PART I.

A STRANGE EVENT OCCURS IN STONEY-ALLEY.

HOW SHE ACQUIRED THE NAME OF BLADE-O'-GRASS.

THE LEGEND OF THE TIGER.

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

MR. MERRYWHISTLE RELIEVES HIMSELF ON THE SUBJECT OF

INDISCRIMINATE CHARITY.

MRS. SILVER'S HOME.

MR. MERRYWHISTLE MEETS THE QUEER LITTLE OLD MAN.

JIMMY VIRTUE INTRODUCES MR. MERRYWHISTLE TO HIS PLACE

OF BUSINESS.

THE STRANGE IDEA OF HALLELUJAH ENTERTAINED BY BLADE-O'-GRASS.

THE INTERLUDE.

PART II.

THE PRISON WALL.

ONE OF MANY HAPPY NIGHTS.

FACE TO FACE--SO LIKE, YET SO UNLIKE.

ROBERT TRUEFIT ALLOWS HIS FEELINGS TO MASTER HIM.

TOO LATE.

HELP THE POOR.

GOLDEN GRAIN.

I. THROUGH COUNTRY ROADS TO SOME GREEN PLEASANT SPOT.

II. THANK GOD FOR A GOOD BREAKFAST!

III. THEY LISTENED WITH ALMOST BREATHLESS ATTENTION TO EVERY WORD

THAT FELL FROM HER LIPS.

IV. FOR MERCY'S SAKE, TELL ME! WHOSE VOICE WAS IT I HEARD JUST NOW?

V. YOU'RE A PARSON, SIR, AND I PUT IT TO YOU. WHAT DO _YOU_ SAY TO

PARTING MOTHER AND CHILD?

VI. FOR THESE AND SUCH AS THESE.

VII. HEALTHY BODY MAKES HEALTHY MIND.

VIII. THIS 'ERE FREE AND 'LIGHTENED COUNTRY OF OUR'N'S CRAMMED FULL

O' TEMPLES O' LIBERTY.

IX. OPEN YOUR EYES, BABY! SPEAK TO ME! LOOK AT MOTHER, MY LIFE!

X. NO, NO! BORN IN LOVE! IN LOVE!

XI. ONCE UPON A TIME THERE LIVED ON AN ISLAND----

XII. IN THE DIM TWILIGHT OF THAT HOLY DAY.

XIII. HIS SOUL IS IN YOUR HANDS TO SAVE AND PURIFY!

XIV. IT IS SUNRISE. A GOLDEN MIST IS RISING FROM THE WATERS.

XV. FAIRHAVEN.

BREAD AND CHEESE AND KISSES.

Introduction.

PART I.

COME AND SHOW YOUR FACE, LIKE A MAN!

AND SO THE LAD GOES ON WITH HIS BESSIE AND HIS BESSIE, UNTIL ONE

WOULD THINK HE HAS NEVER A MOTHER IN THE WORLD.

YOU WORE ROSES THEN, MOTHER.

IF I DID NOT LOVE HER, I WOULD NOT GO AWAY.

WITH THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR, BEGIN A NEW LIFE.

DEAR LOVE, GOOD-BYE.

TOTTIE IS READY TO TEAR OLD BEN SPARROW LIMB FROM LIMB.

HERE AND THERE ARE FORGET-ME-NOTS.

BATTLEDOOR AND SHUTTLECOCK.

TOTTIE'S DREAM.

I CAN SEE YOU NOW, KISSING HER LITTLE TOES.

ONE KISS FOR HOPE, ONE FOR FAITH, AND ONE FOR LOVE.

YOU ALONE, AND MY MOTHER, ARE TRUE; ALL THE REST OF THE

WORLD IS FALSE.

PART II.

THEY SAW, UPON ONE OF THE NEAREST PEAKS, A MAN STANDING, WITH

SUNSET COLOURS ALL AROUND HIM.

MORE PRECIOUS THAN GOLD, PURER THAN DIAMONDS, ARE THESE SWEET

AND DELICATE WAYS.

PART III.

I HAVE COME TO RETURN YOU SOMETHING.

WELL, MOTHER, DO YOU WANT ANY WASHING DONE?

THE MAN IN POSSESSION.

SOFTLY, SWEETLY, PROCEEDS THE HYMN OF HOME.

[Frontispiece: "She grew to love these emerald leaves."]

_CHRISTMAS STORIES_.

* * * * *

BLADE-O'-GRASS. GOLDEN GRAIN.

AND

BREAD AND CHEESE AND KISSES.

BY

B. L. FARJEON,

AUTHOR OF

"GRIF," "JOSHUA MARVEL," AND "LONDON'S HEART."

* * * * *

LONDON:

TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.

1874.

[_All Rights reserved_.]

BLADE-O'-GRASS.

By B. L. FARJEON,

AUTHOR OF 'GRIF' and 'JOSHUA MARVEL.'

[Illustration]

INTRODUCTION.

STONEY-ALLEY.

[Illustration]

In the heart of a very maze of courts and lanes Stoney-alley proclaims

itself. It is one of multitude of deformed thoroughfares, which are

huddled together--by whim, or caprice, or in mockery--in a populous

part of the City, in utter defiance of all architectural rules. It is

regarded as an incontrovertible law, that everything must have a

beginning; and Stoney-alley could not have been an exception to this

law. It is certain that the alley and its surrounding courts and lanes

must once upon a time have been a space where houses were not; where,

perhaps, trees grew, and grass, and flowers. But it is difficult to

imagine; more difficult still to imagine how they were commenced, and

by what gradual means one wretched thoroughfare was added to another,

until they presented themselves to the world in the shapes and forms

they now bear; resembling an ungainly body with numerous limbs, every

one of which is twisted and deformed. Easier to fancy that they and

all the life they bear sprang up suddenly and secretly one dark night,

when Nature was in a sullen mood; and that being where they are,

firmly rooted, they have remained, unchangeable and unchanging, from

generation to generation. Records exist of fair islands rising from

the sea, clothed with verdure and replete with animal fife; but this

is the bright aspect of phenomena which are regarded as delusions by

many sober persons. Putting imagination aside, therefore, as a thing

of small account in these days (if only for the purpose of satisfying

unbelievers), and coming to plain matter of fact, it is not to be

doubted that Stoney-alley and its fellows grew upon earth's surface,

and did sot spring up, ready-made, from below--although, truth to

tell, it was worthy of such a creation. In the natural course of

things, the neighbourhood must have had architects and builders; but

no record of them is extant, and none is necessary for the purposes of

this story. Sufficient that Stoney-alley rears its ugly body--though

lowly withal--in the very heart of London, and that it may be seen any

day in the week in its worst aspect. It has no other: it is always at

its worst.

Out of it crawl, from sunrise until midnight, men and women, who, when

they emerge into the wide thoroughfare which may be regarded as its

parent, not uncommonly pause for a few moments, or shade their eyes

with their hands, or look about them strangely, as if they have

received a surprise, or as if the different world in which they find

themselves requires consideration. Into it crawl, from sunrise until

midnight, the same men and women, who, it may be observed, draw their

breath more freely when they are away from the wide thoroughfares, and

who plunge into Stoney-alley as dusty, heat-worn travellers might

plunge into a refreshing bath, where the cool waters bring relief to

the parched skin. What special comfort these men and women find there,

would be matter for amazement to hundreds of thousands of other men

and women whose ways of life, happily, lie in pleasanter places. But

Stoney-alley, to these crawlers, is Home.

Its houses could never have been bright; its pavements and roads--for

it has those, though rough specimens, like their treaders--could never

have been fresh. Worn-out stones and bricks, having served their time

elsewhere and been cashiered, were probably brought into requisition

here to commence a new and unclean life. No cart had ever been seen in

Stoney-alley: it was too narrow for one. A horse had once lived

there--a spare sad blind horse belonging to a costermonger, who worked

his patient servant sixteen hours a-day, and fed it upon Heaven knows

what. It was a poor patient creature; and as it trudged along, with

its head down, it seemed by its demeanour to express an understanding

of its meanness. That it was blind may have been a merciful

dispensation; for, inasmuch as we do not know for certain whether such

beasts can draw comparisons as well as carts, it may have been spared

the pangs of envy and bitterness, which it might have experienced at

the sight of the well-fed horses that passed it on the road. It was as

thin as a live horse well could be--so thin, that a cat might have

been forgiven for looking at it with contempt, as being likely to

serve no useful purpose after its worldly trudgings were ended. Its

mane was the raggedest mane that ever was seen; and it had no tail.

What of its hair had not been appropriated by its master the

costermonger, had been plucked out ruthlessly, from time to time, by

sundry boys and girls in Stoney-alley--being incited thereto by an

ingenious youth, who plaited the horsehair into watchguards, and who

paid his young thieves in weak liquorice-water, at the rate of a

teaspoonful for every dozen hairs--long ones--from the unfortunate

horse's tail. For years had this poor beast been wont to stumble over

the stones in Stoney-alley when its day's work was over, and wait like

a human being before its master's house for the door to open--rubbing

its nose gently up and down the panels when a longer delay than usual

occurred. The door being opened, it used to enter the narrow passage,

and fill the house with thunderous sound as it walked into a little

dirty yard, where a few charred boards (filched from a fire) had been

tacked together in the form of a shed, which offered large hospitality

to wind and rain. In this shed the wretched beast took its ease and

enjoyed its leisure, and died one night so quietly and unexpectedly,

that the costermonger, when he learnt the fact in the morning, cursed

it for an ungrateful 'warmint,' and declared that if his dumb servant

had yesterday shown any stronger symptoms of dying than it had usually

exhibited, he would have sold it for 'two-pun-ten to Jimmy the

Tinman.' So deeply was he impressed by the ingratitude of the animal,

that he swore he would have nothing more to do with the breed; and he

bought a donkey--a donkey with such a vicious temper, and such an

obstinate disposition, that the costermonger, in his endeavours to

render it submissive, became as fond of it as if it were one of his

own kindred, and soon grew to treat it in exactly the same manner as

he treated his wife. It would have been difficult, indeed, to decide

which was the more important creature of the two--the wife or the

donkey; for on two distinct occasions the costermonger was summoned

before magistrate--once for ill-treating his wife, and once for

ill-treating his donkey--and the sentence pronounced on each occasion

was precisely the same. It may be noted as a curious contrast

(affording no useful lesson that I am aware of), that when the

costermonger came out of prison for ill-treating his wife, he went

home and beat the poor creature unmercifully, who sat sobbing her

heart out in a corner the while; and that when he came out of prison

for ill-treating his donkey, he went into the rickety shed in his

back-yard and belaboured the obstinate brute with a heavy stick. But

the donkey, cunning after its kind, watched its opportunity, and gave

the costermonger such a spiteful kick, that he walked lame for three

months afterwards.

It would be unfair to the costermonger not to state, that he was not

the only husband in those thoroughfares who was in the habit of

beating his wife. He was but one of a very numerous Brute family, in

whose breasts mercy finds no dwelling-place, and who marry and bring

up children in their own form and likeness, morally as well as

physically. It is to be lamented that, when the inhumanity of the

members of this prolific family is brought before the majesty of the

law for judgment--as is done every day of our lives--the punishment

meted out is generally light and insignificant as compared to the

offence. Yet it may be answered, that these wife-beaters and general

Brutes were children once; and the question may be asked, Whether,

taking into consideration that no opportunity was offered to them of

acquiring a knowledge of a better condition of things, they are fully

responsible for their actions now that they are men? We wage war

against savage beasts for our own protection. But how about savage

men, who might have been taught better--who might have been humanised?

We press our thumb upon them, and make laws to punish the exercise of

their lawless passions. But have they no case against us? Is all the

right on our side, and all the wrong on theirs? That the problem is an

old one, is the more to be lamented; every year, nay, every hour, its

roots are striking deeper and deeper into the social stratum. The

proverb, 'when things are quiet, let them be quiet,' is a bad proverb,

like many others which are accepted as wisdom's essence. Not by a

man's quiet face, but by his busy brain and heart, do we judge him. If

there be benevolence in statesmanship, the problem should be

considered in its entirety, without delay. By and by it may be too

late.

PART I.

A STRANGE EVENT OCCURS IN STONEY-ALLEY.

Delicate feather-flakes of snow were floating gently down over all the

City. In some parts the snow fell white and pure, and so remained for

many hours. In other parts, no sooner did it reach the ground than it

was converted into slush--losing its purity, and becoming instantly

defiled. This was its fate in Stoney-alley; yet even there, as it

rested upon the roofs and eaves, it was fresh and beautiful for a

time. In which contrasted aspects a possible suggestion might arise of

the capability of certain things for grace and holiness, if they are

not trodden into the mire.

An event had just occurred in Stoney-alley which was the occasion of

much excitement. This was nothing more or less than the birth of

twin-girls in one of the meanest houses in the alley. The mother, a

poor sickly woman, whose husband had deserted her, was so weakened and

prostrated by her confinement, and by the want of nourishing food,

that she lived but a dozen days after the birth of her babes. No one

knew where the father was; he and his wife had not lived long in the

neighbourhood, and what was known of him was not to his credit,

although with a certain class he was not unpopular. He was lazy, surly

fellow, who passed his waking hours in snarling at the better

condition of things by which he was surrounded. The sight of carriage

made his blood boil with envy; notwithstanding which he took delight

in walking in the better thoroughfares of the City, and feeding his

soul with the bitter sight of well-dressed people and smiling faces.

Then he would come back to his proper home, and snarl at society to

pot-house audiences, and in his own humble room would make his unhappy

wife unhappier by his reviling and discontent He called himself

working-man, but had as much right to the title as the vagabond-beggar

who, dressed in broadcloth, is wheeled about in an easy-chair, in the

West-end of London, and who (keeping a sharp look-out for the police

the while) exhibits placard proclaiming himself to be a respectable

commercial traveller, who has lost the use of his limbs. He traded

upon the title, however, and made some little money out of it, hoping

by and by to make more, when he had become sufficiently notorious as a

public agitator. In the mean time, he (perhaps out of revenge upon

society) deserted his wife when she was near her confinement, and left

her to the mercy of strangers. She could not very well have fared

worse than she did in that tender charge. She bore two babes, and died

without a sign.

The mother was buried the day before Christmas, and the babes were

left to chance charity. There were many women lodgers in the house in

which the twin-girls had been born; but not one of them was rich

enough to take upon herself the encumbrance of two such serious

responsibilities. The station-house was spoken of, the Foundling, the

workhouse; but not a soul was daring enough to carry out one of the

suggestions. This arose from a fear of consequences--in the shape

perhaps of an acknowledged personal responsibility, which might prove

troublesome in the event of the station-house, the workhouse, or the

Foundling refusing to take charge of the infants. Moses in the

bulrushes was not in a worse plight than these unfortunate babes in

Stoney-alley.

What on earth was to be done with them? Every person in the house

might get into trouble, if they were left to die. The house, small as

it was, accommodated five or six distinct families--each occupying

room--in addition to two bachelors--one a vagrant, the other hawker in

cheap glassware. These last could not be expected to assume the

slightest shadow of responsibility. At length, a bright idea struck a

charitable woman in the house. Armed only with calico apron with a

large bib and an immense pocket in front (like stomacher), the

charitable soul went about to solicit contributions in aid of the

infants. As she walked round and about the narrow alleys and courts,

soliciting from everybody, she made quite a stir in the neighbourhood

by the vigorous manner in which she rattled the coppers in her

capacious pocket. A great many gave, farthings and halfpence being in

the ascendant--the largest contribution being given by the bachelor

vagrant above mentioned, who gave twopence with the air of a

gentleman--better still, with the true spirit of one; for he gave more

than he could afford, and took no glory to himself for the action.

Attracted by the rattle of the coppers, a singular-looking little man,

with a shrivelled face, came to the door of his shop, and was

instantly accosted by the kindhearted soul.

'_You'll_ give a copper or two, I know, Mr. Virtue,' said the woman.

'Then you know more than I do,' replied the man. 'I don't give. I

lend.'

'What'll you lend on 'em, then?' asked the woman good-humouredly.

'Lend on what?'

'On the poor little twins that was born in our house a fortnight ago?'

'O, that's what you're up to,' exclaimed the man, whose eyes were the

most extraordinary pair that ever were seen in human face--for one was

as mild as London milk, and the other glared like fury. 'That's what

you're up to. Collectin' for them brats afore they learn to tell lies

for theirselves.'

'They're as sweet a pair as ever you see,' said the woman. 'Just give

it a thought, Mr. Virtue; you're a man o' sense----'

'Yah!' from the man, in the most contemptuous of tones, and with the

fiercest of glares from his furious eye.

'There they are, without mother, as 'elpless as 'elpless can be,'

persisted the woman, with wonderful display of cheerfulness. 'Come,

now, you'll give a copper although you _do_ look so grumpy.'

The cynic turned into his dark shop at this last appeal, but as he

turned a penny dropped from his pocket. The woman picked it up with a

pleasant laugh, and adding it to her store proceeded on her charitable

mission. But industrious and assiduous as she was, the sum-total

collected was very small; about sufficient to keep the infants for

half a week. The kindhearted woman took the babes, and nursed them

_pro tem_. She had a family of dirty children of her own, who were

bringing themselves up in the gutters; for she could not attend to

them, so fully was her time occupied in other ways. She could not,

therefore, be expected to take permanent charge of the motherless

babes. And so her husband told her, grumblingly, when he came home

from his work on Christmas-eve. All that she said was, 'Poor little

things!' and fell to--rough as she was--detecting imaginary beauties

in the babies' faces--a common trick of mothers, which no man can

afford to be cross with, especially in his own wife, and the woman who

has borne him children.

'Can't put 'em out in the cold, the pretty dears!' said the woman

tenderly.

'We've got enough of our own,' responded her husband not unkindly, and

yet with a certain firmness; 'and there's more coming--worse luck!'

But these last two words he said beneath his breath, and his wife did

not hear them.

'All the more reason for being kind to these,' said the woman.

'They'll be handsome girls when they grow up. Look'ee here, Sam, this

one's got a dimple, just like--like----' Her voice trailed off softly,

and her husband knew that she was thinking of their first-born, that

had lived but a few weeks.

I am aware that it is the fashion with a large class to regard the

portrayal of sentiment among very common people as fanciful and untrue

to nature. I differ from this class, I am glad to say. True love for

women, and true tenderness for children, are common to all of us,

whether high or low. Cynics cannot alter what is natural--in others.

The man felt kindly towards his wife and the babes, but he was not at

all inclined to saddle himself with a couple of ready-made infants. He

saw, however, that his wife was in a foolishly tender mood, and he let

the subject drop for the present.

It may have been eight o'clock in the white night, and the bright snow

was still falling like feathers from angels' wings, when at the door

of the house in which the twins had been born and the mother had died,

a lady and gentleman stopped, and, obtaining entrance, asked for the

landlady. Unmistakably lady and gentleman, though plainly dressed. Not

highly born, but as truly lady and gentleman as the best in the land.

They were strangers to the landlady of the house; but she rose the

instant they entered her apartment, and remained standing during the

interview.

'We have to apologise for this intrusion,' commenced the lady, in a

gentle voice; 'but although we are strangers to you, we are not here

out of rudeness.'

'I'm sure of that, ma'am,' replied the landlady, dusting two chairs

with her apron. 'Will you and the gentleman take a seat?'

'This is my husband,' said the lady, seating herself. 'Every year, on

the anniversary of this evening, with the exception of last year, we

have been in the habit of coming to some such place as this, where

only poor people live----'

'Ah, you may say that, ma'am! The poorest!'

----'It is so, unfortunately. God help them! Every year until the last

we have been in the habit of coming to some such place in furtherance

of a scheme--a whim, perhaps, you'll call it--the development of which

gives us the chief pleasure of our lives. We have no family of our

own, no children that can properly call me mother and my husband

father; so every year we adopt one and bring it up. We have six now,

as many as we have been able to keep; for last year we lost part of

our means through unwise speculation, for which I and my husband were

equally to blame----'

'I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am,' interposed the landlady

sympathisingly, standing in an attentive attitude, with the corner of

her apron between her fingers.

'And having as many little responsibilities on us as our means would

enable us to take proper care of, we were unable to add another to our

family of little ones. But this year a fortunate thing has occurred to

us. A kind friend has placed a small sum at our disposal, which will

enable us to take a seventh child, and rear it in comfort and

respectability.'

'And a lucky child that seventh 'ull be,' remarked the landlady. 'I'm

a seventh child myself, and so was my mother before me, and we was

both born on a 7th.'

The lady smiled, and continued,

'Every child we have is an orphan, without father or mother, which we

believe to be necessary for the proper furtherance of our scheme. We

feed them and nourish them properly--indeed, as if they were really

our own--and when they are old enough, they will be put to some

respectable occupation, which will render them independent of the

world. Among the many poor children round about here, do you know of

one who, having no natural protectors, would be bettered by coming

under our charge? These letters will satisfy you of our fitness for

the task, and that we are in earnest.'

'Lord bless me!' exclaimed the landlady, impelled to that exclamation

by sudden thought of the twins upstairs, and not casting a glance at

the papers which were placed in her hands. 'You don't mean what you

say?'

'Indeed, we do. You will be kind enough to understand that we do not

desire to take a child who has parents living, but one whom hard

circumstance has placed in the world friendless and alone. These poor

courts and alleys abound in children----'

'Ah, that they do; and a nice pest they are, a many on 'em. They're as

thick as fleas.'

----'And at this season it is good to think of them, and to try to do

some little thing in their behalf. It is but little that we can

do--very, very little. Do you know of such a child as we seek for

now?'

'A girl?

'A girl or boy.'

'God Almighty bless you, ma'am!' cried the landlady. 'Stop here

minute, and I'll let you know.'

[Illustration]

She ran in haste upstairs to where her kind-hearted lodger was nursing

the twins.

'I beg you a thousand pardons, Mrs. Manning,' she said, panting, 'and

you too, Mr. Manning, and I wish you a merry Christmas, and many on

'em! I'm that out of breath and that astonished, that I don't know if

I'm on my head or my heels. Stay a minute, my good souls; I'll be back

in a jiffey.'

With that, she ran out of the room and downstairs, to assure herself

that her visitors had not flown, or that she had not been dreaming.

Having satisfied herself she ran upstairs again, and sat down, in

more panting state than before.

'I thought I was dreaming, and that they was apparitions.' she gasped.

Mr. Manning, being one of those Englishmen who look upon their

habitations as their castles, was inclined to resent these intrusions.

Unconsciously throwing a large amount of aggressiveness in his tone

and manner, he asked his landlady if he owed her any rent, and

received for answer, No, that he didn't, and the expression of a wish

that everybody was like him in this respect.

'Very well, then,' said Mr. Manning, not at all mollified by the

landlady's compliment, and speaking so surlily that (as the landlady

afterwards said, in relating the circumstance) if it had not been for

her being out of breath and for thinking of those two precious babes,

he would have 'put her back up' there and then; 'if I don't owe you

anything, what do you mean by coming bouncing into my room in this

manner?'

'I asks your pardon,' said the landlady, with dignity; but instantly

softening as she thought of her visitors down-stairs; 'but you've got

a 'art in your bosom, and you've got the feelings of a father. The

long and the short of it is'----and here she proceeded to explain the

visit she had had, and the object of her visitors. 'Ah, Mr. Manning,'

she continued, following the direction of his eyes towards the two

babes lying in his wife's lap, 'you've got the same idea as I had in

coming up here. Here's these two blessed babes, with no mother, and no

father to speak of; for I don't believe he'll ever turn up. What's to

become of 'em? Who's to take care of 'em? I'm sure you can't.'

'No, that I can't; and don't intend to.'

'And no one expects you, sir. You've got a big-enough family of your

own. Well, here's this lady and gentleman setting downstairs this

blessed minute as wants a child, and as'll do what's right and proper

by it.'

'But there's a pair of 'em. Won't they take the two?'

'One they said, and one they mean. They can't hardly afford that, they

said. And I'm as certain as I am that I'm setting here, that if they

knew there was two of 'em, they wouldn't part 'em for the world. No,

they'd go somewhere else; and the chance 'd be lost.'

'But they want a child that ain't got no father nor mother. Now, these

young uns have a father; and that you know.'

'No, I don't; I don't know nothing of the kind. 'Taint the first story

I've told by a many,' said the landlady, in answer to Mr. Manning's

look of astonishment; 'and I don't mind telling this one to do a

little baby good.'

'What's to become of the other? 'We'll look after her between us.

One'll take her one day, and one another. Lord bless you, Mr.

Manning, we shall be able to manage.'

'And if the father comes back?'

'I'll get the lady's address, and give it to him; and then he can do

as he likes.'

'It's the best thing that can be done; said Mr. Manning; 'though I've

nothing to do with it, mind you; it's none of my business. I've got

troubles enough of my own. But it ain't every young un that gets such

a chance.'

'No, that it ain't;' and the landlady pulled her chair close to that

of Mrs. Manning. 'Which shall it be, my dear?'

This proved to be a very difficult question to answer. First they

decided that it was to be this one, then that; then soft-hearted Mrs.

Manning began to cry, and said it was a sin to part them. And the

babes lay sleeping unconsciously the while this momentous point was

being discussed, the decision of which might condemn one to want and

dirt and misery--to crime perhaps--and the other to a career where

good opportunity might produce a happy and virtuous life. At length it

was decided, and one was chosen; but when the landlady prepared to

take the child, she found that the fingers of the babes were tightly

interlaced; so she left them in Mrs. Manning's lap, with instructions

to get the chosen one ready, and went down to her visitors.

'Poor child!' said the lady, at the conclusion of the landlady's

recital; 'and the mother was only buried yesterday!'

'Only yesterday, ma'am,' responded the landlady; 'and the dear little

thing is left without a friend. There's not one of us that wouldn't be

glad to take care of it; but we're too poor, ma'am; and that's the

fact.'

