems a wonder where it can all go to, but
they will be nearly empty by to-night. The grocers’ windows are filled
with sugar and tea, with the prices marked on tickets of gaudy colours,
with the pennies marvellously large, and the farthings microscopically
small. At the doors of the greengrocers are huge baskets heaped with
potatoes and vegetables. All are full of a noisy busy crowd of
purchasers.
Across the pathway are the stalls of the itinerant vendors, lit by
candles in paper lanterns. Wonderful are these, too, in their way—piles
of vegetables, so large that it is a marvel how the decrepit old women
who look after the stalls ever got them there; book-stalls and
picture-stalls; men with barrows covered with toys of every conceivable
description, and all at one penny; men with trays of sweetmeats and
lollipops of the most tempting shapes and colours; men with yards of
songs, and packets of infallible shaving paste; and men selling twenty
articles, among which is a gold wedding-ring, for one penny;—all alike
shouting at the top of their voices, and expatiating on the merits of
their goods, and all surrounded by a gaping crowd, consisting, of
course, chiefly of boys.
At some of these, wet as he was, Evan Holl stopped for a minute. Had it
not been for the thick gloves, and the tray and tin box under his arm,
he would have certainly expended a penny or two among all this tempting
display. As it was, after a brief pause, he hurried on past the bright
shops, and the crowded stalls, and the butchers’ shops with their great
gaslights flaring out, and the women bargaining for their Sunday dinner.
He then turned down beneath an archway, and was soon in the labyrinth of
small streets lying behind this part of Knightsbridge. Now he has left
the whirl and confusion of business behind him; he is among the homes of
the poor. All is quiet here. The children are indoors or in bed, the
mothers, mostly, are doing their shopping. A few men stand about at
their doors, smoke long pipes, and chat with their neighbours. Here and
there the sounds of singing and noise come through the windows of small
public-houses. At the doors of these, perhaps, pale women, in thin torn
clothes, stand waiting anxiously; entering timidly sometimes, hanging on
already half-drunken husbands, and begging them to come home ere their
pay is all spent. Poor things! well may they persist, for on their
success depends whether they and their children shall have food for the
next week or not. They must not care for curses or an occasional blow,
they are accustomed to that, it is for them a battle of life, they must
win or starve. Through all this Evan Holl goes. He takes but little
notice of it; not that he is hard-hearted, as he has but now
sufficiently proved; but he is used to it, and knows that it will be on
a Saturday night. A few more steps and he is home.
A shout greets his arrival, and some of the children, of whom there are
several in the room, run up to relieve him of his tray, but fall back
again with the exclamation, “Why, Evan, you are all wet!”
“Wet!” Mrs. Holl said, hurrying up. “Drat the boy! what has he been
after now?”
“It is all right, mother; you just wait till I get these things off my
hands; why, my pocket is full of money.”
“Bless us and save us!” Mrs. Holl ejaculated; and then, maternal
solicitude triumphing even over curiosity, “Never mind that now, Evan;
why you are dripping wet, and your teeth are all of a chatter; what on
earth have you been doing with yourself?”
“I have been in the Serpentine, mother.”
“Mercy’s sake!” Mrs. Holl exclaimed, “the boy’s mad! There, go upstairs
and take off your clothes, and get into bed at once.”
Evan did as he was told, as far as going upstairs was concerned, but he
only changed his things, and came down again.
His mother, had it been her nature, would have been really angry when
she saw him reappear, but as it was not, she contented herself by
telling him he was a wilful lad. She then bade him sit down by the fire,
and drink some hot beer, with sugar and ginger in it, which she had
prepared for him while he was upstairs; giving him strict orders not to
speak a word till he had finished it, and was quite warm again. Evan
accordingly drank his beer, not hurrying over it, but pretending it was
too hot to drink fast; amusing himself with the openly expressed
impatience of the other children, who were eagerly watching him, and by
the less openly betrayed, but not less real curiosity of Mrs. Holl, who
kept bustling about the room in apparent unconcern, but really just as
anxious as the others to know what had befallen him. Mrs. Holl’s family
is evidently a large one, for there are four or five now in the room,
while occasionally a wail from above proclaims that there is at least
one little one up there. They are all healthy looking and clean, and
their clothes are tidy and carefully mended. The room itself looks
bright and cheerful. It is low and whitewashed, and ornamented by sundry
pictures in varnished frames, principally brightly-coloured prints. The
one in the place of honour over the chimney-piece represents a youth in
an impossible attitude, and a Scotch plaid of an unknown clan, beneath a
greenwood-tree, bidding farewell to a florid young woman, with feathers
in her hair; she is attired in a white dress with Tartan scarf of the
most brilliant hues.
There is a large chest of drawers, black with age, which serves also the
purpose of a sideboard; many queer little mugs and ornaments of various
sorts and colours stand upon it, and behind them is a large japanned
waiter with gaudy flowers.
The irons and tins and candlesticks suspended from nails in the wall, or
standing on the chimney-piece, shine till one can see one’s face in
them; so do the dark arm-chair and table, and so does the old oak
settle, in which Evan is sitting by the fire.
Before Evan commenced his story, Mr. Holl came in, and in the pleasure
which his advent occasions all thought of Evan is for a time lost, and
he gives up the post of honour by the fire to his father. John Holl is a
dustman, and is a sober and industrious man. He has his peculiarities—as
who has not?—but he is a good husband and father, as it is easy to see
by the pleasure with which his return is greeted. He is a short, stoutly
built man, with shoulders rounded from carrying heavy baskets up area
stairs, and his legs are bowed and clumsy. John Holl earns good wages,
for he has many a sixpence given him in the course of the day, and he
has no need to spend money on beer, for he gets plenty of that in the
discharge of his avocation.