'The child's younger than we could have wished,' mused the lady, with

a glance at her husband; 'but it would seem like a cruel desertion,

now that we have heard its sad story.'

Her husband nodded, and the landlady, keenly watchful, said eagerly:

'I'll bring it down to you, ma'am. One of the lodgers is nursing it;

but her husband's grumbling at her, and making her miserable about it

He says he's got enough of his own; and so he has.'

By this time Mrs. Manning had the baby ready--she had dressed the

child in some old baby-clothes of her own--and before she let it go

out of her arms, she said, as if the little thing could understand:

'Kiss sister, baby. You'll never see her again, perhaps; and if you

do, you won't know her.'

She placed their lips close together; and at that moment they opened

their eyes, and smiled prettily on one another. The man and the two

women stood by, gazing earnestly at the babes. Tears were in Mrs.

Manning's eyes, as she witnessed the strange parting; the landlady was

silent and pensive; and the man, with his hands behind him, seemed to

be suddenly engrossed in the consideration of some social problem,

which he found too perplexing for him. His wife raised the fortunate

babe to his face.

'A happy New-year to you, little un,' said the not unkindly man, as he

kissed the child.

'Suppose they were our'n, Sam,' said his wife, softly and tearfully;

'we shouldn't like this to happen.'

'But they're not our'n,' replied her husband; 'and that makes all the

difference.'

And yet there was a wistful expression on his face, as the landlady

took the baby out of the room.

'I've kept the prettiest one,' his wife whispered to him--'the one

with the dimple.'

The lady and gentleman--she with her new charge wrapped in her warm

shawl, and pressed closely to her bosom--walked briskly through the

cold air towards their home, which lay in a square, about a mile

from Stoney-alley. In the centre of the square was a garden, the

wood-growth in which, though bare of leaves, looked as beautiful in

their white mantle as ever they had done in their brightest summer.

The snow-lined trees stood out boldly, yet gracefully, and their every

branch, fringed in purest white, was an emblem of loveliness. They

gleamed grandly in the moon's light, mute witnesses of the greatness

of Him whose lightest work is an evidence of perfect wisdom and

goodness.

HOW SHE ACQUIRED THE NAME OF BLADE-O'-GRASS.

Thus, whilst one little babe was tended and watched by benevolent

hands and eyes, the fate of the other--the prettier one, she with the

unfortunate dimple--was intrusted to the shapeless hands of chance. To

such tender care as had happily fallen to its lot, the fortunate one

may be left for a time. Turn we to the other, and watch its strange

bringing-up.

Proverbially, too many cooks spoil the broth; and this forlorn babe

was left to the care of too many cooks, who, however, in this

instance, did not spoil the broth by meddling with it, but by almost

utterly neglecting it. The landlady's declaration that 'We'll look

after her between us; one'll take her one day, and one another,'

although uttered in all sincerity, turned out badly in its

application. What is everybody's business is nobody's business, and

for the most part the babe was left to take care of herself. For a

little while Mrs. Manning was the child's only friend; but in the

course of a couple of months she fulfilled her husband's apprehension,

and added another bantling to his already overstocked quiver. This new

arrival (which, it must be confessed, was not received with gratitude

by its father) was so fractious, and so besieged by a complication of

infantile disorders, that all Mrs. Manning's spare moments were fully

occupied, and she had none to devote to other people's children. The

motherless child threatened to fare badly indeed. But now and again a

mother who had lost her offspring came to the little stranger and

suckled her; so that she drew life from many bosoms, and may be said

to have had at least a score of wet-nurses. And thus she grew up

almost literally in the gutters, no one owning her, no one really

caring for her; and yet she throve, as weeds thrive--while her sister,

not a mile away, throve, in the care of kind friends, as flowers

thrive. Born in equality, with the same instincts for good and evil,

with the same capacity for good and evil, equally likely to turn out

good or bad, should it have been left entirely to chance that one

might live to prove a blessing, and the other a curse, to society? But

so it was.

One of the most curious circumstances connected with the little

outcast was, that she was not known by any settled name. It grew to be

a fashion to call her by all sorts of names--now Polly, now Sally, now

Young Hussy, now Little Slut, and by a dozen others, not one of which

remained to her for any length of time. But when she was three years

of age, an event occurred which played the part of godmothers and

godfathers to her, and which caused her to receive a title by which

she was always afterwards known.

There was not a garden in Stoney-alley. Not within the memory of

living man had a flower been known to bloom there. There were many

poor patches of ground, crowded as the neighbourhood was, which might

have been devoted to the cultivation of a few bright petals; but they

were allowed to lie fallow, festering in the sun. Thought of graceful

form and colour had never found expression there. Strange, therefore,

that one year, when Summer was treading close upon the heel of Spring,

sending warm sweet winds to herald her coming, there should spring up,

in one of the dirtiest of all the backyards in Stoney-alley, two or

three Blades of Grass. How they came there, was a mystery. No human

hand was accountable for their presence. It may be that a bird, flying

over the place, had mercifully dropped a seed; or that a kind wind had

borne it to the spot. But however they came, there they were, these

Blades of Grass, peeping up from the ground shyly and wonderingly, and

giving promise of bright colour, even in the midst of the unwholesome

surroundings. Our little castaway--she was no better--now three years

of age, was sprawling in this dirty backyard with a few other

children, all of them regular students of Dirt College. Attracted by

the little bit of colour, she crawled to the spot where it shone in

the light, and straightway fell to watching it and inhaling, quite

unconsciously, whatever of grace it possessed. Once or twice she

touched the tender blades, and seemed to be pleased to find them soft

and pliant. The other children, delighted at having the monopoly of a

gutter, that ran through the yard, did not disturb her; and so she

remained during the day, watching and wondering; and fell asleep by

the side of the Blades of Grass, and dreamed perhaps of brighter

colours and more graceful forms than had ever yet found place in her

young imagination. The next day she made her way again to the spot,

and seeing that the blades had grown a little, wondered and wondered,

and unconsciously exercised that innate sense of worship of the

beautiful which is implanted in every nature, and which causes the

merest babes to rejoice at light, and shapes of beauty, and harmony of

sound. What is more wonderful, in the eyes of a babe, than vivid

colour or light, however kindled? what more sweet to its senses than

that perfect harmony of sound which falls upon its ears as the mother

sings softly and lulls her darling to sleep? This latter blessing had

never fallen to the lot of our child; but colour and light were given

to her, and she was grateful for them. She grew to love these emerald

leaves, and watched them day after day, until the women round about

observed and commented upon her strange infatuation. But one evening,

when the leaves were at their brightest and strongest, a man, running

hastily through the yard, crushed the blades of grass beneath his

heel, and tore them from the earth. The grief of the child was

intense. She cast a passionate yet bewildered look at the man, and

picking up the torn soiled blades, put them in the breast of her

ragged frock, in the belief that warmth would bring them back to life.

She went to bed with the mangled leaves in her hot hand, and when she

looked at them the next morning, they bore no resemblance to the

bright leaves which had been such a delight to her. She went to the

spot where they had grown, and cried without knowing why; and the man

who had destroyed the leaves happening to pass at the time, she struck

at him with her little fists. He pushed her aside rather roughly with

his foot, and Mrs. Manning, seeing this, and having also seen the

destruction of the leaves, and the child's worship of them, blew him

up for his unkindness. He merely laughed, and said he wouldn't have

done it if he had looked where he was going, and that it was a good

job for the child that she wasn't a Blade-o'-Grass herself, or she

might have been trodden down with the others. The story got about the

alley, and one and another, at first in fun or derision, began to call

the child Little Blade-o'-Grass, until, in course of time, it came to

be recognised as her regular name, and she was known by it all over

the neighbourhood. So, being thus strangely christened, Little

Blade-o'-Grass grew in years and in ignorance, and became a worthy

member of Dirt College, in which school she was matriculated for the

battle of life.

THE LEGEND OF THE TIGER.

At a very early age indeed was Blade-o'-Grass compelled to begin the

battle of life. Her greatest misfortune was that, as she grew in

years, she grew strong. Had she been a weakly little thing, some one

might have taken pity on her, and assumed the responsibility of

maintaining her. The contingency was a remote one; but all chance of

benefiting by it was utterly destroyed, because she was strong and

hardy. She may be said to have had some sort of a home up to the time

that she attained the age of nine years; for a corner for her to sleep

in was always found in the house in which she was born. But about that

time certain important changes took place, which materially affected

her, although she had no hand in them. The landlady gave up the house,

and some one else took it, and turned it into a shop. The lodgers all

received notice to leave, and went elsewhere to live. A great slice of

luck fell to the share of Mr. Manning. An uncle whom he had never seen

died in a distant land, and left his money to his relatives; and a

shrewd lawyer made good pickings by hunting up nephews and nieces of

the deceased. Among the rest, he hunted up Mr. Manning, and one day he

handed his client a small sum of money. Mr. Manning put his suddenly

acquired wealth to a good purpose--he got passage in a government

emigrant ship, and with his wife and large family, bade good-bye for

ever to Stoney-alley. He left the country, as hundreds and thousands

of others have done, with a bitter feeling in his heart because he was

not able to stop in it, and earn a decent livelihood; but, as hundreds

and thousands of others have done, he lived this feeling down, and in

his new home, with better prospects and better surroundings, talked of

his native land--meaning Stoney-alley--as the 'old country,' in terms

of affection and as if he had been treated well in it. It will be

easily understood that when Blade-o'-Grass lost Mrs. Manning, she lost

her best friend.

To say that she passed an easy life up to this point of her career

would be to state what is false. The child was in continual disgrace,

and scarcely a day passed that was not watered with her tears. Blows,

smacks, and harsh words were administered to her freely, until she

grew accustomed to them, and they lost their moral force. She deserved

them, for she was the very reverse of a good little girl. In a great

measure her necessities made her what she was, and no counteracting

influence for good approached her. If she were sent for beer, she

would stop at corners, and taste and sip, and bring home short

measure. There was something fearful in her enjoyment; but she had no

power nor desire to resist the temptation. No tragedy queen, before

the consummation of the final horror, ever looked round with more

watchful, wary, fearsome gaze than did Blade-o'-Grass, when, having

nerved her soul to take a sip of beer, she stopped at a convenient

corner, or in the shadow of a dark doorway, to put her desire into

execution. And then she was always breaking things. The mugs she let

fall would have paved Stoney-alley. But there was a greater temptation

than beer: Bread. If she were sent for a half-quartern loaf, she

would not fail to dig out with liberal fingers the soft portions

between the crusts, and eagerly devour them. Even if she had not been

hungry--which would have been a white-letter day in her existence--she

would have done from habit what she almost invariably was urged to do

by the cravings of her stomach. And about that unfortunate stomach of

hers, calumnies were circulated and believed in. So persistent an

eater was Blade-o'-Grass, so conscientious a devourer of anything

that, legitimately or otherwise, came in her way--quality being not of

the slightest object--that a story got about that she had 'something'

in her inside, some living creature of a ravenous nature, that waited

for the food as she swallowed it, and instantly devoured it for its

own sustenance. Such things had been known of. At some remote period a

girl in the neighbourhood--whose personality was never traced, but

whom everybody believed in--had had such an animal--a few called it a

'wolf,' but the majority insisted that it was a 'tiger'--growing

inside of her, and this animal, so the story went, grew and grew, and

fed upon the girl's life till it killed her. The 'tiger' had been

found alive after the girl's death, and having been purchased of some

one for a fabulous price, was embalmed in a bottle in a great museum,

of which nobody knew the name or the whereabouts. As an allegory, this

'tiger' might have served to illustrate the mournful story of the

lives of Blade-o'-Grass and thousands of her comrades--it might have

served, indeed, to point a bitter moral; but there was nothing

allegorical about the inhabitants of Stoney-alley. They only dealt in

hard matter-of-fact, and the mythical story was fully believed in; and

being applied to the case of Blade-o'-Grass, became a great terror to

her. Many persons found delight in tormenting the helpless child about

her 'tiger,' and for a long time the slightest allusion to it was

sufficient to cause her the most exquisite anguish, in consequence of

certain malevolent declarations, that she ought to be cut open

and have the tiger taken out of her. Indeed, one miserable old

fellow, who kept a rag-shop, and who had in his window two or three

dust-coated bottles containing common-place reptiles preserved in

spirits-of-wine, took a malicious pleasure in declaring that the

operation ought to be really performed upon Blade-o'-Grass, and that,

in the interests of science, she ought not to be allowed to live. It

was the cruelest of sport thus to torture the poor child; for the

simple fact was, that Blade-o'-Grass was nearly always hungry. It was

nature tugging at her stomach--not a tiger.

The very first night of Mrs. Manning's departure, Blade-o'-Grass found

herself without a bed. With a weary wretched sense of desolation upon

her, she lingered about the old spot where she used to sleep, and even

ventured to enter at the back of the house, when the sharp 'Come, get

out o' this!' of the new proprietor sent her flying away. She belonged

to nobody, and nobody cared for her; so she wandered and lingered

about until all the lights in the shops and houses were out. She had

gleaned some small pleasure in watching these lights; she had found

comfort in them; and when they were all extinguished and she was in

darkness, she trembled under the impulse of a vague terror. She did

not cry; it was not often now that she called upon the well of tender

feeling where tears lay; but she was terrified. There was not a star

in the sky to comfort her. She was in deep darkness, body and soul.

How many others are there at this present moment in the same terrible

condition?

[Illustration]

Too full of fear to stand upright, she crept along the ground slowly,

feeling her way by the walls, stopping every now and then to gather

fresh courage, at which time she tried to shut out her fears by

cowering close to the flagstones and hiding her face in her ragged

frock. She had a purpose in view. She had thought of a refuge where

she would find some relief from the terrible shadows. Towards that

refuge she was creeping now. It was a long, long time before she

reached her haven--a crazy old lamp-post, the dim light of which was

in keeping with the general poverty of its surroundings. At the foot

of this lamp-post, clasping it as if it were the symbol of a sacred

refuge, Blade-o'-Grass looked up at the light in agony of speechless

gratitude, and then, wearied almost to a state of unconsciousness,

coiled herself up into a ball, like a hedgehog, and soon was fast

asleep.

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

What followed? Remorseless Time pursued his way, and the minutes,

light to some, heavy to some, leaving in their track a train of woe

and joy, and grief and happiness; the leaden minutes, the golden

minutes, flew by until daylight came and woke the sleeping child.

Unwashed--but that was her chronic condition, and did not affect

her--forlorn, uncared-for, Blade-o'-Grass looked round upon her world,

and rubbed her eyes, and yawned; then, after a time, rose to her feet,

and cast quick eager glances about her. The tiger in her stomach was

awake and stirring, and Blade-o'-Grass had no food to give it to

satisfy its cravings. She prowled up and down, and round and about the

dirty courts, in search of something to eat; anything would have more

than contented her--mouldy crust, refuse food; but the stones of

Stoney-alley and its fellows were merciless, and no manna fell from

heaven to bless the famished child. She would have puzzled the wisest

philosopher in social problems, if he were not utterly blinded by

theory; for, looking at her from every aspect, and taking into

account, not only that she was endowed with mental, moral, and

physical faculties, but that she was a human being with a soul 'to be

saved,' he could have produced but one result from her--a yearning for

food. He could have struck no other kind of fire from out of this

piece of flint. What resemblance did Blade-o'-Grass bear to that

poetical image which declared her to be noble in reason, infinite in

faculty, express and admirable in form and bearing; like an angel in

action; like a god in apprehension? The beauty of the world! the

paragon of animals! Perhaps it will be best for us not to examine too

curiously, for there is shame in the picture of this child-girl

prowling about for food. Poor Blade-o'-Grass! with every minute the

tiger in her stomach grew more rabid, and tore at her vitals

tigerishly. In the afternoon she found a rotten apple in the gutter,

and she stooped and picked it up, joy glistening in her eyes. It was a

large apple, fortunately, and she devoured it eagerly, and afterwards

chewed the stalk. That was all the food she got that day; and when

night came, and she had watched the lights out, she coiled herself up

into a ball by the side of her lamp-post again and slept, and awoke in

the morning, sick with craving. Yesterday's experience whispered to

her not to look about for food in Stoney-alley; and she walked, with

painful steps into the wider thoroughfare, and stopped for a few

minutes to recover herself from her astonishment at the vast world in

which she found herself. She would have been content to stop there all

the day, but that the tiger cried for food, and she cried for food in

sympathy with the tiger. Keeping her eyes fixed upon the ground, and

never once raising her pitiful face to the faces that flashed past

her, hither and thither, she faltered onwards for a hundred yards or

so, and then, in a frightened manner, retraced her steps, so that she

should not lose herself. 'Give me food!' cried the tiger, and 'Give me

food!' cried Blade-o'-Grass from the innermost depths of her soul. At

about ten o'clock in the morning, her cry was answered; she saw a

cats'-meat man with a basket full of skewered meat hanging upon his

arm. Instinctively she followed him, and watched the cats running to

the doors at the sound of his voice, and waiting with arched backs and

dilating eyes for his approach. Blade-o'-Grass wished with all her

heart and soul that _she_ were a cat, so that she might receive her

portion upon a skewer; but no such happiness was hers. She followed

the man wistfully and hungeringly, until he stopped at the door of a

house where there were evidently arrears of account to be settled. He

placed his basket upon the doorstep, and went into the passage to give

some change to the woman of the house. Here was an opportunity for

Blade-o'-Grass. She crept stealthily and fearfully towards the basket,

and snatching up two portions of cats'-meat, ran for her life, with

her stolen food hidden in her tattered frock--ran until she reached

Stoney-alley, where she sank to the ground with her heart leaping at

her throat, and where, after recovering her breath, she devoured her

ill-gotten meat with unbounded satisfaction. She had no idea that she

had done a wrong thing. She was hungry, and had simply taken food when

the opportunity presented itself. The fear by which she had been

impressed had not sprung from any moral sense, but partly from the

thought that the man would hurt her if he caught her taking his

property, and partly from the thought (more agonising than the other)

that she might be prevented from carrying out her design. The next day

she watched for and followed the cats'-meat man again, and again was

successful in obtaining a meal; and so on for a day or two afterwards.

But the food was not over nice, and the tiger whispered to her that a

change would be agreeable. Success made her bold, and she looked about

her for other prey. Her first venture, after the cats'-meat man lost

her patronage, was an old woman who kept an apple-stall, and who went

to sleep as regularly as clockwork every afternoon at three o'clock

and woke at five. But even in her sleep this old apple-woman seemed to

be wary, and now and then would mumble out with drowsy energy, 'Ah,

would yer? I sees yer!' as if the knowledge that she was surrounded by

suspicious characters whose mouths watered for her fruit had eaten

into her soul. But as these exclamations to terrify poachers were

mumbled out when the old woman really was in an unconscious state, she

fell an easy victim to Blade-o'-Grass. She was a great treasure to the

little girl, for she dealt in nuts and oranges as well as apples. Then

there was a woman who sold a kind of cake designated 'jumbles,'--a

wonderful luxury, price four a penny. She also fell a victim, and

between one and another Blade-o'-Grass managed to pick up a precarious

living, and in a few months became as nimble and expert a little thief

as the sharpest policeman would wish to make an example of. She was

found out, of course, sometimes, and was cuffed and beaten; but she

was never given in charge. The persons from whom she stole seemed to

be aware of the hapless condition of the child, and had mercy upon

her; indeed, many of them had at one time or another of their lives

known what it was to suffer the pangs of hunger.

Incredible as it may sound, Blade-o'-Grass still had one friend

left. His name was Tom Beadle. He was some five years older than

Blade-o'-Grass, but looked so delicate and sickly, and was of such

small proportions, that they might have been taken for pretty nearly

the same age. Delicate and sickly as he looked, he was as sharp as a

weasel. He had a mother and a father, who, when they were not in

prison, lived in Stoney-alley, but they--being a drunken and dissolute

pair--did not trouble themselves about their son. So he had to shift

for himself, and in course of time became cunningest of the cunning.

Between him and Blade-o'-Grass there had grown a closer intimacy than

she had contracted with any other of her associates, and whenever they

met they stopped to have a chat Blade-o'-Grass had a genuine affection

for him, for he had often given her a copper, and quite as often had

shared his meal with her.

A few months after the change for the worse in the prospects of

Blade-o'-Grass, Tom Beadle, lounging about in an idle humour, saw

her sitting on the kerb-stone with her eyes fixed upon the old

apple-woman, who had begun to nod. There was something in the gaze of

Blade-o'-Grass that attracted Tom Beadle's attention, and he set

himself to watch. Presently the girl shifted a little nearer to the

fruit-stall--a little nearer--nearer, until she was quite close. Her

hand stole slowly towards the fruit, and a pear was taken, then

another. Tom Beadle laughed; but looked serious immediately

afterwards, for Blade-o'-Grass was running away as fast as her legs

could carry her. Assuring himself that there was no cause for alarm,

Tom Beadle ran after her, and placed his hand heavily on her shoulder.

She had heard the step behind her, and her heart almost leaped out of

her throat; but when she felt the hand upon her shoulder, she threw

away the stolen fruit, and fell to the ground in an agony of fear.

'Git up, you little fool,' exclaimed Tom Beadle. 'What are you

frightened at?' Before he said this, however, he picked up the pears

and put them in his pocket.

'O, Tom!' cried Blade-o'-Grass, the familiar tones falling upon her

ears like sweetest music; 'I thought it was somebody after me.'

Then Tom told her that he ran after her to stop _her_ running, and

instructed her that it was the very worst of policy, after she had

'prigged' anything, to run away when nobody was looking. And this was

the first practical lesson in morals that Blade-o'-Grass had received.

'But, I say, Bladergrass,' observed Tom, 'I didn't know as you'd taken

to prig.'

'I can't help it, Tom. The tiger's always at me.'

Tom implicitly believed in the tiger story.

'Well, that's all right,' said Tom; 'only take care--and don't you run

away agin when nobody's a-lookin'.'

Months passed, and Blade-o'-Grass lived literally from hand to mouth.

But times grew very dull; her hunting-ground was nearly worked out,

and she was more often hungry than not. One day she hadn't been able

to pick up a morsel of food, and had had insufficient for many

previous days. The day before she had had but one scanty meal, so that

it is not difficult to imagine her miserable condition. Her guardian

angel, Tom Beadle, discovered her crouching against a wall, with fear

and despair in her face and eyes. He knew well enough what was the

matter, but he asked her for form's sake, and she returned him the

usual answer, while the large tears rolled down her cheeks into her

mouth.

It so happened that Tom Beadle had been out of luck that day. He

hadn't a copper in his pocket. He felt about for one, nevertheless,

and finding none, whistled--curiously enough, the 'Rogues'

March'--more in perplexity than from surprise.

'Ain't yer had _any_think to eat, Bladergrass?'

'Not a blessed bite,' was the answer.

It was about five o'clock in the evening; there were at least a couple

of hours to sunset. An inspiration fell upon Tom Beadle, and his

countenance brightened.

'Come along o' me,' he said.

Blade-o'-Grass placed her hand unhesitatingly in his, and they walked

towards the wealthier part of the City, until they came to a large

space surrounded by great stone buildings. In the centre of the space

was a statue. Blade-o'-Grass had never been so far from her native

place as this. The crowds of people hurrying hither and thither, as if

a moment's hesitation would produce, a fatal result; the apparently

interminable strings of carts and cabs and wagons and omnibuses

issuing from half-a-dozen thoroughfares, and so filling the roads with

moving lines and curves and angles, that it seemed to be nothing less

than miraculous how a general and disastrous crash was avoided,

utterly bewildered little Blade-o'-Grass, and caused her for a moment

to be oblivious of the cravings of the tiger in her stomach.

'Now, look 'ere, Bladergrass,' whispered Tom Beadle: 'you keep tight

'old of my 'and; if anybody arks yer, I'm yer brother a-dyin' of

consumption. I'm a-dyin' by inches, I am.'

Forthwith he called into his face such an expression of utter,

helpless woe and misery, that Blade-o'-Grass cried out in terror,

'O, what's up, Tom? O, don't, Tom, don't!' really believing that her

companion had been suddenly stricken.

'Don't be stoopid!' remonstrated Tom, smiling at her to reassure her,

and then resuming his wobegone expression; 'I'm only a-shammin'.'

With that he sank upon the bottom of a grand flight of stone steps,

dragging Blade-o'-Grass down beside him. There they remained, silent,

for a few moments, and perhaps one in a hundred of the eager bustling

throng turned to give the strange pair a second glance; but before

sympathy had time to assume practical expression, a policeman came up

to them, and bade them move on. Tom rose to his feet, wearily and

painfully, and slowly moved away: a snail in its last minutes of life

could scarcely have moved more slowly, if it had moved at all. He took

good care to keep tight hold of the hand of Blade-o'-Grass, lest she

should be pushed from him and be lost in the crowd. A notable contrast

were these two outcasts--she, notwithstanding her fright and the pangs

of hunger by which she was tormented, strong-limbed and sturdy for her

age; and he drooping, tottering, with a death-look upon his face, as

if every moment would be his last. You would have supposed that his

mind was a blank to all but despair, and that he was praying for

death; but the cunning and hypocrisy of Tom Beadle were not to be

measured by an ordinary standard. He was as wide awake as a weasel,

and although his eyes were to the ground, he saw everything that

surged around him, and was as ready to take advantage of an

opportunity as the sharpest rascal in London. As he and his companion

made their way through the busy throng, they attracted the attention

of two men--both of them elderly men, of some sixty years of age; one,

well-dressed, with a bright eye and a benevolent face; the other,

poorly but not shabbily dressed, and with a face out of which every

drop of the milk of human kindness seemed to have been squeezed when

he was a young man. When he looked at you, it appeared as if you were

undergoing the scrutiny of two men; for one of his eyes had a

dreadfully fixed and glassy stare in it, and the other might have been

on fire, it was so fiercely watchful.

Now, overpowered as Tom Beadle might have been supposed to be in his

own special ills and cares, he saw both these men, as he saw

everything else about him, and a sly gleam of recognition passed from

his eyes to the face of the odd-looking and poorly-dressed stranger;

it met with no response, however. The next moment Tom raised his white

imploring face to that of the better-dressed man, whose tender heart

was stirred by pity at the mute appeal. He put his hand in his pocket,

but seemed to be restrained from giving; some impulse within him

whispered, 'Don't!' while his heart prompted him to give. But the

struggle was not of long duration. The words, 'Indiscriminate charity

again,' fell from his lips, and looking round cautiously as if he were

about to commit a felony, he hastily approached close to the two

children, and, with an air of guilt, slipped a shilling in Tom

Beadle's hand. After which desperate deed, he turned to fly from the

spot, when he saw something in the face of the odd-looking man (who

had been watching the comedy with curious interest) which made him

first doubtful, then angry. Although they were strangers, he was

impelled to speak, and his kind nature made him speak in a polite

tone.

'Dreadful sight, sir, dreadful sight,' he said, pointing to the

creeping forms of Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass. 'A penny can't be

thrown away there, eh?'

The odd-looking man shrugged his shoulders. The shrug conveyed to the

benevolent stranger this meaning: 'You are an imbecile; you are an old

fool; you are not fit to be trusted alone.' It was the most expressive

of shrugs.

'I suppose you mean to say I've been imposed upon,' exclaimed the

benevolent stranger hotly.

The odd-looking man chuckled enjoyably, and perked up his head at the

questioner in curiosity, as a magpie with its eye in a blaze might

have done. But he said nothing. His silence exasperated the benevolent

almsgiver, who exclaimed, 'You've no humanity, sir; no humanity;' and

turned on his heel. But turned round again immediately and said, 'I've

no right to say that, sir--no right, and I beg your pardon. But d'ye

mean to tell me that that lad is an impostor, sir? If you do, I deny

it, sir, I deny it! D'ye mean to say that I've been taken in, and that

those two children are not--not HUNGRY, sir?'

Some words seemed to be rising to the odd-looking man's lips, but he

restrained the utterance of them, and closed his lips with a snap. He

touched his shabby cap with an air of amusement, and turned away,

chuckling quietly; and the next minute the two men were struggling in

different directions with the human tide that spread itself over all

the City.

In the mean time, Tom Beadle, keeping up the fiction of 'dyin' by

inches,' crept slowly away. He had not seen the coin which had been

slipped into his hand, but he knew well enough by the feel that it was

a shilling. 'A regular slice o' luck,' he muttered to himself, beneath

his breath. When they had crept on some fifty yards, he quickened his

steps, and Blade-o'-Grass tried to keep up with him. But all at once

her hands grew quite cold, and a strong trembling took possession of

her.

'Come along, Bladergrass,' urged Tom, in his anxiety to get safely

away; ''ow you creep!'

The child made another effort, but, as if by magic, the streets and

the roar in them vanished from her sight and hearing, and she would

have fallen to the ground, but for Tom's arm thrown promptly round her

poor fainting form.

Near to them was a quiet court--so still and peaceful that it might

have hidden in a country-place where Nature was queen--and Tom Beadle,

who knew every inch of the ground, bore her thither. His heart grew

cold as he gazed upon her white face.

'I wish I may die,' he muttered to himself, in a troubled voice, 'if

she don't look as if she was dead. Bladergrass! Bladergrass!' he

called.'

She did not answer him. Not a soul was near them. Had it not been that

he liked the child, and that, little villain as he was, he had some

humanity in him--for her at least--he would have run away. He stood

quiet for a few moments, debating within himself what he had best do.

He knelt over her, and put his lips to hers, and whispered coaxingly,

'Come along, Bladergrass. Don't be a little fool. Open your eyes, and

call Tom.'

The warmth of his face and lips restored her to consciousness. She

murmured, 'Don't--don't! Let me be!'

'What's the matter, Bladergrass?' he whispered. 'It's me--Tom! Don't

you know me?'

'O, let me be, Tom!' implored Blade-o'-Grass. 'Let me be! The tiger's

a-eatin' the inside out o' me, and I'm a-dyin'.'

She closed her eyes again, and the sense of infinite peace that stole

upon her, as she lay in this quiet court, was like heaven to her,

after the wild roar of steps and sounds in which a little while since

she had been engulfed. Had she died at that moment, it would have been

happier for her; but at whose door could her death have been laid?

Tom Beadle, whispering hurriedly and anxiously, and certainly quite

superfluously, 'Lay still, Bladergrass! I'll be back in a minute,' ran

off to buy food, and soon returned with it. He had a little difficulty

in rousing her, but when she began to taste the food, and, opening her

eyes, saw the store which Tom had brought, she tore at it almost

deliriously, crying out of thankfulness, as she ate. Tom was

sufficiently rewarded by seeing the colour return to her cheeks;

before long, Blade-o'-Grass was herself again, and was laughing with

Tom.

'But I thought you _was_ a-dyin', Bladergrass,' said Tom, somewhat

solemnly, in the midst of the merriment.

'No, it was you that was a-dyin', Tom!' exclaimed Blade-o'-Grass,

clapping her hands. 'A-dyin' by inches, you know!'

Gratified vanity gleamed in Tom Beadle's eyes, and when Blade-o'-Grass

added, 'But, O Tom, how you frightened me at first!' his triumph was

complete, and he enjoyed an artist's sweetest pleasure. Then he

gloated over the imposition he had practised upon the benevolent

stranger, and cried in glee,

'Wasn't he green, Bladergrass? _He_ thought I was dyin' by inches, as

well as you. O, O, O!' and laughed and danced, to the admiration of

Blade-o'-Grass, without feeling a particle of gratitude for the

benevolent instinct which had saved his companion from starvation.

[Illustration]

After this fashion did Blade-o'-Grass learn life's lessons, and learn

to fight its battles. Deprived of wholesome teaching and wholesome

example; believing, from very necessity, that bad was good; without

any knowledge of God and His infinite goodness, she, almost a

baby-child, went out into the world, in obedience to the law of

nature, in search of food. A slice of bread-and-butter was more to her

than all the virtues, the exercise of which, as we are taught, bestows

the light of eternal happiness. And yet, if earnest men are to be

believed, and if there be truth in newspaper columns, the vast

machinery around her was quick with sympathy for her, as one of a

class whom it is man's duty to lift from the dust. Such struggles for

the amelioration (fine word!) of the human race were being made by

earnest natures, that it was among the most awful mysteries of the

time, how Blade-o'-Grass was allowed to grow up in the ignorance which

deprives crime of responsibility; how she was forced to be dead to the

knowledge of virtue; how she was compelled to earn the condemnation of

men, and to make sorrowful the heart of the Supreme!

MR. MERRYWHISTLE RELIEVES HIMSELF ON THE SUBJECT OF

INDISCRIMINATE CHARITY.

The name of the man who gave Tom Beadle the shilling was Merrywhistle.

He was a bachelor, and he lived in the eastern part of the City, in

Buttercup-square, next door to his best friends, the Silvers. Although

Buttercup-square was in the east of the City, where the greatest

poverty is to be found, and where people crowd upon each other

unhealthfully, it was as pretty and comfortable a square as could be

found anywhere; and you might live in any house in it and fancy

yourself in the country, when you looked out of window. The trees in

the square were full of birds' nests, and the singing of the birds of

a summer morning was very sweet to the ear.

Mr. Merrywhistle had no trade or profession. When the last census was

taken, and the paper was given to him to fill-in, he set himself down

as 'Nothing Particular,' and this eccentric definition of himself

coming under the eyes of his landlady--who, like every other landlady,

was mighty curious about the age, religion, and occupation of her

lodgers, and whether they were single, widowed, or divorced men--was

retailed by her to her friends. As a necessary consequence, _her_

friends retailed the information to _their_ friends; and for some

little time afterwards, they used to ask of the landlady and of each

other, jocosely, how Nothing Particular was getting along, and whether

he had lately done Anything Particular; and so on. But this mildest of

jokes soon died out, and never reached Mr. Merrywhistle's ears. He had

an income more than sufficient for his personal wants; but at the

year's end not a shilling remained of his year's income. A pale face,

a look of distress, a poor woman with a baby in arms, a person looking

hungrily in a cook-shop window--any one of these sights was sufficient

to melt his benevolent heart, and to draw copper or silver from

his pocket. It was said of him that his hands were always in his

pockets--a saying which was the occasion of a piece of sarcasm, which

grew into a kind of proverb. A lady-resident of Buttercup-square,

whose husband was of the parsimonious breed, when speaking of Mr.

Merrywhistle's benevolence, said, with a sigh, 'My husband is just

like Mr. Merrywhistle; his hands are always in his pockets.' 'Yes,

ma'am,' said an ill-natured friend, 'but there the similarity ends.

Your husband's hands _never come out_.' Which produced a lifelong

breach between the parties.

Mr. Merrywhistle was in a very disturbed mood this evening. He was

haunted by the face of the old man who had been amused, because he had

given a poor child, a shilling. The thought of this old man proved the

most obstinate of tenants to Mr. Merrywhistle; having got into his

mind, it refused to be dislodged. He had never seen this man before,

and here, in the most unaccountable manner, he being haunted and

distressed by a face which presented itself to his imagination with a

mocking expression upon it, because he had been guilty of a charitable

act. 'I should like to meet him again,' said Mr. Merrywhistle to

himself; 'I'd talk to him!' Which mild determination, hotly expressed,

was intended to convey an exceedingly severe meaning. As he could not

dislodge the thought of the man from his mind, Mr. Merrywhistle

resolved to go to his friends next door, the Silvers, and take tea

with them. He went in, and found them, as he expected, just sitting

down to tea. Only two of them, husband and wife.

'I am glad you have come in,' said Mrs. Silver to him. Her voice might

surely have suggested her name, it was so mild and gentle. But

everything about her was the same. Her dress, her quiet manner, her

delicate face, her hands, her eyes, where purity dwelt, breathed peace

and goodness. She and her sisters (and there are many, thank God!) are

the human pearls of the world which is so often called 'erring.'

'How are the youngsters?' asked Mr. Merrywhistle, stirring his tea.

'All well,' answered Mr. Silver; 'you'll stay and see them?'

Mr. Merrywhistle nodded, and proceeded with his tea. The meal being

nearly over, Mrs. Silver said, 'Now, friend, tell us your trouble.'

'You see it in my face,' responded Mr. Merrywhistle.

'Yes; I saw it when you entered.'

'You have the gift of divination.'

'Say, the gift of sympathy for those I love.'

Mr. Merrywhistle held out his hand, and she grasped it cordially. Then

he told them of the occurrence that took place on the Royal Exchange,

and of the singular manner in which he was haunted by the mocking face

of the old man who had watched him.

'You have an instinct, perhaps,' said Mrs. Silver, 'that he was one of

the men who might have preached at you, if he had had the opportunity,

against indiscriminate charity?'

'No, I don't know, I don't know, I really don't know,' replied Mr.

Merrywhistle excitedly. 'I think he rather enjoyed it; he seemed to

look upon it as an amusing exhibition, for he was almost convulsed by

laughter. Laughter! It wasn't laughter. It was a series of demoniac

chuckles, that's what it was--demoniac chuckles. But I can't exactly

describe what it was that set my blood boiling. It wasn't his demoniac

chuckling alone, it was everything about him; his manner, his

expression, his extraordinary eyes; one of which looked like the eye

of an infuriated bull, as if it were half inclined to fly out of

its head at you, and the other as if it were the rightful property

of the meekest and mildest of baa-lambs. Then his eye-brows--lapping

over as if they were precipices, and as thick as blacking-brushes.

Then his face, like a little sour and withered apple. Your

pro-indiscriminate-charity men would not have behaved as he did. They

would have asked me. How dare I--how dare I?--yes, that is what they

would have said--How dare I encourage pauperism by giving money to

little boys and girls and ragged men and women, whom I have never seen

in my life before, whom I have never heard of in my life before? This

fellow wasn't one of _them_. No, no--no, I say, he wasn't one of

_them_. I wouldn't swear that he wasn't drunk--no, I won't say that;

tipsy, perhaps--no, nor that either. Uncharitable of me--very. Don't

laugh at me. You wouldn't have laughed at the poor little boy if you

had seen him.'

'I am sure we should not.'

'That's like me again,' cried the impetuous old bachelor remorsefully;

'throwing in the teeth of my best friends an accusation of

inhumanity--yes, inhumanity--positive inhumanity. Forgive me--I am

truly sorry. But that indiscriminate-charity question cropped up again

to-day, and that, as well as this affair, has set my nerves in a

jingle. A gentleman called upon me this morning, and asked me for a

subscription towards the funds of an institution--a worthy

institution, as I believe. I hadn't much to spare--I am so

selfishly extravagant that my purse is always low--and I gave him

half-a-sovereign. He took it, and looked at it and at me

reproachfully. "I was given to understand," he said in the meekest of

voices, so meek, indeed, that I could hot possibly take offence--"I

was given to understand that from Mr. Merrywhistle, and in aid of

_such_ an institution as ours, I should have received a much larger

contribution."'

'That savoured of impertinence,' observed Mr. Silver.

'I daresay, Silver, I daresay. Another man might have thought

so; but I couldn't possibly be angry with him, his manner was so

humble--reproachfully humble. I explained to him that at present I

couldn't afford more, and that, somehow or other, my money melted away

most surprisingly. "I hope, sir," he then said, "that what I was told

of you is not true, and that you are not in the habit of giving away

money indiscriminately." I could not deny it--no, indeed, I could not

deny it--and I commenced to say, hesitatingly (feeling very guilty),

that now and then---- But he interrupted me with, "Now and then,

sir!--now and then! You will pardon my saying so, Mr. Merrywhistle,

but it may not have struck you before that those persons who give away

money indiscriminately are making criminals for us--are filling our

prisons--are blowing a cold blast on manly self-endeavour--are

crippling industry--are paying premiums to idleness, which is the

offspring of the----hem!" And continued in this strain for more than

five minutes. When he went away, my hair stood on end, and I felt as

if sentence ought to be pronounced upon me at once. And here, this

very afternoon, am I caught again by a pitiful face--you should

have seen it! I thought the poor boy would have died as I looked at

him--and I give away a shilling, indiscriminately. Then comes this

strange old fellow staring at me--sneering at me, shrugging

his shoulders at me, and walking away with the unmistakable

declaration--though he didn't declare it in words--that I wasn't fit

to be trusted alone. As perhaps I'm not,--as perhaps I'm not!' And Mr.

Merrywhistle blew his nose violently.

His friends knew him too well to interrupt him. The tea-things had

been quietly cleared away, while he was relieving his feelings. He had

by this time got rid of a great portion of his excitement; and now, in

his cooler mood, he looked round and smiled. At that moment a lad of

about fifteen years of age entered the room. All their countenances

brightened, as also did his, as he entered.

'Well, Charley,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, as the lad, with frank face,

stood before him, 'been knocking anything into "pie" to-day?'

'No, sir,' replied Charley. 'I'm past that now; I'm getting along

handsomely, the overseer said.'

'That's right, my boy; that's right. You'll be overseer yourself, some

day.'

Charley blushed; his ambition had not yet reached that height of

desire, and it seemed almost presumption to him to look so far ahead.

The overseer in the printing-office where Charley was apprenticed was

a great man in Charley's eyes; his word was law to fifty men and boys.

The lad turned to Mr. Silver, and said in a pleased tone:

'A new apprentice came in today, and swept out the office instead of

me.'

'So you are no longer knight of the broom?

'No, sir, and I'm not sorry for it; and there's something else. Dick

Trueman, you know, sir--'

'You told us, Charley; he was out of his time last week, and they gave

him a frame as a regular journeyman.'

'Yes, sir; and he earnt thirty-four shillings last week--full wages.

And what do you think he did today, sir?' And Charley's bright eyes

sparkled more brightly. These small items of office-news were of vast

importance to Charley--almost as important as veritable history. 'But

you couldn't guess,' he continued, in an eager tone. 'He asked for

three hours' holiday--from eleven till two--and he went out and got

married!'

'Bless my soul!' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, 'he can't be much more

than twenty-one years of age.'

'Only a few weeks more, sir. But he's a man now. Well, he came back at

two o'clock, in a new suit of clothes, and a flower in his coat. All

the men knew, directly they saw him, that he had asked for the

three hours' holiday to get married in. And they set up such a

clattering--rattling on their cases with their sticks, and on the

stone with the mallets and planers--that you couldn't hear your own

voice for five minutes; for every one of us likes Dick Trueman. You

should have seen Dick blush, when he heard the salute! He tried to

make them believe that he didn't know what all the clattering was

about. But they kept it up so long, that he was obliged to come to the

stone and bob his head at us. It makes me laugh only to think of it.

And then the overseer shook hands with him, and Dick sent for three

cans of beer, and all the men drank his health and good luck to him.'

Charley paused to take breath. The simple story, as he told it in his

eager way, was a pleasant story to hear. Now came the most important

part of it Charley's eyes grew larger as he said, with much

importance, 'I saw her.'

'Who?' they asked.

'Dick's wife; she was waiting at the corner of the street for him--and

O, she's Beautiful!'

'Quite a day of excitement, Charley,' said Mr. Silver.

'There's something more, sir.'

'What is it, Charley?'

'Our wayz-goose comes off next week, sir.'

'Yes, Charley.'

'Only two of the apprentices are asked, and I'm one of them,' said

Charley, with a ring of pardonable pride in his voice. 'May I go?

'Certainly, my boy,' said Mr. Silver. And Mrs. Silver smiled

approvingly, and told Charley to run and wash himself and have tea;

and Charley gave them all a bright look, and went out of the room as

happy a boy as any in all London.

Then said Mr. Merrywhistle:

'Charley's a good lad.'

'He's our first and eldest,' said Mrs. Silver, bringing forward a

basket filled with socks and stockings wanting repair; 'he will be a

bright man.'

Mr. Merrywhistle nodded, and they talked of various subjects until the

sound of children's happy voices interrupted them. 'Here are our

youngsters,' he said, rubbing his hands joyously; and as he spoke a

troop of children came into the room.

MRS. SILVER'S HOME.

There were five of them, as follows:

The eldest, Charles, the printer's apprentice, fifteen years of

age--with a good honest face and a bright manner. The picture of a

happy boy.

Then Mary, fourteen years. She looked older than Charley, and, young

as she was, seemed to have assumed a kind of matronship over the

younger branches. That the position was a pleasing one to her and all

of them was evident by the trustful looks that passed between them.

Then Richard, twelve years; with dancing eyes, open mouth, and quick,

impetuous, sparkling manner--filled with electricity--never still for

a moment together; hands, eyes, and every limb imbued with

restlessness.

Then Rachel, eleven years; with pale face and eyes--so strangely

watchful of every sound, that it might almost have been supposed she

listened with them. She was blind, and unless her attention were

aroused, stood like a statue waiting for the spark of life.

Lastly, Ruth. A full-faced, round-eyed child, the prettiest of the

group. Slightly wilful, but of a most affectionate disposition.

Rachel inclined her head.

'There's some one here,' she said.

'Who, my dear?' asked Mrs. Silver, holding up a warning finger to Mr.

Merrywhistle, so that he should not speak.

Rachel heard his light breathing.

'Mr. Merrywhistle,' she said, and went near to him. He kissed her, and

she went back to her station by the side of Ruth.

They were a pleasant bunch of human flowers to gaze at, and so Mr. and

Mrs. Silver and Mr. Merrywhistle thought, for their eyes glistened at

the healthful sight. Ruth and Rachel stood hand in hand, and it was

easily to be seen that they were necessary to each other. But pleasant

as the children were to the sight, a stranger would have been struck

with amazement at their unlikeness to one another. Brothers and

sisters they surely could not be, although their presence there and

their bearing to each other betokened no less close a relationship.

They were not indeed related by blood, neither to one another, nor to

Mr. and Mrs. Silver. They were Mrs. Silver's foundlings--children of

her love, whom she had taken, one by one, to rear as her own, whom she

had snatched from the lap of Destitution.

Her marriage was one of purest affection, but she was barren; and

after a time, no children coming, she felt a want in her home. Her

husband was secretary in a sound assurance office, and they possessed

means to rear a family. Before their marriage, they had both dwelt in

thought upon the delight and pure pleasure in store for them, and

after their marriage she saw baby-faces in her dreams. She mused: 'My

husband's son will be a good man, like his father, and we shall train

him well, and he will be a pride to us.' And he: 'In my baby daughter

I shall see my wife from her infancy, and I shall watch her grow to

girlhood, to pure womanhood, and shall take delight in her, for that

she is ours, the offspring of our love.' But these were dreams. No

children came; and his wife still dreamt of her shadow-baby, and

yearned to clasp it to her bosom. Years went on--they had married when

they were young--and her yearning was unsatisfied. Pain entered into

her life; a dull envy tormented her, when she thought of homes made

happy by children's prattle, and her tears flowed easily at the sight

of children. Her husband, engrossed all the day in the duties and

anxieties of his business, had less time to brood over the

deprivation, although he mourned it in his leisure hours; but she,

being always at home, and having no stern labour to divert her

thoughts from the sad channel in which they seemed quite naturally to

run, mourned with so intense a grief, that it took possession of her

soul and threatened to make her life utterly unhappy. One day he awoke

to this, and quietly watched her; saw the wistful looks she cast about

her, unaware that she was being observed; felt tears flowing from her

eyes at night. He questioned her, and learnt that her grief and

disappointment were eating into her heart; that, strive as she would,

her life was unhappy in its loneliness while he was away, and that the

sweetest light of home was wanting.

'I see baby-faces in my dreams,' she said to him one night, 'and hear

baby-voices--so sweet, O, so sweet!' She pressed him in her arms, and

laid his head upon her breast. 'And when I wake, I grieve.'

'Dear love,' he said, all the tenderness of his nature going out in

his words, 'God wills it so.'

'I know, I know, my love,' she answered, her tears still flowing.

'How can I fill up the void in her life?' he thought, and gave

expression to his thought.

Then she reproached herself, and asked his forgiveness, and cried, in

remorse, 'How could she, how could she grieve him with her sorrow?'

'I have a right to it,' he answered. 'It is not all yours, my dear.

Promise me, you in whom all my life's cares and joys are bound, never

to conceal another of your griefs from me.'

She promised, and was somewhat comforted. This was within a couple of

months of Christmas. A few nights before Christmas, as he was walking

home, having been detained later than usual at his office, he came

upon a throng of people talking eagerly with one another, and crowding

round something that was hidden from his sight. It was bitterly cold,

and the snow lay deep. He knew that nothing of less import than a

human cause could have drawn that concourse together, and could have

kept them bound together on such a night, and while the snow was

falling heavily. He pushed his way through the crowd to the front, and

saw a policeman gazing stupidly upon two forms lying on the ground.

One was a man--dead; the other a baby--alive in the dead man's arms.

He had them--the living and the dead--conveyed to the station-house;

inquiries were set afoot; an inquest was held. Nothing was learnt of

the man; no one knew anything of him; no one remembered having ever

seen him before; and the mystery of his life was sealed by his death.

He told his wife the sad story, and kept her informed of the progress,

or rather the non-progress, of the inquiry. The man was buried, and

was forgotten by all but the Silvers. Only one person attended the

parish funeral as mourner, and that was Mr. Silver, who was urged to

the act by a feeling of humanity.

'The poor baby? said Mrs. Silver, when he came from the funeral--'what

will become of it?'

In the middle of the night she told her husband that she had dreamt of

the baby. 'It stretched out its little arms to me.'

Her husband made no reply; but a few nights afterwards, having

arranged with the parish authorities, he brought home the child, and

placed it in his wife's arms. Her heart warmed to it immediately. A

new delight took possession of her; the maternal instinct, though not

fully satisfied, was brought into play. During the evening she said,

'How many helpless orphans are there round about us, and we are

childless!' And then again, looking up tenderly from the babe in her

lap to her husband's face, 'Perhaps this is the reason why God has

given us no children.'

[Illustration]

From this incident sprang the idea of helping the helpless; and year

after year an orphan child was adopted, until they had six, when their

means were lessened, and they found they could take no more. Then Mr.

Merrywhistle stepped in, and gave sufficient to lift another babe from

Desolation's lap. This last was twin-sister to Blade-o'-Grass, and

they named her Ruth. From this brief record we pass to the present

evening, when all the children are assembled in Mrs. Silver's house in

Buttercup-square.

Some little time is spent in merry chat--much questioning of the

children by Mr. Merrywhistle, who is a great favourite with them, and

to whom such moments as these are the sweetest in his life. Charley

tells over again the stirring incidents of the day, and they nod their

heads, and laugh, and clap their hands, and cluster round him. Charley

is their king.

'Come, children, sit down,' presently says Mr. Silver.

They sit round the table, Charley at the head, next to Mrs. Silver;

then come Ruth and Rachel, with hands clasped beneath the tablecloth;

then Mary and Richard. Mr. Silver produces a book; they hold their

breaths. The blind girl knows that the book is on the table, and her

fingers tighten upon Ruth's, and all her ears are in her eyes. It is a

study to watch the varying shades of expression upon her face. As Mr.

Silver opens the book you might hear a pin drop. Ruth nestles closer

to Rachel, and Charley rises in his excitement. Mr. Merrywhistle sits

in the armchair, and as he looks round upon the happy group, is as

happy as the happiest among them. It is the custom every evening

(unless pressing duties intervene) to read a chapter of a good work of

fiction, and the reading-hour is looked forward to with eager delight

by all the children. Last week they finished the _Vicar of Wakefield_,

and this week they are introduced to the tender romance of _Paul and

Virginia_. The selection of proper books is a grave task, and is

always left to Mrs. Silver, who sometimes herself reads aloud.