Mother is hurrying about now, laying the cloth for supper, and taking
the pot containing potatoes, which form the staple of that repast, off
the fire, where they have been for some time boiling and bubbling.
Mrs. Holl goes out charing; she is a large woman with a hoarse voice,
and her hand is clumsy and hard, from washing and scrubbing and
polishing. She has a heavy tread, and is considered by the servants
generally at the houses where she works to be a low person. Perhaps she
is, but her heart is in the right place. She is a true, kind-hearted,
tender woman; a very rough diamond truly, badly cut and displayed to the
worst possible advantage, but a real stone of the first water for all
that. She is a foolish person too, for as if her own children were not
enough for her to love and work for, she has adopted and brought up an
orphan, who had none else to care for it, and must have otherwise been
taken to the workhouse. But, in spite of her folly, her neighbours like
her for it, and in their little ways assist her, take the young ones
between them when she goes out charing, and help her a bit with her
washing.
Mrs. Holl can neither read nor write herself, but she wants all her
children to be able to do so. She has managed to pay for their schooling
at the national schools, and has quite a respect for their learning. She
listens with breathless delight and interest of an evening while they
read aloud by turns from that exciting periodical, the Red Handed Robber
of the Black Forest, published weekly at one penny, and to be completed
in one hundred and twenty numbers.
Until Mrs. Holl had placed the large dish of steaming potatoes on the
table, she was too much absorbed in her occupation to give a thought to
any other subject. But just as she had done so, John Holl, who had
several times taken his pipe from his mouth, and looked round in a
puzzled way, said, “It is very strange, Sairey, but it seems to me just
as if some one had been a drinking of spiced beer. Don’t take it amiss,
old woman, I don’t mean to say that I think you have been a drinking of
it, for you’re not that sort. Still there is something that smells
uncommon like spiced beer.”
“Bless me,” Mrs. Holl said, “what a head I have got, to be sure! I do
declare I have not told you a word about it, for it slipped clean out of
my mind. You are quite right, John, you do smell spiced beer, for Evan
has been drinking it. The boy has been in the Serpentine, and came home
that wet you could have squeezed the water out of him by the pailful.”
“In the Serpentine!” John Holl exclaimed; “I heard that the ice was too
thin to think of going on it. Why, Evan, that was not like you, not a
bit, you are generally steady enough. How did you get in? Some foolery,
I’ll wager a pot of beer.”
In answer to this appeal from his father, Evan related what had
happened; the others gathering round him, and the young ones even
leaving off eating their supper to listen, and breaking in with many
exclamations of astonishment as he proceeded.
“It was very wrong, Evan,” his mother said, “you might have got yourself
drownded, and what should we have said then? Why, Lor, you might have
gone under the ice, and we should never have known nothing about what
had become of you, till they brought your tray of lollipops home. That
would be all we should have had left of you. What should we have done?”
Mrs. Holl began to weep aloud at the picture she had raised; the younger
children immediately followed her example, and required so much
pacifying that it was some time before quiet was restored.
“Lor bless you, mother,” Evan said, “there is no call to take on about
it. I was not going to get drowned close to the shore; besides, there
was a gentleman, who got ready to come in for me, if I had sung out for
help; and he would have done it too. I could see he meant it.”
“It were a risky job,” John Holl said; “a plaguy risky job. I ain’t
going for to say as you are altogether wrong, Evan, but it were
certainly risky.”
“You were quite right, Evan,” a voice said warmly, “quite right, and I
would give a good deal, if I had it, to have been in your place, and to
have done something one could look back with pleasure upon, if only for
once in my life.”
The speaker was a lad of about seventeen, who has not yet been
described, and yet he was of all these the person who would have first
fixed the attention of any incomer.
He sat on the opposite side of the fire to John Holl, in a sort of box
with high wheels to it; by turning these he moved himself about the
room. He had a very intelligent face, thoughtful but not sad. His
shoulders and the upper part of his body were straight and well
developed, and his arms strong and nervous; down to his waist he was a
fine well-formed figure, but below he was a helpless cripple. He had
been injured as a child, his legs had lost all power, and had become
perfectly drawn up and useless. He was a sad spectacle, and yet he was
not unhappy, and by the little attentions which the children showed him
it was easy to see how great a favourite he was with them. Evan now
produced a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, in which he had put his
money, and unfolded it and exhibited the store.
It was emptied on to the table, among the shouts of the children, who
evidently considered that their brother had become the possessor of
boundless riches, and indulged in all sorts of surmises as to what would
be done with all this wealth, while Evan counted up the amount. There
were twenty-five shillings in silver and copper, and the sovereign Frank
Maynard had put in—two pounds five in all.
Having counted it, Evan again took it up and brought it to his father,
but John Holl put it aside. “No, lad, the money is thine, you have
fairly earned it, and it is yours to do as you like with. Don’t fool it
away, and think well over everything before you spend it. You are
getting too old for your tray now; with that you might buy a good
barrow, and do a great deal better; but there’s time enough for that.
Give it to mother; she will take care of it for you, and you have but to
go to her when you want it.”
And so it was arranged; and then Mrs. Holl took the young ones off to
bed, whither the elders followed them very soon after.