'Where did we leave off last night, children?' asks Mr. Silver.

'Where Madame de la Tour receives a letter from her aunt,' answers

Mary.

'Yes, from her spiteful old aunt,' adds Richard, 'and where Paul

stamps his feet and wants to know who it is that has made Virginia's

mother unhappy.'

A 'Hush-sh-sh!' runs round the table; and Mr. Silver commences the

beautiful chapter where Virginia gives food to the poor slave woman,

and induces her master to pardon her. With what eagerness do the

children listen to how Paul and Virginia are lost in the woods! They

gather cresses with the young lovers, and they help Paul set fire to

the palm-tree, and they see the Three Peaks in the distance. Then they

come to the famous part where Paul and Virginia stand by the banks of

a river, the waters of which roll foaming over a bed of rocks. 'The

noise of the water frightened Virginia, and she durst not wade through

the stream; Paul therefore took her up in his arms, and went thus

loaded over the slippery rocks, which formed the bed of the river,

careless of the tumultuous noise of its waters.' [Thinks Richard, 'O,

how I wish that I were Paul, carrying Virginia over the river!'] '"Do

not be afraid," cried Paul to Virginia; "I feel very strong with you.

If the inhabitant of the Black River had refused you the pardon of his

slave, I would have fought with him."' ['And so would I,' thinks

Richard, clenching his fists.] Night comes, and the lovers are almost

despairing. Profound silence reigns in the awful solitudes. Will they

escape? Can they escape? Paul climbs to the top of a tree, and cries,

'Come, come to the help of Virginia!' But only the echoes answer him,

and the faint sound of 'Virginia, Virginia!' wanders through the

forest. Despairing, they try to comfort each other, and seek for

solace in prayer. Hark! they hear the barking of a dog. 'Surely,' says

Virginia, 'it is Fidèle, our own dog. Yes, I know his voice. Are we,

then, so near home? At the foot of our own mountain?' So they are

rescued, and this night's reading ends happily. The delight of the

children, the intense interest with which they hang upon every word,

cannot be described. Their attention is so thoroughly engrossed, that

the figures of the young lovers might be living and moving before

them. When Mr. Silver shuts the book, a sigh comes from the youthful

audience. A pause ensues, and then the children talk unreservedly

about the story, and what the end will be--all but Ruth, who is too

young yet to form opinions. It is of course this and of course that

with them all, and not one of them guesses the truth, or has any idea

of the tragic ending of the story.

'Charley,' says little Ruth, 'you are like Paul.'

They all clap their hands in acquiescence.

'But where's my Virginia?' asks Charley.

'_I'll_ be Virginia,' cries Ruth somewhat precociously; 'and you can

carry me about where you like.'

They all laugh at this, and Ruth is quite proud, believing that she

has distinguished herself. It is strange to hear the blind girl say,

'I can see Paul with Virginia in his arms.' And no doubt she can,

better than the others who are blessed with sight. The three grown-up

persons listen and talk among themselves, and now and then join in the

conversation. The clock strikes--nine. It is a cuckoo-clock, and the

children listen to the measured 'Cuckoo! Cuck-oo!' until the soulless

bird, having, with an egregious excess of vanity, asserted itself nine

times as the great 'I am' of all the birds in town or country, retires

into its nest, and sleeps for an hour. Then a chapter from the Bible

and prayers, and in the prayers a few words to the memory of two--a

brother and a sister--who have gone from among them. For last year

they were seven; now they are five. Their faces grow sad as the memory

of their dear brother and sister comes upon them in their prayers, and

'Poor Archie!' 'Poor Lizzie!' hang upon their lips. The night's

pleasures and duties being ended, the three youngest children go to

bed, the last kind nod and smile being given to Ruth, sister to poor

Blade-o'-Grass, who lingers a moment behind the others, and with her

arm round Rachel's neck, cries 'Cuck-oo! Cuck-oo!' as her final

good-night. But the proud bird in the clock takes no notice, and

preserves a disdainful silence, although Ruth, as her custom is, waits

a moment or two, and listens for the reply that does not come. Charley

and Mary stop up an hour later than the others, reading; but before

that hour expires, Mr. Merrywhistle bids his friends good-night, and

retires.

MR. MERRYWHISTLE MEETS THE QUEER LITTLE OLD MAN.

But not to his bed. He was restless, and, the night being a fine one,

he strolled out of Buttercup-square into the quiet streets. It was a

favourite custom of his to walk along the streets of a night with no

companions but his thoughts. Almost invariably he chose the quiet

streets, for there are streets in London--north and south and east and

west--which never sleep; streets which are healthy with traffic in the

day, and diseased with traffic in the night.

Mr. Merrywhistle walked along and mused, in no unhappy frame of mind.

A visit to the Silvers always soothed and comforted him; and on this

occasion the sweet face of Mrs. Silver, and the happy faces and voices

of the children, rested upon him like a peaceful cloud. So engrossed

was he, that he did not heed the pattering of a small urchin at his

side, and it was many moments before he awoke from his walking dream,

and became conscious of the importunate intruder.

'If you please, sir!' said the small urchin, for the twentieth time,

in a voice of weak pleading.

Mr. Merrywhistle looked down, and saw a face that he fancied he had

seen before. But the memory of the happy group in Buttercup-square

still lingered upon him. What he really saw as he looked down was a

little boy without a cap, large-eyed, white-faced, and bare-footed. No

other than Tom Beadle in fact, making hay, or trying to make it, not

while the sun, but while the moon shone.

'If you please, sir!' repeated the boy, 'will you give me a copper to

buy a bit o' bread?'

Then the dawn of faint suspicion loomed upon Mr. Merrywhistle. He

placed his hand lightly upon Tom Beadle's shoulder, and said in a

troubled voice, 'My boy, haven't I seen you before to-day?'

'No, sir,' boldly answered Tom Beadle, having no suspicion of the

truth; for when the shilling was slipped into his hand, his eyes were

towards the ground, and he did not see Mr. Merrywhistle's face.

'Were you not on the Royal Exchange with a little girl, and didn't I

give you a--a shilling?'

For a moment Tom Beadle winced, and he had it in his mind to twist his

shoulder from Mr. Merrywhistle's grasp and run away. For a moment

only: natural cunning and his inclination kept him where he was. To

tell the honest truth, a lie was a sweet morsel to Tom Beadle, and he

absolutely gloried in 'taking people in.' So, on this occasion, he

sent one sharp glance at Mr. Merrywhistle--which, rapid as it was, had

all the effect of a sun-picture upon him--and whined piteously, 'Me

'ave a shillin' guv to me! Never 'ad sich a bit o' luck in all my born

days. It was some other boy, sir, some cove who didn't want it. They

allus gits the luck of it. And as for a little gal and the Royal

Igschange, I wish I may die if I've been near the place for a week!'

'And you are hungry?' questioned Mr. Merrywhistle, fighting with his

doubts.

''Aven't 'ad a ounce o' bread in my mouth this blessed day;' and two

large tears gathered in Tom Beadle's eyes. He took care that Mr.

Merrywhistle should see them.

Mr. Merrywhistle sighed, and with a feeling of positive pain gave

twopence to Tom Beadle, who slipped his shoulder from Mr.

Merrywhistle's hand with the facility of an eel, and scudded away in

an exultant frame of mind.

Mr. Merrywhistle walked a few steps, hesitated, and then turned in the

direction that Tom Beadle had taken.

'Now, I wonder,' he thought, 'whether the collector was right this

morning, and whether I have been assisting in making criminals today.'

Truly this proved to be a night of coincidences to Mr. Merrywhistle;

for he had not walked a mile before he came upon the queer little old

man, whom he had met on the Royal Exchange. The old fellow was leaning

against a lamp-post, smoking a pipe, and seemed to be as much at home

in the wide street as he would have been in his own parlour. He looked

surly and ill-grained, and his eyebrows were very precipitous. His

mild eye was towards Mr. Merrywhistle, as that gentleman approached

him, and when Mr. Merrywhistle slowly passed him, his fierce eye came

in view and lighted upon the stroller. Before he had left the old man

three yards behind him, Mr. Merrywhistle fancied he heard a chuckle.

He would have dearly liked to turn back and accost the old man, but a

feeling of awkwardness was upon him, and he could not muster

sufficient courage. Chance, however, brought about an interview. Not

far from him was a building that might have been a palace, it was so

grand and light. It was a triumph of architecture, with its beautiful

pillars, and its elaborate stonework. Great windows, higher than a

man's height, gilt framed, and blazing with a light that threw

everything around them in the shade, tempted the passer-by to stop and

admire. There were three pictures in the windows, and these pictures

were so cunningly surrounded by jets of light, that they could not

fail to attract the eye. Awful satires were these pictures. Two of

them represented the figure of a man under different aspects. On the

left, this man was represented with a miserably-attenuated face, every

line in which expressed woe and destitution; his clothes were so

ragged that his flesh peeped through; his cheeks were thin, his lips

were drawn in, his eyes were sunken; his lean hands seemed to tremble

beneath a weight of misery: at the foot of this picture was an

inscription, to the effect that it was the portrait of a man who did

_not_ drink So-and-so's gin and So-and-so's stout, both of which

life's elixirs were to be obtained within. On the right, this same man

was represented with full-fleshed face, with jovial eyes, with

handsome mouth and teeth, with plump cheeks, with fat hands--his

clothes and everything about him betokening worldly prosperity and

happiness: at the foot of this picture was an inscription, to the

effect that it was the portrait of the same man who (having, it is to

be presumed, seen the error of his ways) _did_ drink So-and-so's gin

and So-and-so's stout. A glance inside this palace, crowded with

Misery, would have been sufficient to show what a bitter satire these

pictures were. But the centre picture, in addition to being a bitter

satire, was awfully suggestive. It was this:

[Illustration]

Whether to the artist or to the manufacturer was due the credit of

ingeniously parading 'Old Tom' in a coffin, cannot (through the

ignorance of the writer) here be recorded. But there it shone--an

ominous advertisement. As Mr. Merrywhistle halted for a moment before

these pictures, there issued from the Laboratory of Crime and Disease

a man and a woman: he, blotched and bloated; she, worn-eyed and

weary--both of them in rags. The woman, clinging to his arm, was

begging him to come home--for his sake; for hers; for the children's;

for God's! With his disengaged hand he struck at her, and she fell to

the ground, bleeding. She rose, however, and wiped her face with her

apron, and implored him again and again to come home--and again he

struck at her: this time with cruel effect, for she lay in the dust,

helpless for a while. A crowd gathered quickly, and a hubbub ensued.

In the midst of the Babel of voices, Mr. Merrywhistle, looking down

saw the strange old man standing by his side. The same surly, sneering

expression was on the old man's countenance, and Mr. Merrywhistle felt

half inclined to quarrel with him for it. But before he had time to

speak, the old man took the pipe out of his mouth, and pointing the

stem in the direction of the chief actors in the scene, said, 'I knew

them two when they was youngsters.'

'Indeed,' replied Mr. Merrywhistle, interested immediately, and

delighted at the opportunity of opening up the conversation.

'She was a han'some gal; you'd scarce believe it to look at her now.

She 'ad eyes like sloes; though whether sloes is bird, beast, or fish,

I couldn't tell ye, but I've heard the sayin' a 'undred times.

Anyways, she 'ad bright black eyes, and was a good gal too; but she

fell in love'--(in a tone of intense scorn)--with that feller, and

married him, the fool!'

'What has brought them to this?'

'Gin!' said the old man, expelling the word as if it were a bullet,

and bringing his fierce eye to bear with all its force upon Mr.

Merrywhistle.

Short as was the time occupied by this dialogue, it was long enough to

put an end to the scene before them. The woman was raised to her feet

by other women, many of whom urged her to 'Give him in charge, the

brute!' but she shook her head, and staggered away in pain. Very

quickly after her disappearance the crowd dissolved, by far the

greater part of it finding its way through the swing-doors of the

gin-palace, to talk of the event over So-and-so's gin and So-and-so's

stout. Not that there was anything new or novel in the occurrence. It

was but a scene in a drama of real life that had been played many

hundred times in that locality. Presently the street was quite clear,

and Mr. Merrywhistle and the old man were standing side by side,

alone. A handy lamp-post served as a resting-place for the old man,

who continued to smoke his pipe, and to chuckle between whiles, as if

he knew that Mr. Merrywhistle wanted to get up a conversation, and did

not know how to commence. As he saw that the old man was determined

not to assist him, and as every moment added to the awkwardness of the

situation, Mr. Merrywhistle made a desperate plunge.

'When I was on the Royal Exchange to-day----' he commenced.

The old man took his pipe out of his mouth, and expelled a cloud and a

chuckle at the same moment.

'I thought you was a-comin' to that,' he said. 'You owe me a bob.'

'What for?'

'I made a bet with you--_to_ myself--that the first thing you'd speak

about was the Royal Exchange. I bet you a bob--_to_ myself--and I won

it.'

Without hesitation Mr. Merrywhistle took a shilling from his pocket,

and offered it to the old man, who eyed it with his fierce eye for a

moment, doubtingly and with curiosity, and then calmly took possession

of it, and put it in his waistcoat-pocket.

'When you was, on the Royal Exchange to-day,' he said, repeating Mr.

Merrywhistle's words, 'you sor a boy and a girl a-beggin'.'

'No,' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle warmly; 'they were _not_ begging.'

'_You_ may call it what you like,' said the old man; 'but _I_ call it

beggin'; and so would that identical boy, if I was to ask him. He

wouldn't tell _you_ so, though. The boy he looked as if he was goin'

to die, and you give him a copper or a bit of silver; and you wasn't

pleased because I laughed at you for it. Now, then, fire away.'

'Was that boy starving? Was he as ill as he looked? Was I----'

'Took in?' added the old man, as Mr. Merrywhistle hesitated to express

the doubt 'Why? D'ye want your money back? Lord! he's a smart little

chap, is Tom Beadle!'

'You know him, then?'

'Know him!' replied the old man, with a contemptuous snort; 'I'd like

to be told who it is about 'ere I don't know. And I'd like to know who

_you_ are. I'm almost as fond of askin' questions as I am of answering

'em. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. If you expect

Jimmy Wirtue to answer your questions, you must make up your mind to

answer his'n.'

'You're Mr. Virtue, then?'

'You're at it agin. No, I'm not Mr. Virtue' (he had to struggle with

the 'V' before it would pass his lips), 'but Jimmy Wirtue--and that's

not Jimmy Wice. What's your'n?'

'Merrywhistle,' replied that gentleman shortly.

Jimmy Virtue was pleased at the quick answer.

'Merrywhistle!' he exclaimed. 'That's a rum name--rummer than mine.

What more would you like to know? What am I? I keep a leavin'-shop.

Where do I live? In Stoney-alley. Now, what are you; and where do

_you_ live? Are you a Methody parson, or a penny-a-liner, or a

detective, or a cove that goes about studyin' human nater, or a

feelanthrofist. We've lots o' _them_ knockin' about 'ere.'

Mr. Merrywhistle was constrained to reply, but found himself

unexpectedly in a quandary.

'I'm a--a--O, I'm Nothing Particular,' blurting it out almost in

desperation.

'You look like it,' chuckled Jimmy Virtue, so tickled by his smart

retort as to be satisfied with Mr. Merrywhistle's vague definition

of his calling. 'We've lots of _your_ sort, too, knockin' about

here--more than the feelanthrofists, I shouldn't wonder. But I don't

think there's any 'arm in you. Jimmy Wirtue's not a bad judge of a

face; and he can tell you every one of your organs. 'Ere's

Benevolence--you've got that large; 'ere's Ideality--not much o' that;

'ere's Language--shut your eyes; 'ere's Causality--no, it ain't; you

'aven't got it. I can't see your back bumps, nor the bumps atop o'

your 'ead; but I could ferret out every one of 'em, if I 'ad my

fingers there.'

At this moment an individual approached them who would have attracted

the attention of the most unobservant. Mr. Merrywhistle did not see

his face; but the gait of the man was so singular, that his eyes

wandered immediately in the direction of the man. At every three steps

the singular figure paused, and puffed, as if he were a steam-engine,

and was blowing off steam. One--two--three; puff. One--two--three;

puff. One--two--three; puff.

'What on earth is the matter with the man?' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle

to Jimmy Virtue.

'Nothing that I knows of,' replied Jimmy Virtue; 'he's been goin' on

that way for the last twenty year. If you're lookin' out for

characters, you'll get plenty of 'em 'ere. Perhaps you're a artist for

one of the rubbishy picter-papers--one of the fellers who sees a

murder done in a Whitechapel court one day, and takes a picter of it

on the spot from nater; and who sees a shipwreck in the Atlantic the

next day, and takes a picter of _that_ on the spot from nater. That

there man's worth his ten 'undred golden sovereigns a-year, if he's

worth a penny; and he lives on tuppence a-day. The girls and boys

about here calls him Three-Steps-and-a-Puff. If you was to go and

offer him a ha'penny, he'd take it.'

By the time that Three-Steps-and-a-Puff was out of sight, the tobacco

in Jimmy Virtue's pipe had turned to dust and smoke, and he prepared

to depart also. But seeing that Mr. Merrywhistle was inclined for

further conversation, he said:

[Illustration]

'Perhaps you'd like to come down and see my place?'

Mr. Merrywhistle said that he _would_ very much like to come down and

see Jimmy Virtue's place.

'Come along, then,' said Jimmy Virtue, but paused, and said, 'Stop a

bit; perhaps you wouldn't mind buyin' a penn'orth o' baked taters

first.'

A baked-potato can, with a man attached to it, being near them, Mr.

Merrywhistle invested a penny, thinking that Jimmy Virtue intended the

potatoes for supper.

'Did you ever consider,' said the eccentric old man, as they turned

down the narrowest of lanes, 'that a big city was like a theaytre?'

'No, it never struck me.'

'It is, though I there's stalls, and dress-circle, and pit, and

gallery, in a big city like London. The west, that's the stalls and

private boxes; the north, that's the dress-circle; the south, that's

the pit; the east, that's the gallery. This is the penny-gallery of

the theaytre; 'taint a nice place to lay in.'

He stopped before the forms of two children--a boy and a girl--who,

huddled in each other's arms, were fast asleep in a gateway. He

stirred them gently with his foot; and the boy started to his feet

instantaneously, wide awake, and on the alert for his natural enemies,

the police. Mr. Merrywhistle was standing in the abutment of the

gateway, and the boy couldn't see his face; but the well-known form of

Jimmy Virtue was instantly recognised; and as the boy sank to the

ground, he muttered:

'What's the good of waking us up just as we was a-gettin' warm? You

wouldn't like it yourself, Mr. Wirtue, you wouldn't.'

Then he crept closer to his companion, and said sleepily:

'Come along, Bladergrass; let's turn in agin.'

The girl, who had been regarding the two dark shadows with a

half-frightened, half-imploring look, as if she dreaded that they were

about to turn her out of her miserable shelter, nestled in the lad's

arms, and the next minute they were asleep again. All blessings were

not denied to them.

'I know that lad,' said Mr. Merrywhistle.

'You ought to; it's Tom Beadle.'

'And he was at the Royal Exchange to-day with that poor little girl?'

'Yes, that was him. You thought he was dyin'. What do you think now?

Jimmy Virtue seemed to take positive pleasure in putting the affair in

the worst light.

Mr. Merrywhistle did not answer the question, but said, in a sad tone,

'He begged of me again to-night.'

'Did he, though!' exclaimed Jimmy Virtue admiringly.

'And when I asked him if any one had given him a--a shilling on the

Royal Exchange to-day, he took an oath that he hadn't been near the

Royal Exchange for a month, and that he had never had a shilling given

to him in all his life.'

'And did you believe him, and give him anythin'?'

'Yes' (hesitatingly), 'I gave him a trifle.'

Jimmy Virtue stopped by a post, and held his sides. When he had had

his laugh out, he said:

'Tom's a smart little thief. But you're not the first gent he's taken

in twice in one day. Come, now, he's taken you in twice with your eyes

shut; let him take you in once more with your eyes open.'

'I don't understand.'

'Them baked taters--'

'Well?'

'It wouldn't be a bad thing--like returnin' good for evil, as the

preachers say--if you was to go and put them taters in the little

girl's lap.'

'No--no--no!' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, a little violently, and

pausing between each negative, 'it'll be paying a premium for

dishonesty and lies.'

The good fellow's heart was filled with pain as he uttered these

words, which, hotly spoken, served as fuel to flame; for Jimmy Virtue

turned upon him almost savagely, and snarled:

'You're a nice article, you are, a-givin' and repentin'! I've been

took in by you, I 'ave. If I 'ad my fingers on the back o' your 'ead,

I'd find something that would do away with your bumps o' benevolence.

Dishonesty and lies! What'd you want, you and the likes? The boy's got

to live, ain't he? The boy's got to eat, ain't he? If he can't work

and don't beg, what's he to do? Steal? Yah! D'you think he's got money

in the bank? D'you think, if he 'ad his pockets full, he'd sleep in

the open air, in a gateway?'

'Stop, stop, my good friend!' implored Mr. Merrywhistle, overcome by

remorse at his hard-heartedness. He ran quickly to where the children

were lying, and deposited the baked potatoes, and a few coppers as

well, in the girl's lap and hands. When he came back to where Jimmy

Virtue was standing, he found that worthy only half mollified.

'A-givin' and repentin',' muttered the old man, as he walked towards

Stoney-alley, 'that's a nice kind o' charity!' Impelled by a sudden

thought, he turned back to the gateway, and kneeling by the side of

Blade-o'-Grass, opened her hot hand in which the pence were.

'He's not a bad chap, after all,' he murmured, as he retraced his

steps, 'but it's enough to rile a feller and put a feller's back up,

when a man gives and repents.'

JIMMY VIRTUE INTRODUCES MR. MERRYWHISTLE TO HIS PLACE

OF BUSINESS.

The moment Mr. Merrywhistle entered the habitation of Jimmy Virtue he

felt as if he were mildewed, and an impression stole upon him that he

had been lying on a musty shelf for a dozen years at least, and had

not been washed during the whole of the time. The place was dark when

they entered, and as Mr. Merrywhistle advanced cautiously, he came in

contact with soft bundles, from which a mouldy smell proceeded, and

which so encompassed him on all sides, that he was frightened at every

step he moved, lest he should bring confusion on himself. When Jimmy

Virtue lighted two melancholy wicks--tallow twelves--Mr. Merrywhistle

looked about him in wonder. It was the queerest and the dirtiest of

shops, and was filled with bundles of rags. Pocket-handkerchiefs,

trousers, coats, waistcoats, and underclothing of every description

met his eye whichever way he turned; faded dresses and dirty

petticoats (many with mud still on them, as if they had been taken off

in the streets in bad weather) so choked the shelves, that some of

them were in danger of bursting out; old boots hung from the ceiling;

old crinolines loomed upon him from the unlikeliest of places, and, as

he looked timorously up at them, yawned to ingulf him. One, hanging

behind the parlour-door, in the gloomiest corner, was so disposed,

that Mr. Merrywhistle's disturbed fancy added the lines of a woman's

form hanging in it; and the fancy grew so strong upon him, that

although he turned his back to the spot immediately, he could not

dismiss the figure of the hanging woman from his imagination. There

was an apartment behind the shop which Jimmy Virtue called his

parlour; but that was almost as full of rubbish as the shop. Neither

in shop or parlour was there fairly room to turn round in; if you

wanted to perform that movement, you had to tack for it.

'And this is your dwelling,' Observed Mr. Merrywhistle, feeling it

incumbent upon him to speak, as Jimmy Virtue led the way into the

parlour, and motioned him to a seat.

'I don't call it by that name myself,' replied Jimmy Virtue, in a not

over-polite tone. 'It's where I live and gets my livin', and I don't

give you more than a quarter of an hour.'

By which Mr. Merrywhistle understood, that beyond a quarter of an hour

it would not be politeness for him to stay.

'Ever been in a leavin'-shop before?' asked the old man.

'No,' replied Mr. Merrywhistle; 'not that I am aware of. May I ask you

what a leaving-shop is?'

'This is,' said Jimmy. 'All them things you see in the shop and in the

parlour--all them crinolines and peddicuts, and boots and dresses--

belongs to poor people round about 'ere. I lend 'em a trifle on 'em,

and takes care of 'em; and charges 'em a trifle when they take 'em

out.'

'They don't seem worth much,' observed Mr. Merrywhistle reflectively.

'Perhaps not--to you. But they're worth a deal to them they belongs

to. There's a many o' them crinolines and peddicuts that comes in and

out like a Jack-in-a-box. Their movements are as regular as clockwork.

Monday afternoon in, Sunday mornin' out.'

Here, to Mr. Merrywhistle's consternation, Jimmy Virtue took out his

mild eye--it being a glass one--and with the laconic remark, 'A damp

night makes it clammy,' wiped it calmly, and put it in again. The

effect of this upon Mr. Merrywhistle was appalling. To see that mild

eye--knowing that it was a glass one, and that a damp night made it

clammy--side by side with that fierce eye which, as he had described,

seemed inclined to fly out of its owner's head at you, was almost too

much for human endurance. And as Mr. Merrywhistle looked at them--he

could not help doing so, there was such a fascination in them--_both_

eyes seemed to glare at him, and the glare of the glass was more

dreadful and overpowering than the glare of the flesh. Jimmy Virtue,

whose one organ of sight was as potent as if he were Argus-eyed,

remarked Mr. Merrywhistle's perturbation, and quietly enjoyed it; he

did not refer to the subject, however, but considerately treated Mr.

Merrywhistle to as much of his glass eye as he could conveniently

bestow upon him.

'Speakin' of crinolines and peddicuts,' observed Jimmy, recurring to

his stock, 'they're not the only women's things that's left. We're in

the fashion down 'ere, I can tell you. In that box that you're

a-settin' on, there's a matter of seven chinons, that I takes care of

regularly a week-days--real 'air three of 'em are; them as belongs to

'em I do believe would sooner go without their stockin's a Sundays

than without their chinons. And now, jumpin' from one thing to

another, I should like to know whether you've got over your repentin'

fit, and whether you think Tom Beadle ought to be put in quod for

takin' your shillin' to-day.'

'No; I've no doubt he did it out of necessity. But I wish he hadn't

told me----'

'Lies. Don't stop at the word. Out of necessity! Ay, I should think

he did, the clever little thief. And necessity's the mother of

invention--consequently, necessity's the mother o' lies. You want a

friend o' mine to talk to you. He'd argue with you; but I fly into a

passion, and ain't got the patience that he's got. He'd talk to you

about Tom Beadle and little Blade-o'-Grass, and put things in a way

that ud stun you to 'ear.'

'Little what?'

'Blade-o'-Grass--the little girl that's sleepin' with Tom Beadle in

the gateway.'

'What a singular name!--has she a mother and father?'

'No mother; I can't say about father. I remember _him_ before the

young uns was born. He lived in this alley, and used to come into the

shop and leave his wife's things, and talk about the rights of man.

The rights of man! I tell you what he thought of them: a little while

before his wife was brought to bed, he cut away and left her. She was

brought to bed with twins--girls--and after that, she died.'

'Then Blade-o'-Grass has a sister?'

'Who said she 'as? I didn't. No, she ain't got a sister. I don't know

what came o' the other; but that don't matter to Blade-o'-Grass. Here

_she_ is, poor little devil, and that's enough for her, and more than

enough, I'll take my davy on. Time's up.'

This was an intimation that it was time for Mr. Merrywhistle

to take his departure. Wishing to stand well in the eyes of Jimmy

Virtue--notwithstanding the dreadful effect the glass eye had upon

him--he rose, and said that he hoped they would meet again; to which

Jimmy Virtue said, that _he_ had no objection.

'What do you say, now,' suggested Mr. Merrywhistle, 'to you and your

friend that you would like to talk to me coming to take a cup of tea

or a bit of dinner with me?'

'Which?' asked Jimmy Virtue. 'Tea I don't care for.'

'Dinner, then.'

'A good dinner?'

'Yes.'

'Wine?'

'Yes.'

Something very like a twinkle shone in the old man's fierce eye. He

rubbed his hand over his chin, and said,

'It's worth considerin' on.--When?'

'Next Saturday; any time in the afternoon you like to name.'

'That ud suit my friend,' said Jimmy Virtue, evidently impressed by

the prospect of a good dinner; 'he leaves off work a Saturdays at two

o'clock----'

'Then we'll consider it settled,' said Mr. Merrywhistle eagerly.

'----But I don't know that it ud suit _me_,' continued Jimmy, the

twinkle vanishing, and a calculating look taking its place. 'There's

the shop. I'd 'ave to shut it up--and then what would the customers

do? To be sure, I could put up a notice sayin' that it ud be open at

nine o'clock. I keep open till twelve Saturday night.'

'Very well; manage it that way.'

'I think you told me that you was Nothink Particular when I asked you

what you was, and bein' Nothink Particular, time's no account to you.

Now it _is_ some account to me--it's money.' Here he turned his blind

eye to Mr. Merrywhistle. 'If you want me to shut up my shop for six

hours, say, you must make it up to me. If you want Jimmy Wirtue's

company, you must pay for Jimmy Wirtue's time.'

'That's fair enough,' said Mr. Merrywhistle readily, scarcely hearing

the suppressed chuckle to which Jimmy Virtue gave vent at the answer.

'What do you value your time at?

'Sixpence an hour--three shillings for the six hours. Then there's the

disappointment to the customers, and the injury to the business; but

I'll throw them in.'

Without a word, Mr. Merrywhistle took three shillings from his pocket

and placed them on the table. Still keeping his blind side to Mr.

Merrywhistle, Jimmy Virtue tried the coins with his teeth, and said,

'Done!'

Whether he meant that he had 'done' Mr. Merrywhistle, or that the word

referred to the binding of the invitation to dinner, he did not stop

to explain, but asked,

'Where?'

'At the Three Jolly Butcher Boys, Cannon-street,' replied Mr.

Merrywhistle, not being confident that the resources of his

establishment in Buttercup-square would be sufficient to satisfy his

new and eccentric acquaintance.

'That's settled, then,' said Jimmy, 'and I'll bring my friend at four

o'clock. And now, if you don't mind takin' a bit of advice, take

this--never you go talkin' to strangers agin at such a time o' night

as this, and never you accept another invitation to visit a man you

don't know nothin' of.'

'But I knew I could trust you,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, smiling.

'Did you!' exclaimed Jimmy. 'Then I wouldn't give the snuff of a

candle for your judgment. I'll see you out of this, if you please.'

So saying, he led his visitor out of the shop. Mr. Merrywhistle could

not, for the life of him, help casting a hurried glance over his

shoulder in the direction of the special crinoline which had so

distressed him; and again the fancy came upon him, that he saw a woman

hanging behind the door. When he was in the open, however, this fancy

vanished, and he breathed more freely. They stopped to look at the

sleeping forms of Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass in the gateway. The

children were fast locked in each other's arms, and were sleeping

soundly.

In the wider thoroughfare, Jimmy Virtue bade Mr. Merrywhistle

'good-night,' and as he walked back to his shop in Stoney-alley, amused

himself by polishing his glass eye with a dirty pocket-handkerchief, and

chuckling over the remembrances of the night.

In the mean time, Mr. Merrywhistle made his way to Buttercup-square,

not ill pleased with his adventure. But in the night he was tormented

by singular dreams, the most striking one of which contained the

horrible incident of Jimmy Virtue glaring at him with his glass eye,

and swallowing at one gulp a huge baked potato, with Tom Beadle and

Blade-o'-Grass sticking in the middle of it.

THE STRANGE IDEA OF HALLELUJAH ENTERTAINED BY BLADE-O'-GRASS.

Punctually at four o'clock oh Saturday, Jimmy Virtue, accompanied by

his friend, presented himself to Mr. Merrywhistle at the Three Jolly

Butcher Boys. It might reasonably have been expected, that Jimmy would

have made some change for the better in his appearance, in honour of

the occasion; but Mr. Merrywhistle fancied that, out of defiance,

Jimmy had allowed the accumulated dust of days to lie thick upon his

clothes, and that he had purposely neglected to brush them. Indeed, he

almost asserted as much by his manner: You saw what I was, and you

forced yourself upon me; you invited me and my friend to dinner, and

you must take the consequences. His only eye, as it blazed at Mr.

Merrywhistle from under its precipice of bushy hair, seemed to be

asking of that gentleman how he liked its owner's appearance: and it

softened somewhat in the kindly glances from Mr. Merrywhistle, whose

countenance was beaming with amiability and good-nature.

'This is my friend that I spoke of,' said Jimmy Virtue; 'his name is

Truefit, Robert Truefit. Truefit by name, and Truefit by nature. This

is Mr. Merrywhistle, who sometimes gives and repents.'

Robert Truefit came forward, with a manly bow, and, when Mr.

Merrywhistle offered his hand, shook it cordially.

'My friend, Mr. Virtue, here--' he said, and was about to proceed,

when the old man struck in with,

'Now, I won't have it. Bob; I won't have it. None of your misters

because we're before company. It's Jimmy Wirtue when we are alone, and

it's Jimmy Wirtue now; and if you're a-goin' to say anythin' in

apology for me, don't. I don't want apologies made for me, and I won't

'ave 'em.'

Robert Truefit laughed, and said, 'We must let old Jimmy have his way,

sir, so I won't say what I was going to say.' Robert Truefit was about

thirty years of age, and was a stonemason by trade. He had a shrewd

intelligent face and clear brown eyes, which, young as he was, already

showed the signs of much thought. He was as manly a fellow as you

would wish to look upon, and in his speech and manner there was a

straightforwardness which at once won for him the good opinion of

those with whom he came in contact. So conspicuous was this

straightforwardness of speech and manner, that he was often called

Straightforward Bob by his comrades and those who knew him intimately.

Directly you set eyes upon him, you received the impression, not only

that he was a man to be depended upon, but that he was one who was apt

to form his own opinions, and would stand by them through thick and

thin, unless absolutely convinced, through his reason, that they were

wrong. He had a wife who adored him, and children who looked up to him

in love and respect, as to a king. He was a true type of English

manhood and English shrewd common sense.

By the time the few words were exchanged, dinner was on the table, and

Mr. Merrywhistle motioned his guests to be seated. But Jimmy Virtue,

turning his blind eye to his host, said, with an odd smile, 'I've got

two more friends outside. May I bring them in?'

Without waiting for Mr. Merrywhistle's consent, he went to the door

and brought forward Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass. Presenting them to

Mr. Merrywhistle, he went through a kind of mock introduction. Mr.

Thomas Beadle, Miss Blade-o'-Grass, Mr. Merrywhistle.

Tom Beadle made an awkward bow, and Blade-o'-Grass made a still more

awkward curtsey. Blade-o'-Grass was the only one of the four guests

who had thought fit to do honour to the occasion in the matter of

dress. Jimmy Virtue, as you have seen, had made himself shabbier than

usual; Robert Truefit was in his working clothes; and it would have

been simply impossible for Tom Beadle to have made any change in his

garments, unless he had stolen them, or had had them given to him. But

Blade-o'-Grass, who, like Tom Beadle, possessed no other clothes than

those she stood upright in--and those were as ragged as clothes could

be--had by some strange means acquired a bonnet, and it was on her

head now. Such a bonnet! If it had been gifted with a tongue, it could

doubtless have told a strange story of its career. For although now it

was only fit for a dunghill, it had been a fine bonnet once, and, torn

and soiled as it was, the semblance of a once fashionable shape was

still dimly recognisable. But Blade-o'-Grass was proud of it, wrecked

and fallen as it was from its high estate.

Now it may as well be confessed at once, that Tom Beadle was not at

his ease. When he had made his awkward bow, he raised his eyes to the

face of Mr. Merrywhistle, and recognised him. He did not know where he

was going to when Jimmy Virtue had asked him if he would like to have

a good dinner; and when he recognised Mr. Merrywhistle, he sent a

reproachful look at Jimmy Virtue, and involuntarily squared his arms

and elbows to ward off the knock on the head he expected to receive.

But as Jimmy Virtue only chuckled (knowing the fear that possessed Tom

Beadle), and as Mr. Merrywhistle was gentleness itself, the lad, after

a time, became reassured--though he still kept his elbows ready.

[Illustration]

'You sit down in the corner,' said Jimmy Virtue to the children, 'and

when we've finished dinner, you may eat what's left.'

'Nay,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, chiming in with the humour of his guest;

'there is more than enough for all. Let them eat with us.' And he

placed the children at the table, where they sat watching the filling

of their plates with gloating wonderment.

'Stop a minute, young uns,' said Jimmy Virtue, arresting their

uplifted forks, which they were clumsily handling, 'Grace before meat.

Repeat after me: For this bit o' luck----'

'For this bit o'luck,' they repeated.

'Let us say----' he.

'Let us say----' they.

'Hallelujah!'

'Alleloojah.'

'Now, you can fire away.'

And fire away they did, eating as hungry children only can eat--never

lifting their heads once from their plates until they had cleaned them

out; then they looked up for more.

Jimmy Virtue was quite as busily employed as the children, and ate and

drank with an air of intense enjoyment. Robert Truefit had more

leisure. He ate very little, having had his dinner at one o'clock.

Scarcely any conversation took place until dinner was over. Tom Beadle

and Blade-o'-Grass had eaten their fill, but they still held their

knives and forks in their hands, and looked eagerly at the remains of

the meal. Jimmy Virtue's face had a purplish tinge on it, and his

fierce eye had a mellow light in it, as he saw the children looking

eagerly at the food.

'What was it you found in your' lap the other mornin'?' he asked of

Blade-o'-Grass.

'Nothin',' was the reply.

'Not baked taters?

'No; we didn't 'ave 'em in the mornin'. Tom and me woke up in the

middle o' the night, and eat 'em.'

'Wasn't you astonished to find baked taters in your lap when you woke

up?'

'No; we was pleased.'

'Do you know who put 'em there?'

'The baked-tater man?' asked Blade-o'-Grass, after a little

consideration.

'No; it wasn't him. Guess agin.'

Blade-o'-Grass considered, and shook her head; but suddenly a gleam

lighted up her face. She pulled Tom Beadle to her, and whispered in

his ear.

'She ses, if yer please,' said Tom, 'that p'r'aps it was Alleloojah.'

At this suggestion, Jimmy Virtue was seized with one of his fits of

noiseless laughter; but both Mr. Merrywhistle and Robert Truefit

looked grave. Blade-o'-Grass and Tom Beadle saw nothing either grave

or ludicrous in the suggestion, for their attention was fully occupied

in the contemplation of the food that was on the table. Mr.

Merrywhistle, who was observing their rapt contemplation of the

remains of the feast, observed also Jimmy Virtue's fiery eye regarding

him.

'It's your'n? questioned the old man of his host.

'Yes, I suppose so.'

'You pay for it, whether it's eat or not?'

'Yes.'

'Give it to the young uns.'

'How win they take it away?'

'In a newspaper.'

Sharp Tom Beadle followed every word of the dialogue, and his lynx

eyes were the first that saw a newspaper on a sofa in the room. He

jumped from his seat, and brought forward the paper, his eyes

glistening with hope. Mr. Merrywhistle and Jimmy Virtue wrapped up

what remained of the joint of meat in the newspaper.

'Food for mind and body,' said Robert Truefit, as the parcel was given

to Tom.

Tom ducked his head, without in the least knowing what Robert Truefit

meant--and not caring either. His great anxiety was, to get away now

that he had as much as was likely to be given to him. Blade-o'-Grass

shared his anxiety. The gift of the food was such a splendid

one--there really was a large quantity of meat left on the joint--that

she feared it was only given to them 'out of a lark,' as she would

have expressed it, and that it would be taken from them presently. A

premonition was upon her, that she would be hungry to-morrow.

The children stood in painful suspense before the grown-up persons.

Their anxiety to be dismissed was so great, that they threw restless

glances around them, and shuffled uneasily with their feet. But Mr.

Merrywhistle had something to say first. He had great difficulty in

commencing, however. He coughed, and hesitated, and almost blushed,

and looked at Jimmy Virtue in a shame-faced kind of way.

'The other day,' at length he commenced, addressing himself to Tom

Beadle, 'when I saw you and Blade-o'-Grass on the Royal Exchange----'

Tom, in the most unblushing manner, was about to asseverate, upon his

soul and body, that he was not near the Royal Exchange, when Jimmy

Virtue's warning finger, and Jimmy Virtue's ominous eye, stopped the

lie on his lips.

'----On the Royal Exchange,' continued Mr. Merrywhistle, 'and gave

you--a--a shilling, were you really ill, as you seemed to me to be?'

A look of triumphant delight flashed into Tom Beadle's eyes. 'Did I.

do it well, sir? he cried, nudging Blade-o'-Grass. 'Did I look as if I

was a-dyin' by inches?'

Mr. Merrywhistle winced, as if he had received a blow.

'O, Tom, Tom!' he exclaimed gently, 'are you not ashamed of yourself?'

'No,' answered Tom, without hesitation, his manner instantly changing.

Blade-o'-Grass perceiving, with her quick instinct, that something was

wrong, and that Tom was likely to get into disgrace because he had

made the gentleman believe that he was dying by inches, stepped

forward chivalrously to the rescue.

'If you please, sir,' she said, 'you mus'n't blame Tom. It was all

along o' me he did it.'

Thereupon the following colloquy took place:

ROBERT TRUEFIT. Bravo, Blade-o'-Grass!

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE [_only too ready to receive justification_]. Come

here, child. How was it all along of you?

TOM BEADLE [_taking moral shelter behind Blade-o'-Grass_]. Tell the

gent the truth, Bladergrass; he won't 'urt you. Tell him about the

tiger.

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE [_in amazement_]. The tiger!

BLADE-O'-GRASS [_gravely_]. Yes, sir; I got a tiger in my inside.

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. Who on earth put such a monstrous idea into the

child's head?

BLADE-O'-GRASS. Mr. Wirtue knows all about it, and so does all the

others in Stoney-alley.

JIMMY VIRTUE [_nodding gravely in confirmation_]. Yes, she's got a

tiger. Tell the gentleman what it does to you, Blade-o'-Grass.

BLADE-O'-GRASS. Eats up everythink as goes down my throat, sir;

swallers every blessed bit I puts in my mouth; and when I ain't got

nothink to give it, tears at me like one o'clock. Tom's giv me grub

for it orfen and orfen, sir; I don't know what I should a' done lots

o' times if it 'adn't been for 'im. [_Mr. Merrywhistle sheds a kindly

glance on Tom Beadle, who receives it with an air of injured

innocence_.] Well, sir, last Monday the tiger was a'-goin' on orfle,

and I was so sick that I begins to cry. Then Tom comes up, and arks me

what I'm cryin' for; and I tells 'im that the tiger's a-worryin' the

inside out o' me. Tom feels in 'is pockets, but he ain't got a copper

to giv me, so he ses, 'Come along o' me,' ses Tom; and he ketches 'old

of my 'and, and takes me to the Royal Igschange. Then he ses, ses Tom,

'If anybody arks you, Bladergrass, just you say that I'm your brother,

a-dyin' of consumption. I'm a-dyin' by inches, I am.' And I cries out,

sir, for Tom looked jist as if he _was_ a-dyin' by inches. [_A smile

of triumph wreathes Tom Beadle's lips; he has the proper pride of an

artist_.] But Tom tells me not to be frightened, for he's only

a-shammin'. Then the peeler tells us to move on, and you comes up and

gives Tom a shillin'; and the first thing Tom does is to buy a poloney

for me and a 'unk o' bread for the tiger.

TOM BEADLE. I wish I may die, sir, if she ain't told the truth, the

'ole truth, and nothin' but the truth, so 'elp me Bob!

Blade-o'-Grass gazes at Mr. Merrywhistle eagerly, and with glistening

eyes, and seeing that her vindication of Tom has raised him in the

estimation of their benefactor, nods at her ragged companion two or

three times in satisfaction. Mr. Merrywhistle, in his heart of hearts,

forgives Tom for the deception--nay, finds justification for it; and

the children are allowed to depart with their spoil.

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. That's a sad sight, and a sad tale.

ROBERT TRUEFIT. England's full of such sights and such tales.

Jimmy Virtue pricked up his ears. He knew when his friend Bob was

'coming out,' and he prepared himself to listen by taking out his

glass eye and contemplating it with his fierce eye, polishing it up

the while.

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE [_gently_]. Not full of such sights, surely?

ROBERT TRUEFIT. Yes, full of them, unfortunately. Take London. There

are thousands and thousands of such children in such positions as Tom

Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass, hanging about the courts and alleys--pushed

out of sight, one might almost say. And as London is, so every other

large English city is. If they haven't shoals of boys and girls

growing up to men and women in one bad way, they have them in another

bad way. I know what old Jimmy got me here for to-day--he wanted me to

talk; he knows I'm fond of it.

JIMMY VIRTUE. Bob ought to be in Parleyment. He'd tell 'em somethin'.

ROBERT TRUEFIT. That's a specimen of old Jimmy's flattery, sir. I

don't see what good I could do in Parliament. I've got to work for my

living, and that takes up all my time; if I were in Parliament, I

should have to get money somehow to support my wife and family, and it

isn't in my blood to become a pensioner. Besides, I should be

contented enough with what's called 'the ruling powers,' if they'd

only turn their attention more to such social questions as this.

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. Ah, I'm glad of that; I'm glad you're not a

republican.

ROBERT TRUEFIT. Not I, sir--though I don't know what I might become by

and by; for there's no denying that things are unequal, and that

working men are talking of this inequality more and more every year.

You'd be surprised to know what they think about this and that. And

although I don't go so far as some of them do, I can't help agreeing

with them in many things.

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. But what do they want? Equality? Such a thing is

impossible.

ROBERT TRUEFIT. I know it is. You'd have to do away with brains before

you got that; though there _are_ a many who believe that it is to be

arrived at. Some of them are fools, and some of them are rogues; but

some of them have really worked themselves up into absolute belief.

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. Discontented people are to be found everywhere, and

under any form of government.

ROBERT TRUEFIT. Ay, that's the way a great many sum up; when they say

that, they think they have found out the cause, and that the matter is

settled. 'Tisn't the sensible way to view it.

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. What is the reason, then, of this spread of feeling

among working-men?

ROBERT TRUEFIT. That's a large question, and would take too long to

answer. But I think the penny newspaper is partly accountable for it.

They can afford to buy the penny and halfpenny newspaper, and they

read them, and talk more among themselves. You see, things press upon

them. They are arriving at a sort of belief that the laws are made

more for the protection and benefit of property than for the

protection and benefit of flesh and blood; and as _their_ value in the

market doesn't lie in land and money, but in bone and muscle, the idea

isn't pleasant to them.

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. But surely they are not right in this idea?

ROBERT TRUEFIT. Are they not? Read the newspapers, and you'll find

they are. Why, a man may do anything to flesh and blood, short

of murder, and the law won't be very hard on him. But let him

touch property, ever so little, and down it comes on him like a

sledge-hammer. I'll tell you what I read in the police reports this

morning. A man is had up at the police-court for beating his wife. The

woman is put into the box, with marks on her face and with her head

bandaged; the man doesn't deny that he beat her, and half-a-dozen

witnesses prove that he beat her cruelly; the floor of the room in

which they lived was covered with blood-stains. There is no excuse for

him; no aggravation on her part is set up; a doctor states, that if

one of the blows she received had been a little more on the left

of her head, she would have been killed; and the man gets three

months' hard labour. Afterwards, a man is brought up for stealing

three-and-sixpence. He is miserably dressed, and there is want in his

face. The evidence in this case is quite as clear as in the other. The

prisoner snatched a purse, containing three-and-sixpence, out of a

man's hand, and ran away. Being searched, not a farthing is found upon

him, nor anything of the value of a farthing. The man does not deny

the theft, and says he wanted a meal; the police know nothing of him;

and he gets three months' hard labour. Compare these equal sentences

with the unequal offences, and you will see the relative value of

property and human flesh in the criminal market.

JIMMY VIRTUE. Bob puts it plainly, doesn't he?

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. But these cases must be rare.

ROBERT TRUEFIT. They are very common; and these two cases that I have

put side by side, are two of the mildest. Listen to this--another

wife-beating case: Husband comes home at noon. What kind of man he is

may be guessed from his first words to his wife: 'I've something to

tell thee, you----! I'm going to murder thee, you----!' He takes off

his jacket, calls his bulldog, and sets it at his wife. As the dog

flies at the woman, her husband hits her in the face; the dog drags

her from the sofa, with its teeth in her flesh (it is almost too

horrible to tell, but it is true, every word of it), and the husband

jumps upon her, and kicks her on the head and shoulders. Imploring him

to have mercy upon her, crying for help, the woman is dragged by the

dog from room to room, tearing flesh out of her. The frightful

struggle continues for some time, until the woman manages to make her

escape from the house. It is dreadful to read the doctor's description

of the state of the woman, and how he feared, for three or four days,

that mortification would set in. The man is sentenced to--what do you

think? Six months' hard labour. About the same time, a very young man

is found guilty of stealing twenty shillings' worth of metal, and he

gets seven years' penal servitude. But I could multiply these

instances. You may say, that such cases as these have nothing to do

with the broad question of misgovernment; but I maintain that they

have. You get your criminal material from such places as Stoney-alley,

where poor Blade-o'-Grass lives; and yet Stoney-alley is as bad

now--ay, and worse than it was fifty years ago. The law knows of its

existence, has its wakeful eye upon it; but what has the law done for

its good, or for the good of those who live there? Take the case of

Blade-o'-Grass. What does the law do for her?--and by the law you must

understand that I mean the governing machinery for keeping society in

order and for dispensing justice to all--out of our police-courts as

well as in them. Think of the story she told, and the way in which she

told it. There is capacity for good, in that child--ay, and in Tom

Beadle, too. Can you doubt that, but for your charity, she might have

died of hunger?

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE [_eagerly_]. Then you don't disapprove of

indiscriminate charity?

ROBERT TRUEFIT. Not I; I don't disapprove of a man putting his

hand into his pocket and exercising a benevolent impulse. Your

lip-philanthropists, who preach against indiscriminate charity--what

would they do for Blade-o'-Grass? What _would_ they do! What _do_ they

do? 'Work,' they say. But they don't? give her work; don't even teach

her how to work, if such a miracle happened to fall in her way. And

all the while the policeman says, 'Move on.' I know something, through

Jimmy here, of Blade-o'-Grass--a hapless waif, an encumbrance, a blot,

serving as a theme for countless meetings and oceans of words. What

business has she in the world? But she came, unfortunately for

herself, and she is so legislated for, that to live is her greatest

affliction.

JIMMY VIRTUE. It's my opinion that a good many of the fellers who

preach agin indiscriminate charity only do so as an excuse for

buttonin' up their pockets.

ROBERT TRUEFIT [_laughing_]. And their hearts as well, Jimmy. You put

me in mind of something I saw last Sunday in Upper-street, Islington.

The people were coming out of church. A couple--evidently man and

wife-were walking before me, talking on religious matters--or, rather,

he was talking, and she was listening. I passed them just as he was

saying, 'If I haven't got the grace of God in my heart, I'd like to

know who _has_ got it?' and at the same moment as forlorn-looking a

woman as ever I set eyes on, intercepted him, and curtseyed, and held

out her hand imploringly. He pushed her aside surlily and with a sour

look on his face; and walked along talking of the grace of God. The

woman may have been an impostor--in other words, a professional

beggar; but I should be sorry to call that Grace-of-God man my friend.

No, sir, I don't think that it is a good thing to crush a kindly

impulse, or that we should treat our best feelings and emotions as so

many figures in a sum. It is not the giver who makes beggars. The

fault is in the system, which opens no road for them at the proper

time of their lives.

Mr. MERRYWHISTLE [_sadly_]. But tell me: do you see no remedy for

these ills?

ROBERT TRUEFIT. The remedy is simple. Commence at the right end. Train

up a child in the way it should go, and when it is old it will not

depart from it. And by the same rule, Train up a child in the way it

shouldn't go, and when it is old it will not depart from it. It is

almost time for me and Jimmy to be off. Jimmy wants to open his shop,

and I want to get home to my wife; but I'll just try to explain what I

mean. Two poor boys, one six and one nine years of age, lost their

mother; a few weeks afterwards they were caught taking some potatoes

from a garden. The presumption is, that they were hungry. The potatoes

were valued at one penny. The boys were sent to prison for fourteen

days, and the State thus commenced their education. I will conclude

with a personal experience. I had occasion to go to Liverpool some

little time ago, and on the day that I was to return to London I saw a

girl standing against a wall, crying bitterly. She was a pretty girl,

of about sixteen years of age. I went and spoke to her, and soon saw

that the poor girl was utterly bewildered. It appeared that she had

landed that morning in Liverpool, having been brought by her sister

from Ireland, and that her sister had deserted her. A more simple,

artless girl I never met, and she hadn't a penny in her pocket, nor a

friend in the Liverpool wilderness. I thought to myself. This girl

will come to harm. Hungry, friendless, pretty---- I went to a

policeman, and told him the story. The policeman scratched his head.

'Is she a bad girl?' he asked. I was shocked at the question, and said

no, I was sure she was not; that she was a simple good girl, almost a

child--and was as complete an outcast as if she were among savages.

The policeman shrugged his shoulders, and said civilly enough that he

couldn't do anything. 'What did you mean by asking if she was a bad

girl?' I asked. 'Well, you see,' he answered, 'if she was a bad girl,

and wanted to be took care of, I could take her somewhere.' 'Where she

_would_ be taken care of?' I asked. 'Yes,' he answered. 'And have food

given to her? 'Yes.' 'But a good girl,' I said, 'homeless, friendless,

and hungry----''Can't interfere with _them_,' said the policeman.

'She'll have to qualify herself for a refuge, then,' I could not help

saying bitterly, as I turned away, leaving the poor girl in her

distress; for I could do nothing, and had only enough money to take me

third-class to London. There, sir! You can draw your own moral from

these things. Many a working man is drawing conclusions from suchlike

circumstances, and the feeling that statesmen are ignoring the most

important problems of the day is gaining strength rapidly. For my own

part, I honestly confess that, without one tinge of socialism or even

republicanism in my veins, I am not satisfied with things as they are.

With these words, spoken very earnestly, Robert Truefit, accompanied

by Jimmy Virtue, took his departure. But Jimmy Virtue found time to

whisper in Mr. Merrywhistle's ear,

'Didn't I tell you Bob 'ud talk to you? It ain't dear at sixpence an

hour, is it?

Mr. Merrywhistle said no; it was not at all dear, and he hoped soon to

see them again.

'All right,' said Jimmy Virtue, with a last flash from his fierce eye;

'when you like;' and so departed.

[Illustration]

THE INTERLUDE.

In times gone by, it used to be the sometime fashion in the theatres

to have an interlude between the acts of the melodrama, so that the

mind might find some relief from the thrilling horrors which had just

been enacted, and might prepare itself for the more profound horrors

to come. Usually, there was an interval of time between the acts--in

most cases seven years--during which the performers neither changed

their linen nor grew any older. This was probably owing to the joyous

efforts of those who enacted the interlude, which was invariably

composed of songs and dances. Of such material as these shall part of

this interlude be composed; striking out the songs, however, and

introducing flowers in their stead, as being infinitely more innocent

and graceful than the gross and impure lessons taught by the popular

songs of the day, which unfortunately flow too readily into such

neighbourhoods as that of which Stoney-alley forms a limb. Such

teaching, in its own sad time, will bear bitter fruit--nay, it is

bearing it even now, and the poisoned branches are bending beneath the

weight.

Blade-o'-Grass was very young; but the few years she had lived

contained many imminent crises--any one of which, but for some timely

act of human kindness, might have put an end to her existence. But her

life had not been all shade, although it may appear to you and me to

have been so; there were lights in it, there were times when she

enjoyed. You and I stand in the sun, and contemplate with sadness our

fellow-creatures struggling and living in the dark. But it is not dark

to them, as it is to us; they were born in it, they live in it, they

are used to it. Such sunlight as we enjoy, and are, I hope, thankful

for, might make them drunk.

Said Tom Beadle one day to Blade-o'-Grass,

'I say, Bladergrass, why don't yer do somethin', and make a few

coppers?'

And Blade-o'-Grass very naturally answered,

'What shall I do, Tom?'

Tom was prepared with his answer.

'Lookee 'ere: why don't you be a flower-gal?'

'O, Tom!' exclaimed Blade-o'-Grass, her face flushing, her heart

beating, at the prospect of heaven held out to her. 'A flower-gal,

Tom! A flower-gal! O, don't I wish I could be!'

'You'd 'ave to wash yer face, yer know,' said Tom, regarding the dirty

face of Blade-o'-Grass from a business point of view, 'and put a clean

frock on.'

Down to zero went the hopes of Blade-o'-Grass. A clean face she might

have compassed. But a clean frock! That meant a new frock, of course.

Blade-o'-Grass had never had a new frock in her life. A new frock! She

had never had anything new--not even a new bootlace. Despair was in

her face. Tom saw it, and said,

'Don't be down in the mug, Bladergrass. We'll see if it can't be done

some'ow.'

What a hero Tom was in her eyes!

'O, Tom,' she cried, 'if I could be a flower-gal--if I could! I've

seen 'em at the Royal Igschange'--she was pretty well acquainted with

that locality by this time--'and don't they look prime!' She twined

her fingers together nervously. 'They've all got clean faces and nice

dresses. O, 'ow 'appy they must be!'

'And they make lots o' money,' said Tom.

'Do they! O, don't I wish I was them!'

'And they go to theaytres.'

'Do they! O, don't I wish I could go to the theaytre!'

'There's Poll Buttons. Why, two year ago, Bladergrass, she was

raggeder nor you. And now she comes out--she _does_ come out, I can

tell yer! _She_ sells flowers at the Royal Igschange, and she looks as

'appy--as 'appy'--Tom's figures of speech and similes were invariably

failures--'as 'appy as can be. Why, I see her the other night at the

Standard, and she was in the pit. There was a feller with her

a-suckin' a stick. Didn't she look proud! And I 'eerd Bill Britton say

as how he saw her at 'Ighbury Barn last Sunday with another feller

a-suckin' a stick.'

'Do all the swells suck sticks, Tom?' asked Blade-o'-Grass innocently.

'All the real tip-toppers do,' answered Tom.

'Perhaps there's somethin' nice in the knobs,' suggested

Blade-o'-Grass.

'Perhaps; but I don't think it. You see, it looks swellish,

Bladergrass.'

'If you 'ad a stick, would you suck it, Tom?'

'I think I should,' replied Tom, after a little consideration; 'and

I'd 'ave one with a large knob. They're all the go.' Then Tom came

back to the subject of Poll Buttons. 'She makes a 'eap o' money. Why,

I 'eerd tell as 'ow she sells crocuses and wilets for a tanner a bunch

at first. The swells buy a bunch of wilets, and then she coaxes 'em,

and ses as 'ow wilets and crocuses ought to go together, and she uses

'er eyes and smiles sweet. Stand up, Bladergrass!'

Blade-o'-Grass stood up, and Tom Beadle scrutinised her.

'Poll Buttons is a reg'lar beauty, they say. But I wish I may die if

you won't be a reg'larer beauty when you're as old as Poll is.'

'Shall I, Tom? Shall I?' And the eyes of Blade-o'-Grass sparkled, and

a bright colour came into her cheeks. Even in her ragged frock, and

with her dirty face, she looked pretty. 'Then I shall get a tanner a

bunch for my crocuses and wilets, and when the roses comes in,

I'll--I'll----' But her voice trailed off as she looked at her ragged

frock, and her lips trembled, and the little glimpse of heaven that

lay in the imaginary basket of flowers faded utterly away.

'Don't take on so, Bladergrass,' said Tom Beadle; 'who knows? I may

'ave a bit o' luck. And if I do, I wish I may die if I don't set you

up as a flower-gal! You jist keep up your 'art, and wait a bit.'

And one day Tom Beadle really went to Jimmy Virtue's leaving-shop, and

asked the price of a new cotton frock, which, after much bargaining,

he bought for two shillings and fourpence.

'Who's it for, Tom?' asked Jimmy, testing the coins before he

delivered the frock to Tom. 'Got a new sweet'art?'

'It's for Bladergrass,' replied Tom complacently. 'I'm a-goin' to set

her up as a flower-gal. I promised 'er I would when I 'ad a bit o'

luck.'

'And you've 'ad a bit o' luck?'

'Yes, a reg'lar slice.'

'How was it, Tom?'

'Arks no questions, and I'll tell 'you no lies,' responded Tom

saucily, walking away with his precious purchase.

Neither will we be too curious about how the means were acquired which

enabled Tom to give Blade-o'-Grass an honest start in life.

That first new common cotton dress! What joy and delight stirred the

heart of Blade-o'-Grass as she surveyed it! She devoured it with her

eyes, and was as delicate in handling it as if its texture had been of

the finest silk. All that she could say was, 'O, Tom! O, Tom!' She

threw her arms round Tom's neck, and kissed him a hundred times; and

Tom felt how sweet it is to give. But Tom's goodness did not end here.

He conducted Blade-o'-Grass to a room where she could wash herself and

array herself in her new dress. She came out of that room transformed.

She had smoothed her hair and washed her face, and the dress became

her. She smiled gratefully at Tom when she presented herself to him.

'I'm blessed if Poll Buttons'll be able to 'old a candle to you!'

exclaimed Tom admiringly, and Blade-o'-Grass thrilled with joy.

Thus it came about that Mr. Merrywhistle, walking near the Royal

Exchange one day, saw a clean little girl, with a basket of humble

flowers on her arm, and a bright little face looking earnestly at him.

'Bless my soul!' exclaimed the benevolent gentleman. 'Blade-o'-Grass!'

'Yes, sir, if you please. Tom's set me up as a flower-gal.'

'Tom!'

'Tom Beadle, sir; 'im as you guv a shillin' to once, and as come along

o' me when we 'ad that jolly dinner.'

'Dear me! Dear me!' said Mr. Merrywhistle, honest pleasure beaming in

his eyes. 'And Tom's set you up, eh? And you're getting an honest

living, eh?'

'Yes, sir, if you please, sir. Do you want a flower for your

button'ole, sir? 'Ere's a white rose, sir--a reg'lar beauty; and

'ere's a piece o' mingyonet to show it off', sir, and a bit o' maiden

'air to back it up.'

And before Mr. Merrywhistle knew where he was, he had put the flowers

in his button-hole, and, instructed by Blade-o'-Grass, had fastened

them with a pin she took out of her frock. It was thirty years since

he had worn a flower, the good old fellow! and as he looked upon them

now, there came to him the memory of a few sunny months when he was

young. The crowds of people, the busy streets, the noise and turmoil,

vanished from sight and sense; and for one brief moment--which might

have been an hour, the vision was so distinct--he saw fair fingers

fastening a piece of mignonette in his coat, and a fair head bending

to his breast---- It was gone! But as Mr. Merrywhistle awoke to the

busy hum about him, there was a sweet breath in his nostrils, and a

dim sweet light in his eyes. Most unwisely he gave Blade-o'-Grass a

shilling for the flowers, and patted her head, and walked away; while

Blade-o'-Grass herself, almost fearing that the shilling was a bad

one, bit it with her strong teeth, and being satisfied of its

genuineness, executed a double-shuffle on the kerbstone.

That very afternoon, Blade-o'-Grass, having had a good day, purchased

a walking cane of a street vendor. It was a cane with the largest knob

he had in his stock. This cane she presented to Tom Beadle the same

evening. Tom was immensely delighted with it. To the admiration of

Blade-o'-Grass, he put the knob in his mouth, to the serious danger of

that feature, and comported himself as became a tip-top swell.

'You're a reg'lar little brick,' said Tom; 'and I'm blessed if I don't

take you to the theaytre.'

Blade-o'-Grass jumped for joy and clapped her hands. How she had

longed to go to a theatre! And now the magic hour had come. She had

been rich enough lately to pay twopence a night for a bed, and she

went to the cheap lodging-house she patronised, and washed her face

and combed her hair, and made herself as smart as she could. Tom

Beadle had also smartened himself up, and to the theatre they went,

arm in arm, he with the knob of the stick in his mouth, and she, in

her rags, as proud as any peacock.

In what words can the awe and wonder of Blade-o'-Grass be described?

She had her own ideas of things, and she was surprised to find the

interior of the theatre so different from what she had imagined.

Boxes, pit, and gallery, she knew there were. But she had set down in

her mind that the boxes were veritable boxes, in which the people were

shut, with little eye-holes to peep through; and the pit she had

imagined as a large dark space dug out of the earth, very low down,

where the people were all huddled together, and had to look up to see

what was going on. It was to the pit they went, and for some time

Blade-o'-Grass was too astonished to speak. A very, very large O would

fitly describe her condition. Tom Beadle, on the contrary, was quite

composed; theatres were but ordinary places to him. But used-up as he

was to the pleasures of the town, he derived a new pleasure from the

contemplation of the wonderment of Blade-o'-Grass.

'O, Tom! O, Tom!' she whispered in ecstasy, edging closer to him, when

at last she found courage to use her tongue. It was a large theatre,

with a great deal of gold-leaf about it; and the audience were

evidently bent upon enjoying themselves, and vehemently applauded at

every possible opportunity. Thus, when the lights are turned up, and a

bright blaze breaks out upon the living sea of faces, there is much

clapping of hands, and much stamping of feet, and other marks of

approval. When the musicians straggle into the orchestra, they are

also vehemently applauded; but those 'high and mighty' might have been

by themselves in the Desert of Sahara, for all the heed they pay to

the audience. The occupiers of the gallery are very noisy in their

demonstrations, and issue their commands with stentorian lungs. 'Now,

then; scrape up, cat-gut!' 'Hoo-o-o-o! Scrape up! Up with the rag!'

with cries, and shouts, and whistles, which strike fresh wonderment to

the soul of Blade-o'-Grass. She is not frightened at the noise; for

even Tom Beadle puts his two little fingers to the corners of his

lips, and adds shrill whistles to the general confusion--in the

performance of which duty he stretches his mouth to such an extent

that, as a feature, it becomes a hideous mockery. But at length the

band strikes up with a crash, the sound of which is speedily drowned

in the roar of delight that follows. In due time--but not in time to

satisfy the impatient audience--the music ceases, and a general

shifting and rustling takes place among the audience. A moments

breathless expectation follows; a cracked bell gives the meanest of

tinkles; and Blade-o'-Grass bends a little more forward as that awful

and magic green curtain is drawn upwards by invisible hands. The piece

that is there and then represented to the wondering soul of

Blade-o'-Grass is a 'strong domestic drama,' as the playbill has it,

and Blade-o'-Grass gasps and sobs and catches her breath at the

'striking' situations with which the play is filled. The piece is a

narration of the struggles and vicissitudes of the poorest class of

the community--the class indeed, the lower stratum of which is

occupied by just such persons as Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass; and a

curious commentary is made on it the next day by Blade-o'-Grass, who,

dilating upon its wonders and entrancements, declares that she 'never

seed sich a thing in all her born days.' There are of course in the

piece a painfully-virtuous wife, a desperate villain, to whom murder

is child's play, a delirium-tremens beggar, a Good Young Man, and a

vilified Jew; and as these characters play their parts, Blade-o'-Grass

thrills and quivers with delicious excitement. Tom Beadle also enters

into the excitement of the representation, and stamps and claps his

hands and whistles as vigorously as any one there. But when the

'strong domestic drama' is concluded, and the glories of the burlesque

are unfolded to the ravished senses of Blade-o'-Grass, then, indeed,

is she in heaven. Never has she conceived anything so enchanting as

this. It is the first fairy story that has ever been presented to her.

How she screams over the meaningless songs! How she devours with her

eyes the display of female limbs! 'O, 'ow lovely, Tom!' she whispers.

'O, don't I wish I was them!'

'You'd look as well as any of 'em, Bladergrass,' says Tom, who knows

everything, 'if you was took in 'and, and if you could darnce.'

'O no, Tom--O no!' exclaims Blade-o'-Grass: 'I ain't got sich legs.'

Tom laughs, and whispers confidentially that 'them legs ain't all

their own. He knows a cove who knows a balley-gal, and she pads her

legs like one o'clock.' Blade-o'-Grass, in her heart of hearts, can't

believe it; but she is too much absorbed in the performance to enter

into argument. So the pageant passes before her eyes until all the

songs are sung and all the dances danced; and when the curtain falls

upon the brilliant last scene, she looks solemnly at Tom, and a great

sob escapes her because it is all over. She can scarcely repress her

tears. It is a wondrous night for Blade-o'-Grass, and lives in her

memory for long afterwards. Tom Beadle proposes 'a eel supper,' and

they sit in state, like the best nobles in the land, in a dirty box in

a dirty eel-pie shop; and as they eat their eels off a dirty plate,

with a dirty spoon and fork, Blade-o'-Grass looks up to her companion

as to a god; and Tom, noticing the girl's sparkling eyes and flushed

cheeks, says, with an approving nod, 'I'm blessed if you won't beat

Poll Buttons into fits.' Then they go home, and Blade-o'-Grass dreams

that she is an angel hanging from the flies.

That first night at a theatre filled Blade-o'-Grass with a new

ambition, and her better prospects inspired her with confidence. She

determined to learn to dance.

You will, I am sure, be amazed to hear, that every night in

Stoney-alley, when the weather was in any way propitious, there was a

ball--an open-air ball; the orchestra, an Italian organ-grinder; the

company, nearly all the dirty boys and girls in the neighbourhood. At

a certain hour every evening an Italian organ-grinder, on whose dark

face a fixed expression of stolid gloomy melancholy for ever rested,

made his appearance in Stoney-alley; and, as if he were a lost soul,

and this agony was his penance, ground out of his afflicted organ a

string of waltzes and polkas and quadrilles, so inexpressibly dismal

that the very dogs howled in despair, and fled. But directly the first

note sounded--and that first note always came out with a wail--the

children, from two years old and upwards, began to congregate, and

without any curtseying, or bowing, or engaging of partners, the

strangest ball commenced that ever was seen.

Girls with babies in their arms glided round and round in the

entrancing waltz; children who could scarcely toddle toddled round;

and young ladies without encumbrances clasped each other by the waist,

and spun round in a state of beatific bliss. When the waltz music

ended with a groan, and the polka commenced with a wheeze, the big

children hopped and the toddlers toddled in perfect contentment. Then

came the quadrilles, in which many new figures were introduced, which

Belgravia might have profited by. But the strangest dance of all was a

Scotch reel, which, by some unearthly means, had got into this

decrepit organ, and which, being set to work by the inexorable handle,

came out of its hiding-place spasmodically, and with stitches in its

side. It was a sight to remember to see these ragged children dance

this Scotch reel, with their toes up to their knees, their right arms

elevated above their heads, and their left hands stuck in their sides

as if they grew there. Blade-o'-Grass had never had courage to join in

the revels; she had been too ragged and forlorn to claim equality with

even this ragged and forlorn troop. But now her prospects were

brightening, and her ambition was roused. The very evening following

that on which she visited the theatre she boldly joined the dancers.

And there she hopped and twirled and glided until the music ceased;

and every evening thereafter she made her appearance at the

entertainment as punctually as some people attend their places of

worship, and with more devotion than many. She was looked upon as a

guest of high distinction at the ball, for she was liberal with her

farthings and halfpence. In course of time she became one of the very

best dancers in the alley, and often and often dreamt that she was a

ballet-girl, and was twirling before an admiring audience, in the

shortest of short spangled skirts, and the pinkest of pink legs.

These were the happiest days she had ever known. Now and then the

tiger set up its claims, and was not satisfied; but these occasions

were very rare. She went to the theatre often, and sometimes treated

Tom Beadle, who did not show a stupid pride and independence. She sold

flowers in the season, and lived how she could when there were no

flowers to sell. 'I wish they growed all the yeer round,' she said to

Tom many and many a time. She and Tom were always together, and it was

understood that they had 'taken up with one another.'

This being an interlude, in which the promise set forth has been

faithfully carried out--for dances and flowers have been introduced

in profusion--it will perhaps be considered out of place to mention

that, excepting that she knew how to speak an intelligible language,

Blade-o'-Grass was as ignorant of morals and religion as if she had

been a four-footed animal. But it is necessary to state this, or you

might condemn her unjustly, and look down upon her uncharitably. And

while she grew in deeper and deeper ignorance, how the great world

laboured, in which she lived and moved and had her being! One section

was in agony because a man of science had by his writings thrown doubt

on the grand story of the Creation, and had attempted to prove that

Adam and Eve were not created; and nine-tenths of the people shrunk in

horror from a man who denied the truth of biblical miracles. Yet one

and all believed in a future state--a better one than this, a higher

one than this, a holier one than this--to be earned by living a good

life, and by doing unto others as we would others should do unto us.

And Blade-o'-Grass had never raised her eyes and hands to God; she had

never said a prayer.

[Illustration]

PART II.

THE PRISON WALL.

Seven years have passed, and the curtain rises upon a high gloomy

stone wall. Grouped about the pavement which skirts the wall are

nearly a score of persons, waiting in a state of painful expectancy.

They are waiting for friends and relatives; and this gloomy stone wall

encloses a prison.

Although it is broad day, the aspect of the scene is inexpressibly

depressing. It is September; but the treacherous month has crept upon

November, and stolen one of its cheerless days, when dull sky and dull

atmosphere conspire to send the spirits down to zero. Not that these

unhappy mortals require any outward influence to render them

miserable; their countenances and attitude show that clearly enough.

There are among them young women, almost children, and they stand

about the prison with pale faces and clasped hands, with eyes cast

down to the earth. They exchange but few words; they have sufficient

special occupation in their thoughts to render them indisposed for

conversation. They are poorly clad, and some of them shiver as the

damp wind steals round the massive wall which shuts out hope.

Near to the prison door are a young and an old woman--one seventeen

years of age on her last birthday, the other seventy. The young woman

has no covering on her head; the old woman wears an ancient bonnet,

which was the fashion once upon a time. Her little wrinkled face is

almost hidden in the bonnet, and her ancient cotton dress falls in

such straight lines about her, that, but for the pale wrinkled face

and the shrivelled hands that peep from out the folds of a faded

shawl, it might reasonably have been supposed it covers the limbs of a

child. The bonnet has moved several times in the direction of the

girl-woman, as if its owner were curious about her companion; but the

girl takes no notice. At length, a piping voice asks, 'Are you waiting

for some one, my dear?'

The girl answers 'Yes,' but does not look at the questioner.

'Who for, my dear?'

No answer.

'You needn't mind me,' pipes the old woman; 'I don't mean any harm;

and it does my old heart good to talk. Perhaps you've got a mother of

your own.'

'Mother!' echoes the girl, somewhat bitterly, and yet with a certain

plaintiveness. 'No, I've got no mother; I never 'ad one as I knows

of.'

'Poor dear, poor dear! Come, my dear, talk kindly to an old woman who

might be your grandmother. Ay, I might, my dear. I'm seventy-one come

the 10th of November, and I'm waiting for my daughter. You've got a

long time before you, my dear, before you come to my age.'

'Seventy-one!' exclaims the girl, '_I_ shall never be seventy-one. I

shouldn't like to be. What's your daughter in for? How old is she? She

must be older than me.'

'She's thirty, my dear, and she's in for begging. What's yours in

for?'

'My what in for?' sharply and sullenly.

'Your friend. You needn't be so sharp with an old woman like me. You

may be a mother yourself one day, poor dear!'

The girl turns with a gasp--it may be of joy or pain--and takes the

old woman's hand and begs her pardon.

_Her_ friend is in for worse than beggin', the girl says, and relapses

into silence, retaining the old woman's hand in hers, however, for a

little while.

Many persons pass this way and that, but few bestow a second glance

upon the group; and even if pity enters the heart of one and another,

it does not take practical shape, and in its passive aspect it is, as

is well known, but cold charity. One man, however, lingers in passing,

walks a few steps, and hesitates. He has caught a glimpse of a face

that he recognises, and it is evident that he is distressed by it. He

turns boldly, and pauses before the forms of the old woman and the

girl.

'Blade-o'-Grass!' he exclaims.

She raises her head, and looks him in the face. No shame, no fear, no

consciousness of degradation, is in her gaze. She drops him a curtsey,

and turns her face towards the prison doors.

Girl as she is, she is a woman, and well-looking. Her dress is of the

poorest, and she is not too tidy; but the grace of youth is upon her.

It is not upon all who are brought up as she has been. But she has

this charm, and good looks as well; and she is grateful for them, for

she likes to be called pretty. Remember that, at that momentous period

in the life of Blade-o'-Grass when her future hung on a chance, Mrs.

Manning 'kept the prettiest one, the one with the dimple.'

What is it that causes the gravest of expressions to pass into the

countenance of Mr. Merrywhistle as Blade-o'-Grass looks up? He does

not say; but the grave expression remains upon his face during the

interview. He has not seen her since the spring. Somehow or other, he

lost sight of her. Years ago, when Tom Beadle 'set her up' as a

flower-girl, he had a strong inclination to do some substantial good

for her--to remove her from the associations by which she was

surrounded, and which dragged her down to the lowest level. But, in

the first place, he could ill afford it; and, in the second, when he

had spoken of his wish to Jimmy Virtue, that worthy had asked him if

he thought he could take all the world's work upon his one pair of

shoulders. 'And after all,' Jimmy Virtue had said, 'isn't the gal

gettin' a honest livin'?'

The old woman peers into Mr. Merrywhistle's face, and as her ancient

bonnet goes up in the air, it seems capacious enough to bury her whole

body in. Mr. Merrywhistle gives her a kind look, and addresses himself

to Blade-o'-Grass.

'This is not a fit place for you--' he is about to add, 'my poor

child,' but her womanly appearance checks him.

'Ain't it?' she replies, with a smile on her lips that is not pleasant

to see. 'What is then?'

He is surprised at her reckless manner. 'Have you business here? Are

you waiting for any one?

'Yes.'

'For whom?'

'Ah, that's what I asked her,' pipes the old woman; 'but she wouldn't

tell me.'

'I'm waitin' for Tom,' she says, answering him.

'Tom Beadle?'

'Yes, Tom Beadle.'

'Is he in prison, then?' he asks, very gently.

'Yes; he's been doin' a month.'

'What for?'

'What does it matter? Priggin'--anythin'.'

Perceiving that Blade-o'-Grass does not wish to pursue the

conversation, Mr. Merrywhistle steps aside, sad at heart; but lingers,

looking pityingly at Blade-o'-Grass. As he does so, a clock strikes

the hour, and the eyes of the expectant group turn eagerly to the

prison door, which presently opens. Six or seven persons walk out. The

women blink their eyes as they come into the light; the men shake

themselves like dogs; some raise their hands to their brows, and look

about them as Gulliver might have done when he found himself in a

strange land. The little old woman hastens to her daughter, a

patient-looking woman, and for a moment two faces are hidden in the

ancient bonnet. One man, who has seven or eight friends waiting for

him, shakes his fist at the prison, and kicks the stone wall savagely.

'That's how I'd like to serve the guvner of that there cussed hole!'

he exclaims. 'Give me something to drink, or I shall choke!'

Another man looks around with a vacant stare: there is no one to meet

him. With something like a sigh his head sinks into his shoulders, and

he slinks away, hugging the wall as he goes.

The last to come out is Tom Beadle. Blade-o'-Grass is by his side in

an instant.

'Come along, Tom,' she says, clinging fondly to his arm, and pulling

his face down to hers and kissing it; 'I've got something nice to eat

at home.'

'You're a good sort, Bladergrass,' says the thief. 'Let's get away

from this place quick, and go home.'

Home! Yes, to Stoney-alley, not twenty yards from where her mother had

died. A room in an attic, which had been thoroughly cleaned and made

tidy for the return of the prodigal. No furniture to speak of; a fire,

and a saucepan on the hob; a mug of beer, a flat bottle with gin in

it; one chair and a stool, and a table; a bed in the corner.

Tom surveys the room with satisfaction beaming in his eyes.

Blade-o'-Grass looks at him, and joy breaks like sunlight over her

face because he is pleased.

'Drink some beer, Tom.'

He takes a deep draught, puts the jug down, heaves a long breath, and

repeats,

'You're a real good sort, Bladergrass. Give us another kiss, old gal!'

ONE OF MANY HAPPY NIGHTS.

But that the gray streaks are thickening in Mrs. Silver's hair, and

that her husband is fast growing bald, it might have been but

yesterday that we were sitting with them in the cosy parlour in

Buttercup-square. Everything inanimate is the same as it was seven

years ago, and does not appear to have grown any older or shabbier;

the very cuckoo in the clock retains its youth, and its tones, as it

asserts itself to be the great 'I am,' are as fresh as ever they were.

Hark! it is speaking now, and 'Cuck-oo!' issues six times from its

throat, sparklingly, as if defying time. It is six o'clock. The days

are drawing in, and it is dark enough for lights. But Mr. and Mrs.

Silver sit in the dusk before the fire, talking of the matters nearest

to their hearts. Their married life has been a happy one--with clouds

in it, of course. Natural griefs and sorrows have come to them, as to

others. At first a storm threatened their future, but it did not burst

over them. The exercise of kindly impulse; the wise and good desire to

accept the inevitable, and to make the loneliness of their lives a

means of happiness to others; their dependence on one another, and

mutual love and faith; their recognition, in their every action,

of higher duties of life than are generally acknowledged in

practice,--turned the storm to sunshine, brought happiness to them. If

they were to die now, they would be blessed with the happy assurance

that their lives had been productive of good to others. So might we

all live; so should we all live. The world would be the better for it.

No man or woman is unblessed with the want of continual opportunity

for doing good or being kind.

'Christmas will very soon be here once more,' says Mr. Silver.

'We'll have a merry gathering,' Mrs. Silver answers. 'There will be

changes before the next comes round.'

'Yes; our little children are men and women now.'

'Good men and women, thank God!'

'Wife,' he says, 'I have thought many times of your words when I

brought little Charley home twenty-three years ago. The child was

lying in your lap, and you said, "Perhaps this is the reason why God

has given us no children."'

She looks at him with a tender light in her eyes. Between these two

love does not show itself in words, but in ministering to each other

unselfishly.

'They have been a blessing to us, dear,' she says. 'Our household will

be smaller presently. Charley and Ruth, I think, are fond of each

other. He brings her home now every night.'

'What did Charley earn last week?

'Thirty-eight shillings.'

'Is that sufficient to marry on?'

'Quite sufficient, and to spare; and Charley has money put by to start

with. They must live near us. Charley would like to, I know, and Ruth

too; but it will be time enough to talk of these things by and by.'

'Carry your mind ten years on, my dear.'

'Well, I do so.'

'What do you see?'

'If we live?'

'If we live.'

She muses a little, looking into the fire.

'Ourselves old people; Charley and Ruth happily married, with

children of their own; Mary married also, although her prince

is not yet come, and is a stranger to us. Richard will go abroad:

I can tell, by his reading and conversation, that his heart is set

upon it. And Rachel--poor Rachel!--stopping sometimes with us, and

sometimes--nearly always indeed--with Ruth and Charley. I can see

myself with hair perfectly white, and you with only a fringe of white

hair round your head.'

He laughs softly and pleasantly, and caresses her hand.

'I can see nothing but happiness, dear.'

They sit quietly before the fire, and the darkness grows deeper. The

door opens, and Mr. Merrywhistle enters softly.

'Don't stir,' he says; 'and don't light the gas. I was told you were

here, and I know how fond you are of sitting in the dark.'

It was indeed a favourite habit with them when they were alone. He

sits by them in silence; for a minute or two no word is spoken. Then

Mrs. Silver places her hand lightly on his shoulder.

'I understand, I understand,' he says; 'you are waiting for me to

speak. You always know when I am in trouble.'

'How can I help knowing? Your face I cannot see, but I hear your heart

in your voice.'

'Tell me: is it a good thing to make other persons' troubles ours?'

'What is sympathy for?' she answers in return.

'I have spoken to you now and again of a child--a girl--whom I have

seen occasionally----

'The flower-girl?'

'Yes, the flower-girl; the girl whom I met for the first time in the

company of a boy who deceived me--a boy who told me the most

unblushing l---- stories, and who yet had some humanity in him.'

'That is many years ago. The girl must be almost a woman now.'

'She _is_ a woman, God help her!--more woman than her years warrant I

should think she is about the same age as Ruth. And it comes upon me

again, that fancy, when I speak of Ruth and think of this poor girl.'

'Yes; you have told us there is a singular likeness between them.'

'It is striking--wonderfully striking. But there can be nothing in it;

for Ruth, you have said, was the only child of a poor woman who died a

fortnight after the little thing was born.'

'Yes, my friend.'

'So that it is pure accident; but the fancy remains, for all that I

shall never forget the sad story that this poor Blade-o'-Grass told me

of the tiger that worried her, and clamoured for food. It was hunger,

my dear friends, hunger. I shall never forget her notion that

Hallelujah came to her while she was asleep, and put baked potatoes in

her lap. I shall never forget my pleasure when I first saw her with a

basket of flowers, and bought a flower of her. But I have told you of

these things before, and here I am babbling of them again, like an old

man that has lost his wits.'

'Never mind, friend; go on.'

'I saw poor Blade-o'-Grass this morning. I haven't seen her for many

months. I had occasion to pass by a certain prison early, and I saw

her, with a dozen others, waiting outside. She was waiting for this

boy that was--this man and thief that is. I lingered until the

prison doors were opened, and let him and others out. And when he

came'--there were tears in the old man's voice as he spoke--'and when

he came, this unhappy girl kissed him and clung to him as with less

shame she might have kissed and clung to a better man, had she been

taught something good when she was younger.'

'My dear, dear friend!' says Mrs. Silver, taking his hand in hers.

'I cannot tell you what I feared as I saw her, and spoke to her before

the prison doors were opened. Poor Blade-o'-Grass! poor child! Nay,

let me have my way.'

And this good old man, whose heart is as tender as that of a good

woman, sheds tears and trembles; if a daughter's happiness had been at

stake, he could not have been more moved. Wisely, Mr. and Mrs. Silver

do not disturb him, but talk together of other subjects until Mr.

Merrywhistle exclaims, with something of his usual cheerfulness, 'What

on earth are we sitting in the dark for?' Whereat Mr. Silver smiles,

and lights the gas. As if the light is the means of suddenly waking up

the cuckoo from a nap, it immediately proclaims seven o'clock, and in

another hour the whole of Mrs. Silver's family are assembled in the

parlour. Rachel, the blind girl, has no outdoor occupation, but all

the others have. Charley, as you know, is a printer, and, being out of

his time, is earning good wages; Richard is a watchmaker, still an

apprentice, and making famous progress; and Mary and Ruth are both of

them in the postal telegraph office. For it has been part of Mrs.

Silver's plan to give her family the opportunity of making their way

in the world, and boys and girls have been taught that to work is one

of the chief duties and one of the best blessings of life. Charley and

Ruth come in together. He has grown quite a man since we last saw him,

and Ruth, Blade-o'-Grass's sister, is as bright and cheerful-looking a

lass as one can meet. She is particularly bright just now, and looks

particularly happy, for she and Charley have had a brisk walk; her

cheeks are glowing healthfully, and there is a bright sparkle in her

eyes. Then questions are asked and answered. The events of the day are

narrated, and it is wonderful what interest is manifested in these

trifles. Every few minutes the comfortable parlour in Buttercup-square

is filled with merry laughter.

'Come, come, children,' says Mr. Silver, after nearly an hour has been

spent in this manner; 'are we to have any reading to-night?'

The books are instantly brought forward, and the youngsters are busy

turning over the leaves. When last we were in their company they were

deep in the beautiful story of Paul and Virginia. Since then, they

have had rare nights with their favourite authors, and have laughed

and cried, as hundreds of thousands of others have done, over the

sayings and doings of the men and women and children who play their

parts in the pages of Thackeray and Scott and Dickens and Jerrold, and

authors of long ago. It is not a novel that engages their attention

now; this is one of their 'play' nights, when scenes from Shakespeare

are read. When the rustling of the leaves has ceased, they all with

one accord turn to Rachel, the blind girl. She knows they are looking

at her, and her face flushes as she says, 'Yes, I am ready.' Then says

Richard, in a deep bass voice, laying his finger on the first line of

the fourth act of _The Merchant of Venice_, 'What, is Antonio here?'

And Charley forthwith answers, 'Ready, so please your grace;' and the

play commences. They all take parts, with the exception of Mr.

Merrywhistle, who is the audience, and who applauds as if the house is

packed, and there is not standing room for one. Mr. Silver takes

Shylock (the villain's part generally falls to his share), and Ruth

reads the few lines that Nerissa has to say. But the great wonder of

the reading takes place when Richard, as the Duke, says,

'You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes:

And here, I take it, is the doctor come.'

_Up rises Rachel, the blind girl_.

'Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario?'

And Rachel bows, and answers, in a gentle voice, 'I did, my lord.' The

scene proceeds, and Rachel speaks Portia's lines with grace and power,

and does not falter at a word. How they all praise her and cluster

round her when the act is finished, and the books are closed!

But this is only one of very many such nights passed in that happy

home in Buttercup-square.

FACE TO FACE--SO LIKE, YET SO UNLIKE.

On the following Saturday, Ruth and Charley had a holiday, which, with

the sanction of their kind guardians, they intended to spend at the

International Exhibition. The holiday had been planned a month before

its arrival, and had indeed been the occasion of an innocent

conspiracy between Ruth and Rachel and Charley, and of much mysterious

conversation. Rachel was to accompany them. The day, which had been

looked forward to with such rapturous anticipation as only the young

can experience and enjoy, at length arrived. In a very flutter of

delight, the two girls and their hero--for Charley was Rachel's hero

as well as Ruth's--bade Mrs. Silver good-morning, and went out into

the streets with joy in their hearts. Very tender were they to each

other, and very tender were Ruth and Charley to their blind companion.

No words of love had passed between Ruth and Charley, although their

attachment was known to their kind guardians, as you have read. But,

indeed, no words were required; their looks, their almost

unconsciously-exercised tenderness towards one another, were

sufficient confirmation of mutual affection. These two young persons

were enjoying the purest, happiest dream that life contains. May all

the grown-up people who read these pages have enjoyed such a pure and

happy dream! May all others live to enjoy it!

Ruth and Charley, of course, with the usual blindness of lovers,

believed that no one noticed anything particular in their behaviour;

but in this respect they were as blind as Rachel--more so indeed, if

there be degrees in blindness, for even she guessed their secret In

the course of their rambles through the Exhibition, she sat down and

asked to be left alone for a while, and when Ruth and Charley

demurred, insisted, with a pretty and affectionate wilfulness, on

having her own way.

[Illustration]

'And don't hurry,' she said, turning her face to them and smiling

sweetly. 'You will find me here when you come back. I am tired, and

want a long, long rest.'

And there the blind girl sat, seeing nothing, enjoying everything,

while unsuspecting Ruth and Charley wandered away into fairyland, arm

in arm. Soft strains of music came to Rachel's ears, and she listened

and drank them in, with clasped hands and head inclined, She was as

one inspired; visions of beauty passed before her, and the melodious

notes were imbued with palpable loveliness for her. Many a passer-by

paused to look at her beautiful face, and felt the better for it, and

a great lady came and sat down beside her. When the music ceased, the

lady said, 'My dear, are you here alone?'

'O no,' replied Rachel, 'I have friends; I asked them to let me sit by

myself. I wanted to listen to the music. They will come for me

presently.'

'You love music?'

'Who can help loving it? I can see it'

The lady's voice was soft and sweet, and Rachel _felt_ goodness in her

manner. 'Tell me,' she said, 'what is before me.'

They were sitting opposite a piece of sculpture--a perfect work--and

the lady described it, and described it well, and told the story that

it illustrated.

'Ah,' sighed the blind girl, 'it is beautiful!'

The lady was accompanied by her husband and child.

'Is this your little daughter?' asked Rachel.

'My dear,' exclaimed the lady, 'I thought--thought----'

'That I was quite blind,' said Rachel, smiling. 'So I am. But

see--your little girl's hand is in mine.'

And indeed the child, who was standing by her mother's side, had

placed her hand in Rachel's, beneath the folds of the blind girl's

shawl.

'And without that I think I could tell,' added Rachel.

'Yes, my dear, it is my little girl,' said the lady.

Rachel stooped and kissed the child, whose hand stole round Rachel's

neck, and caressed it. Lips purer and more innocent had never met. So

they sat, talking for a little while longer, until Rachel raised her

face, and smiled a happy greeting to Ruth and Charley, who were

standing before her. The lady and the child bade good-bye to Rachel,

and kissed her; and when they met again, an hour afterwards, the child

gave Rachel a flower.

Like the incense of a breeze that has been wandering among

sweet-smelling plants; like the soft plash of water on a drowsy day;

like the singing of birds, are such small circumstances as these.

Thank God for them!

And what had Ruth and Charley been doing? Dreaming--nothing

more--walking almost in silence among the busy eager bustling crowd,

standing before works of beauty, and enjoying. Everything was

beautiful in their eyes. Perfect harmony encompassed them; the

commonest things were idealised; their souls were filled with a sense

of worship.

How quickly the hours passed! It seemed to them that they had been in

the place but a few minutes, and it was already time for them to go.

They left with many a sigh, and many a parting glance at the wonders

which lined the spaces through which they walked. Ruth's hand was

clasped in Charley's beneath her mantle, and a tender light was

in her eyes as they made their way through the restless throng.

It was still light when the omnibus put them down within a mile of

Buttercup-square. The tramway carriage would have carried them to the

avenue that led to Buttercup-square; but both Ruth and Rachel

expressed a desire to walk, wishful perhaps to prolong the happy time.

Charley, nothing loth, gave an arm to each of the girls, and they

walked slowly onwards, Rachel being nearest to the wall. They were

passing a man and a girl, who were talking together. The girl had just

uttered some words to the man, who was leaving her, when Rachel cried

suddenly in a voice of alarm,

'Ruth, was it you who spoke?'

Her face was deadly pale, and her limbs were trembling.

'No, Rachel,' answered Ruth, surprised at the blind girl's agitation.

As she replied, both she and Charley turned, and saw Blade-o'-Grass.

Thus, for the first time since their infancy, the sisters looked each

other in the face. Each saw, instantaneously, such a resemblance to

herself, that they leant towards each other in sudden bewilderment

Their gaze lasted scarcely as long as one might count three, for

Charley hurried Ruth and Rachel on; he also had seen with amazement

the likeness that Blade-o'-Grass bore to Ruth, and that there

should be any resemblance to his treasure in such a forlorn

disreputable--looking creature as Blade-o'-Grass, smote him with a

sense of pain. Ruth walked along, dazed; but before they had gone a

dozen yards she stopped, and pressed her hand to her heart.

'Ruth! dear Ruth!' exclaimed Charley, placing his arm round her, for

indeed she was almost falling. She released herself, and said in a

faint voice:

'Rachel, why did you ask if it was I who spoke?'

'The tone was so exactly like yours, Ruth,' answered Rachel, 'that the

words slipped out from me unaware. Who was it that spoke?'

'It must have been a poor girl whom we have just passed.'

'What is she like?' Ruth's lips trembled, but she did not answer the

question.

'Why must the words have slipped from you unaware, Rachel?'

'Because, if I had considered an instant, I should not have asked. You

could not have said such a thing.'

'What thing?--Nay, Charley, don't interrupt me,' said Ruth, in such an

imploring tone, that he was mute from fear, for Ruth's eyes were

filled with tears, and her face was very pale. 'What thing, Rachel?'

'Just, then,' answered Rachel slowly and solemnly, 'a voice said, "For

God's sake, Tom, bring home some money, for there's not a bit of bread

in the cupboard!"'

'Charley!' cried Ruth hurriedly, 'stand here with Rachel for a few

moments. Don't follow me; let me go alone.'

She was his queen, and he obeyed her; but his apprehensive looks

followed her, although he did not stir from the spot Ruth hastened to

where Blade-o'-Grass was standing. The poor outcast was very wan and

wretched. Ruth knew part of her own history; for Mrs. Silver, when her

adopted children arrived at a proper age, had told them, gently, as

much of the story of their lives as she deemed it right and necessary

for them to know. The hours in which she unfolded their stories to her

children were quiet and solemn; there was no one present but she and

her adopted one; and she told them their history so gently and with

such sweet words of love, that they were never unhappy when they

learnt the truth. Ruth therefore knew that she was an orphan; and she,

in common with the others, had shed many grateful tears, and had

offered up many grateful prayers, for the merciful heart that had made

life a blessing to her. As she stood before her sister, so like, yet

so unlike--her sister never to be recognised, or acknowledged as of

her blood--the thought came to her, 'But for my dear good mother I

might have been like this--ragged, forlorn, hungry, with not a bit of

bread in the cupboard!'

Blade-o'-Grass, whose wistful eyes had followed the strange likeness

to herself, saw Ruth turn back, and dropped a curtsey as her sister in

her warm soft dress stood before her.

Then said Ruth timidly, 'It _was_ you who said that?' She herself

might have been the suppliant, her voice and manner were so quiet and

humble.

'Said what, miss?'

'That you hadn't a bit of bread in the cupboard.'

'It's true, miss, and to-morrow's Sunday.'

Ruth thought of what a happy day the Sabbath was to her and hers in

Buttercup-square, the goodness of it, the peacefulness of it! And this

forlorn girl before her, the sight of whom had so strangely unnerved

her, had only one thought of that happy Sabbath to-morrow--whether she

would be able to get bread to eat. Tears choked her voice as she

asked, 'Will you tell me your name?'

'Blade-o'-Grass, miss.'

Ruth looked up in surprise. 'Is that your real name?'

'Yes, miss, I ain't got no other.' Ruth's hand had been in her pocket

from the first, with her purse in it; but she could scarcely muster

sufficient courage to give. She judged poor Blade-o'-Grass with the

eyes of her own sensitive soul, and felt that if money were offered to

her, she would sink to the earth in shame.

'Will you pardon me,' she said hesitatingly, the hot blood flushing

her neck and face; 'will you pardon me if I offer you--if I beg of you

to--to----'

The hand of Blade-o'-Grass was held out eagerly, imploringly, and Ruth

emptied her purse into it. Blade-o'-Grass wondered at the munificence

of the gift, and the modesty with which it was given, and her fingers

closed greedily on the silver coins.

'God Almighty bless you, miss!' she exclaimed, taking Ruth's hand and

kissing it 'God Almighty bless you!' The tears were streaming down

both their faces. A warm hand pressure, a last grateful look from

Blade-o'-Grass, and the sisters parted.

'O, Charley! Charley!' sobbed Ruth, as she clasped his arm, 'I might

have been like that!' They walked in silence to their home, and Ruth

whispered to her companions not to say anything to their kind

guardians of what had taken place. 'It might make them sad,' she said.

It was dusk when they went indoors. Rachel went to her room first, and

Ruth and Charley lingered in the passage.

'Ruth!' he whispered.

She laid her head upon his breast with the confidence and innocence of

a child. He stooped and kissed her cheek, still wet with her tears.

She clung to him more closely--hid her face in his neck. A wondering

happiness took possession of them.

ROBERT TRUEFIT ALLOWS HIS FEELINGS TO MASTER HIM.

The chance acquaintanceship which had so strangely sprung up seven

years ago between Mr. Merrywhistle, Robert Truefit, and Jimmy Virtue

had ripened into intimacy, and it was not unusual for the three to

meet in the old man's leaving-shop in Stoney-alley. The shop and the

stock were, on the whole, less fragrant than on the occasion of Mr.

Merrywhistle's first introduction to them. An additional seven years'

mouldiness lay heavy on the shelves; but familiarity had rendered the

musty vapour less objectionable to the benevolent gentleman. There was

no perceptible change of importance in Jimmy Virtue; his skin

certainly had got tougher and dryer and yellower, but otherwise he did

not seem to be a day older. His eyebrows were as precipitous, and his

glass eye as mild, and his fierce eye as fierce, as ever they were. No

perceptible change either was to be observed in the articles which

filled his shop: the same faded dresses and dirty petticoats were

crammed into inconvenient corners; the same crinolines loomed from

unlikely places; the same old boots hung from the ceiling; and

doubtless the same vanities of vanities were enclosed in the box which

served as a resting-place in Jimmy Virtue's parlour.

It was a dull, miserable November night. A thick fog had lain upon

Stoney-alley during the day, necessitating the use of candles and gas;

towards the evening the fog had cleared away, and a dismal rain had

set in; Stoney-alley and its neighbouring courts and lanes were

overlaid with dirty puddles. It was by a strange chance, therefore,

that Mr. Merrywhistle and Robert Truefit found themselves in Jimmy

Virtue's parlour on this evening; they said as much to each other.

Each of them had some special business which brought them in Jimmy's

neighbourhood, and he expressed his pleasure when he saw them. They

were the only living friends he had; other friends he had, but they

were not human; notwithstanding which some hours would have hung

dreadfully upon Jimmy's hands, if he had been deprived of them. These

friends were aces, deuces, knaves, and the like; in other words, a

pack of cards. Very dirty, very greasy, very much thumbed and

dog's-eared, but very useful. Jimmy spent comfortable hours with these

friends. Sitting in his chair, he would place an imaginary opponent on

the seat opposite to him, and would play blind All-Fours with his

unreal foe for large sums of money. 'Jack' was the name of his

opponent, and Jimmy often talked to him, and called him a fool for

playing, and abused him generally for incapacity. For Jimmy nearly

always won; and many and many a night Jack was dismissed a ruined and

brokenhearted shadow, while Jimmy, after putting up his shutters, let

down his turn-up bedstead, and went to bed a winner of hundreds,

sometimes of thousands of pounds. For Jack's wealth was enormous; he

never refused a bet, never declined 'double or quits.' So reckless a

player was he--being egged on by Jimmy--that it was impossible he

could have come by his money honestly. Be that as it may, his

ill-gotten gains were swept into Jimmy's imaginary coffers, to the old

man's delight and satisfaction. It is a positive fact, that Jimmy had

grown into a sort of belief in Jack's existence, and often imagined

that he saw a shadowy opponent sitting opposite him. There was a very

good reason why Jimmy so invariably won and Jack so invariably lost.

Jimmy cheated. He often slipped into his own cards an ace or a knave

that properly belonged to Jack. When Jimmy did this, his manner was as

wary and cautious as though flesh and blood opposed him. It was a

picture to see this old man playing All-Fours with Jack for ten pounds

a game, or for 'double or quits,' and cheating his helpless adversary.

When Mr. Merrywhistle and Robert Truefit entered Jimmy's parlour--they

had met at the door of the leaving-shop--he was playing greasy

All-Fours with Jack, and had just scored a winning game. Robert

Truefit always had something new to speak of: a trade-union outrage, a

strike, a flagrant instance of justices' justice, a mass meeting and

what was said thereat, and other subjects, of which a new crop springs

up every day in a great country where tens of millions of people live

and have to be legislated for. The late war, of course, was a fruitful

theme with Robert Truefit, who spoke of it as an infamous outrage upon

civilisation. Especially indignant was he at the sacrilege which lay

in one king invoking 'the God of Battles,' and in the other praying to

the Supreme to assist him in bringing desolation and misery to

thousands of homes. But this is no place for the outpourings of

Robert's indignation on those themes. From those lofty heights they

came down, after a time, to Blade-o'-Grass. It was Mr. Merrywhistle

who introduced her name. He asked Jimmy if he had seen her lately. No;

Jimmy hadn't seen her for a month.

'You see,' said Jimmy, 'she's a woman now, and 'as been on 'er own

'ook this many a year. Besides which, once when I spoke to her she

was sarcy, and cheeked me because I wanted to give 'er a bit of

advice--good advice, too. But she was up in the stirrups then.'

'Has she ever been prosperous?' inquired Mr. Merrywhistle.

'Well, not what _you_ would call prosperous, I daresay; but she's 'ad

a shillin' to spare now and agin. And then, agin, she 'asn't, now and

agin. She's 'ad her ups and downs like all the other gals about 'ere;

you couldn't expect anythin' else, you know. And of course you've

'eerd that Tom Beadle and 'er----'

'Tom Beadle and her--what? asked Mr. Merrywhistle, as Jimmy paused.

'O, nothin',' replied Jimmy evasively; 'it's sich a common thing that

it ain't worth mentionin'.'

'I saw her myself about six weeks ago,' said Mr. Merrywhistle; and he

narrated how he had met Blade-o'-Crass outside the prison, and what

had passed between them, and what he had seen. 'Tell me,' he said,

'is she married to Tom Beadle?'

Jimmy Virtue's eye of flesh expressed that Mr. Merrywhistle

outrivalled Simple Simon in simplicity. 'I do believe,' thought Jimmy,

'that he gits greener and greener every time I see him.' Then he said

aloud contemptuously, 'Married to Tom! As much as I am!'

Mr. Merrywhistle twisted his fingers nervously, and otherwise so

comported himself as to show that he was grieved and pained.

'I wouldn't 'ave a 'art as soft as yours,' thought Jimmy, as Mr.

Merrywhistle rested his head upon his hand sadly, 'and as green as

yours--no, not for a 'atful of money.'

'Poor child! poor child!' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle. 'I wish I could

do something for her.'

'Too late,' said Jimmy shortly.

'Yes, too late, I'm afraid,' said Robert Truefit. 'Blade-o'-Grass is a

woman now. Her ideas, her principles, her associations, are rooted.

When she was a sapling, good might have been done for her, and she

might have grown up straight. But she had no chance, poor thing! And

Jimmy's tone and your fears point to something worse than hunger. You

fear she is leading a bad life.'

'No, no!' interposed Mr. Merrywhistle earnestly; 'not that--indeed,

not that. But I would give more than I could afford if I knew that she

was married to Tom Beadle.'

'Thief as he is? questioned Robert Truefit.

'Thief as he is,' replied Mr. Merrywhistle.

His grief was contagious: Robert Truefit turned away, with a troubled

look on his face; Jimmy Virtue preserved a stolid silence, as was his

general habit on such occasions. 'What can one good man do?' presently

said Robert Truefit, in a low tone; but his voice was singularly

clear. 'What can a hundred good men do, each working singly, according

to the impulse of his benevolent heart? I honour them for their deeds,

and God forbid that I should harbour a wish to check them! Would that

more money were as well spent, and that their numbers were increased a

hundredfold! They do _some_ good. But is it not cruel to know that

Blade-o'-Grass is but one of thousands of human blades who are cursed,

shunned, ignored, through no fault of theirs, and who, when

circumstances push them into the light, are crushed by System? If they

were lepers, their condition would be better. And they might be so

different! To themselves, and all around them. To the State; to

society. In actual fact, and putting wordy sops in the pan out of the

question, what do statesmen do for such poor places as these? Give

them gin-shops and an extra number of police. No prompt effort made in

the right direction; no clearing away of nest-holes where moral

corruption and physical misery fester and ripen. Where legislation is

most needed, it moves at a snail's pace. So wrapt up are statesmen in

the slow hatching of grand schemes, that they cannot stoop to pour oil

upon these festering social wounds. And what is the result? While they

legislate, Blades-o'-Grass are springing up all around them, and

living poisoned lives. And while they legislate, if there be truth in

what preachers preach, souls are being damned by force of

circumstance. What should be the aim of those who govern? So to govern

as to produce the maximum of human happiness and comfort, and the

minimum of human misery and vice. Not to the few--to the many, to

all.' He paused, and turned to Mr. Merrywhistle. 'Seven years ago,' he

continued, 'we talked of poor Blade-o'-Grass. I told you then--I

remember it well--that England was full of such pictures as that

hungry ignorant child, with the tiger in her stomach, presented. Seven

years before that, it was the same. During that time Blade-o'-Grass

has grown up from a baby to a woman. What a childhood must hers have

been! I wonder if she ever had a toy! And see what she is now: a woman

for whom you fear--what I guess, but will not say. What will she

be--where will she be--in seven years from now? Seventy years is the

fulness of our age. Carry Blade-o'-Grass onwards for seven years more,

and find her an old woman long before she should have reached her

prime. What has been done in the last seven years for such as she?

What will be done in the next--and the next? There are thousands upon

thousands of such babes and girls as she was seven years and twice

seven years ago growing up as I speak; contamination is eating into

their bones, corrupting their blood, poisoning their instincts for

good. What shall be done for them in the next seven years? Pardon me,'

he said, breaking off suddenly; 'I have let my feelings run ahead of

me perhaps; but I'll stick to what I've said, nevertheless.'

With that he wished them goodnight, and took his leave. Mr.

Merrywhistle soon followed him, first ascertaining from Jimmy Virtue

the address of Blade-o'-Grass.

[Illustration]

Jimmy, being left to his own resources, went to the door to see what

sort of a night it was. The rain was still falling drearily. It was

too miserable a night for him to take his usual pipe in the open air,

and too miserable a night for him to expect to do any business in. So

he put up his shutters, and retired to his parlour. Then he took out

his greasy pack of cards, and conjured up Jack for a game of

All-Fours. With his eye on his opponent, he filled his pipe carefully,

lighted it, puffed at it, and cut for deal. He won it, and the first

thing he did after that was to turn up a knave (slipping it from the

bottom of the pack) and score one. He was in a more than usually

reckless and cheating mood. He staked large sums, went double or

quits, and double or quits again, and cheated unblushingly. He won a

fortune of Jack in an hour; and then contemptuously growled, 'I'll try

you at cribbage, old fellow,' The cribbage-board was his table, and he

scored the game with a bit of chalk. Jack fared no better at cribbage

than he had done at All-Fours. Jimmy had all the good cribs, Jack all

the bad ones. By the time that the table was smeared all over with

chalk figures, Jimmy was sleepy. He played one last game for an

enormous stake, and having won it and ruined Jack, he went to bed

contentedly, and slept the sleep of the just.

TOO LATE.

Mr. Merrywhistle had no very distinct plan in his mind when he left

Jimmy Virtue's shop to visit Blade-o'-Grass. Sincerely commiserating

her condition, he wished to put her in the way to get an honest and

respectable living, but was deeply perplexed as to the method by which

she was to arrive at this desirable consummation. Some small

assistance in money he might manage to give her; but in what way could

it be applied? by what means was she to be lifted out of that slough

into which she had been allowed to sink? And then he feared that she

was past training. As Robert Truefit had said, Blade-o'-Grass was a

woman now, with a grown-up person's passions and desires firmly rooted

in her nature. And he feared something else, also. But he would see

her and speak to her freely; good might come of it.

The room she occupied was at the extreme end of Stoney-alley, and Mr.

Merrywhistle was soon stumbling along dark passages and up flights of

crippled stairs. When he reached the top of the house, as he thought,

he tapped at a door, and receiving no answer, turned the handle, and

entered. A very old woman, sitting before a very small fire, smiled

and mumbled in reply to his questions; and he soon discovered that she

was deaf and childish, and that he was in the wrong apartment. As he

stumbled into the dark again, a woman, with a child in her' arms, came

on to the landing with a candle in her hand, and showed Mr.

Merrywhistle that there was still another flight of stairs to mount.

Blade-o'-Grass lived up there, the woman said; first door on the right

She didn't know if the girl was at home. And then she asked if he was

a doctor. No, he answered, surprised at the question; he was not a

doctor. The crazy stairs complained audibly as he trod them. He

knocked at the first door on the right, and paused.

'You'd better go in, and see, sir,' called the woman from below;

'perhaps she's asleep.' Mr. Merrywhistle hesitated. What right, he

thought, had he to intrude on the girl's privacy, and at this time of

night? But the knowledge that he was there for no bad purpose made him

bold, and he opened the door. A candle that was burning on the table

threw a dim light around, but the corners of the miserible apartment

were in shade. The woman was right in her conjecture: Blade-o'-Grass

was in the room, asleep. She was lying on the ground, dressed, before

a mockery of a fire; her head was resting on a stool, round which one

arm was thrown. The faintly-flickering flames threw occasional gleams

of light on the girl's face, over which, strange to say, a smile was

playing, as if her dreams were pleasant ones. The benevolent old

gentleman looked round upon the miserable apartment, and sighed. It

was a shelter, nothing more--a shelter for want and destitution. Then

he looked down upon the form of the sleeping girl, clothed in rags.

Child-woman indeed she was. Her pretty face was thin and pale; but

there was a happy expression upon it, and once her arm clasped the

stool with fond motion, as if she were pressing to her breast

something that she loved. Yet, doubtless, there are many stern

moralists, philanthropic theorists, and benevolent word-wasters,

who would have looked coldly upon this sleeping child, and

who--self-elected teachers as they are of what is good and

moral--would only have seen in her and her surroundings a text for

effervescent platitudes. But the school in which they learn their

lessons is as cruel and harsh as the school in which Blade-o'-Grass

learns hers is unwholesome and bitter.

Mr. Merrywhistle was debating with himself whether he should arouse

her, when a slight motion on his part saved him the trouble of

deciding. 'Is that you, Tom?' she asked softly, opening her eyes, and

then, seeing a strange figure before her, scrambled to her feet.

'I have come to see you,' said Mr. Merrywhistle.

Although she curtseyed, she was scarcely awake yet. But presently she

said, 'O, yes, sir; I arks yer pardon. It's Mr. Merrywhistle?

'Yes, child; may I sit down?'

She motioned him to the only chair the room contained. 'It's very

late, ain't it?' she asked. And then anxiously, 'Is anythink up?'

Mr. Merrywhistle was sufficiently versed in vulgar vernacular to

understand her meaning. No, he said, there was nothing the matter. She

gave a sigh of relief as she said, 'I thought you might 'ave come to

tell me somethin' bad.'

'How long have you lived here?'

'O, ever so long.'

'Alone?' he asked, after a slight pause.

But to this question she made no reply.

'Times are hard with you, are they not, my child?' he said,

approaching his subject.

'Very 'ard,' she answered, with a weary shake of the head.

'Have you given up selling flowers?'

''Tain't the season for flowers,' she answered; 'wilets won't be in

for three months.'

He felt the difficulty of the task he had set himself. 'How do you

live when there are no flowers?'

'Any'ow; sometimes I sells matches; I can't tell you 'ow, and that's a

fact.'

'But why don't you work?' he inquired, with a bold plunge.

'Work!' she exclaimed. 'What work? I don't know nothin'. But I've been

arksed that lots of times. A peeler told me that once, and when I

arksed him to get me some work that I could do, he only larfed.'

'Suppose now,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, 'that I were to take you away

from this place, and put you somewhere where you could learn

dressmaking or needlework.'

She gave him a grateful and surprised look. 'I don't think it'd

answer, sir. I knows lots o' gals who tried to git a livin' by

needlework, and couldn't do it. I knows some as set up till two

o'clock in the mornin', and got up agin at eight, and then couldn't

earn enough to git a shoe to their foot. And they couldn't always git

work; they'd go for weeks and couldn't git a stitch.'

'Good heavens!' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, who was as ignorant as a

child in such matters. 'What did they do then?'

Blade-o'-Grass laughed recklessly. 'Do! what do you think? Beg,

or----somethin' else.'

He was pained by her manner, and said, 'My poor child, I have only

come here out of kindness, and to try if I could do some good for

you.'

'I know, sir,' she said gratefully; 'you've always been kind to me as

long as I can remember; I don't forget, sir. But there's some things I

know more about nor you do, sir. A gal can't git a livin' by

needlework--leastways, a good many of 'em can't. There was a woman

livin' in the next room: she worked 'er fingers to the bone, and

couldn't git enough to eat. Last winter was a reg'lar 'ard un; and

then she lost her work, and couldn't git another shop. She took to

beggin', and was 'ad up afore the beak. She was discharged with a

caution, I 'eerd. It _was_ a caution to her: she died o' starvation in

that there room!'

Grieved and shocked, Mr. Merrywhistle was silent for a little while;

but he brightened up presently. He was sincerely desirous to do some

tangible good for Blade-o'-Grass. He thought of the situations held by

Ruth and Mary in the Postal Telegraph Office. Suppose he was to take

Blade-o'-Grass away from the contaminating influences by which she was

surrounded; give her decent clothes, and have her taught the system,

so that she might be an eligible candidate. He could set some

influence at work; Mr. Silver would do his best, and there were others

also whom he could induce to interest themselves. He felt quite

hopeful as he thought. He mooted the idea to Blade-o'-Grass. She

listened in silence, and when she spoke, it was in a low voice, and

with her face turned from him.

I've see'd them gals, and I'd like to be one of 'em; but----'

'But what, Blade-o'-Grass?' he asked kindly, almost tenderly; for

there was a plaintiveness in her voice that deeply affected him.

'They must be able to read, mustn't they?'

'O, yes; they would be useless without that.'

'And they must be able to write, too. Where do you think _I_ learnt to

read and write? I don't know one letter from another.'

Here was another difficulty, and a gigantic one; but it seemed as if

each fresh obstacle only served to expand Mr. Merrywhistle's

benevolent heart.

'Why, then,' he said cheerfully, 'suppose we teach you to read and

write. You'd learn quickly, I'll be bound.'

A sudden rush of tears came to her eyes, and she sat down on the

floor, and sobbed, and rocked herself to and fro.

'It's too late!' she cried. 'Too late!'

Too late! The very words used by Robert Truefit They fell ominously on

Mr. Merrywhistle's ears. He asked for an explanation; but he had to

wait until the girl's grief was spent, before he received an answer.

She wiped her eyes in a manner that showed she was mad with herself

for giving way to such emotion, and turned on her would-be benefactor

almost defiantly.

'Look 'ere,' she said, in a hard cold voice, 'all them gals are what

you call respectable, ain't they?'

'Yes, my child.'

'Don't call me your child; it 'urts me--O, it 'urts me!' She was

almost on the point of giving way again; but she set her teeth close,

and shook herself like an angry dog, and so checked the spasms that

rose to her throat 'They must show that they're respectable, mustn't

they, or they couldn't git the billet?'

'Yes.'

'Well, then, I ain't respectable, as you call it; 'ow can I be? A nice

respectable gal _I'd_ look, comin' out of a orfice! Why, they've got

nice warm clothes, every one of 'em, and muffs and tippets, and all

that I've see'd 'em, lots of times.'

'But you can leave your past life behind you,' urged Mr. Merrywhistle,

overleaping all obstacles; 'you can commence another life, and be like

them.'

'Be like them! I can't be. It's too late, I tell you. And I'll tell

you somethin' more,' she added, slowly and very distinctly: 'I

wouldn't leave Tom Beadle to be the best-dressed gal among 'em.'

'Why?'

'Why!' she echoed, looking into his face with wonder. 'Why! Tom

Beadle's been the best friend I ever 'ad. He's give me grub lots and

lots o' times. When I was a little kid, and didn't know what was what;

when the tiger was a-tearin' my very inside out; Tom Beadle's come and

took pity on me. No one else but 'im did take it. I should 'ave

starved a 'undred times, if it 'adn't been for Tom. Why, it was 'im as

set me up for a flower-gal, and 'im as took me to the theaytre, and

'im as told me I should lick Poll Buttons into fits. And so I did,

when I 'ad a nice dress on; they all said so. And there's another

reason, if you'd care to know. No, I won't tell you. If you arks about

'ere, I daresay you can find out, and if you wait a little while,

you'll find out for yourself. She stood up boldly before him, and said

in a low passionate voice, 'I love Tom, and Tom loves me! I wouldn't

leave 'im for all the world. I'll stick to 'im and be true to 'im till

I die.'

Here was an end to Mr. Merrywhistle's benevolent intentions; he had

nothing more to urge. The difficulties Blade-o'-Grass herself had put

in the way seemed to him to render her social redemption almost

impossible. Blade-o'-Grass saw trouble in his face, and said, as if he

were the one who required pity:

'Don't take on, sir; it can't be 'elped. Next to Tom, no one's been so

good to me as you've been. Perhaps I don't understand things as you

would like me to understand 'em. But I can't 'elp it, sir.'

Mr. Merrywhistle rose to go. He took out his purse, and was about to

offer Blade-o'-Grass money, when she said, in an imploring tone:

'No, sir, not to-night; it'll do me more good, if you don't give me

nothin' to-night I shall be sorry to myself afterwards, if I take it.

And don't believe, sir, that I ain't grateful! Don't believe it!'

'I won't, my poor girl,' said Mr. Merrywhistle huskily, putting his

purse in his pocket. 'I am sorry for all this. But, at all events, you

can promise me that if you want a friend, you'll come to me. You know

where I live.'

'Yes, sir; and I'll promise you. When I don't know which way to turn,

I'll come to you.'

He held out his hand, and she kissed it; and went down-stairs with him

with the candle, to show him the way. He walked home with a very heavy

feeling at his heart. 'There's something wrong somewhere,' was his

refrain. He was conscious that a great social problem was before him,

but he could find no solution for it. Indeed, it could not be expected

of him. He was ready enough (too ready, many said) with his sixpences

and shillings when his heart was stirred, but he was not a politician.

When Blade-o'-Grass reëntered her cheerless room, she set the candle

on the table, and began to cry. Her heart was very sore, and she was

deeply moved at Mr. Merrywhistle's goodness. She started to her feet,

however, when she heard the sounds of a well-known step on the stairs.

Wiping her eyes hastily, she hurried into the passage with the candle.

Tom Beadle smiled as he saw the light He was a blackguard and a thief,

but he loved Blade-o'-Grass.

'I've got some trotters, old gal,' he said, when they were in their

room, 'and 'arf-a-pint o' gin. Why, I'm blessed if you 'aven't been

turnin' on the waterworks agin.'

Her eyes glistened at the sight of the food.

'Look 'ere, old woman,' said Tom Beadle, with his arm round her waist

''Ere's a slice o' luck, eh?' And he took out a purse, and emptied it

on the table. A half-sovereign and about a dozen shillings rolled out.

She handled the coins eagerly, but she did not ask him how he came by

them.

Half an hour later, Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass, having finished

their supper, were sitting before the fire, on which the girl had

thrown the last shovelful of coals. In the earlier part of the night,

she had been sparing of them; but when Tom came home rich, she made a

bright blaze, and enjoyed the comforting warmth. Tom sat on the only

chair, and she on the ground, with her arm thrown over his knee. She

was happy and comfortable, having had a good supper, and seeing the

certainty of being able to buy food for many days to come. Then she

told him of Mr. Merrywhistle's visit, but did not succeed in raising

in him any grateful feeling. All that he saw was an attempt on the

part of Mr. Merrywhistle to take Blade-o'-Grass away from him, and he

was proportionately grateful to that gentleman.

'I'd 'ave punched 'is 'ead, if I'd been 'ere,' was Tom's commentary.

'No, Tom, you wouldn't,' said Blade-o'-Grass earnestly. 'He only come

to try to do me some good, and he's give me money lots o' times.'

'He didn't give you any to-night,' grumbled Tom.

'He wanted to, but I wouldn't take it; I couldn't take it'

'Blessed if I don't think you're growin' soft, old woman! Wouldn't

take his tin!'

'Somethin' come over me, Tom; I don't know what. But he'll make it up

to me another time.'

There was a soft dreaminess in her tone, as she lay looking into the

fire with her head upon Tom's knee, that disarmed him. He took a good

drink of gin-and-water, and caressed her face with his hand. Just then

the candle went out. Blade-o'-Grass placed her warm cheek upon Tom's

hand. They sat so in silence for some time. Tender fancies were in the

fire even for Blade-o'-Grass. As she gazed she smiled happily, as she

had done in her sleep. What did she see there? Good God! a baby's

face! So like herself, yet so much brighter, purer, that thrills of

ineffable happiness and exquisite pain quivered through her. Eyes that

looked at hers in wonder; laughing mouth waiting to be kissed. It

raised its little hands to her, and held out its pretty arms; and she

made a yearning movement towards it, and pressed her lips to Tom's

fingers, and kissed them softly, again and again, while the tears ran

down her face.

'O, Tom!' she whispered, ''ow I love you!'

What a rock for her to lean upon! What a harbour for her to take

shelter in!

She fell into a doze presently, and woke in terror.

'What's the matter, old gal?' asked Tom, himself nodding.

And then she gasped, between her sobs, that she dreamt it was born

with a tiger in its inside!

Hark! What was that? Heavy steps coming up-stairs. No shuffling;

measured, slow, and certain, as though they were bullets being lifted

from stair to stair. Tom started to his feet. Nearer and nearer came

the sounds.

'Give me the money, Bladergrass; give me the money, or you might get

into trouble too!' He tore the money out of her pocket; when he came

in he had given it to her to keep house with. Then he cried, 'The

purse! Where's the purse? Throw it out on the tiles--put it on the

fire!'

'I 'aven't got it, Tom,' answered Blade-o'-Grass hurriedly, her knees

knocking together with fright. 'What's up?'

'The peelers! Don't you 'ear 'em? Curse the light! why did it go out?

If they see the purse, I'm done for!'

They groped about in the dark, but could not find it For a moment the

steps halted outside the door. Then it opened, and the strong light

from the policemen's bull's-eye lamps was thrown upon the crouching

forms of Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass.

'You're up late, Tom,' said one of the policemen.

'Yes,' said Tom doggedly, and with a pale face; 'I was jist goin' to

bed.' The policeman nodded carelessly, and kept his eye upon Tom,

while his comrade searched about the room.

'Got any money, Tom?'

'What's that to you?'

'Come, come; take it easy, my lad. You haven't been long out, you

know.'

'And what o' that?' exclaimed Tom, beginning to gather courage, for

the policeman's search was almost at an end, and nothing was found.

'You can't take me up for not bein' long out.'

'But we can for this,' said the second policeman, lifting a purse from

the mantelshelf. 'Is this yours, sir?'

A man, who had been lingering by the door, came forward and looked at

the purse by the light of the lamp. 'Yes, it is mine.'

'And is this the party?'--throwing the light full upon Tom Beadle's

face. He bore it boldly; he knew well enough that the game was up.

'I can't say; the purse was snatched out of my hand suddenly, and I

didn't see the face of the thief. I followed him, as I told you, and

saw him run down this alley.'

'And a nice hunt we've had! Been in a dozen houses, and only came to

the right one at last. How much was in the purse, sir, did you say?'

'Twenty-three shillings--a half-sovereign, and the rest in silver.'

'Now, Tom, turn out your pockets.'

Tom did so without hesitation. A half-sovereign and twelve shillings

were placed on the table.

'Just the money, with a shilling short. What have you been having for

supper, Tom?'

'Trotters.'

'Ay; and what was in the bottle?'

'Gin, of course.'

'Trotters, fourpence; gin, eightpence. That's how the other shilling's

gone, sir. Come along, Tom; this'll be a longer job than the last.'

As Tom nodded sullenly, Blade-o'-Grass, who had listened to the

conversation with a face like the face of death, sank to the ground in

a swoon. The policemen's hands were on Tom, and he struggled to get

from them.

'Come, come, my lad,' said one, shaking him roughly; 'that's no good,

you know. Best go quietly.'

'I want to go quietly,' cried Tom, with a great swelling in his throat

that almost choked his words; 'but don't you see she's fainted? Let me

go to her for a minute. I hope I may drop down dead if I try to

escape!'

They loosened their hold, and he knelt by Blade-o'-Grass, and

sprinkled her face with water. She opened her eyes, and threw her arms

round his neck.

'O, Tom!' she cried; 'I thought--thought----'

'Now, my girl,' said the policeman, raising her to her feet in a not

unkindly manner; 'it's no use making a bother. Tom's got to go, you

know. It isn't his first job.'

[Illustration]

'Good-bye, old gal,' said Tom tenderly; 'they can't prove anythin'.

They can't lag me for pickin' up a empty purse in the street; and as

for the money, you know 'ow long I've 'ad that, don't you?'

She nodded vacantly.

'That's well trumped-up, Tom,' said the policeman; 'but I don't think

it'll wash.'

Tom kissed Blade-o'-Grass, and marched out with his captors. When

their steps had died away, Blade-o'-Grass shivered, and sank down

before the fire, but saw no pictures in it now to bring happy smiles

to her face.

HELP THE POOR.

Merry peals of bells herald the advent of a bright and happy day. Care

is sent to the right-about by those upon whom it does not press too

heavily; and strangers, as they pass each other in the streets, are

occasionally seen to smile amiably and cheerfully--a circumstance

sufficiently rare in anxious suspicious London to be recorded and made

a note of. But the great city would be filled with churls indeed, if,

on one day during the year, the heart was not allowed to have free

play. The atmosphere is brisk and dear, and the sun shines through a

white and frosty sky. Although the glories of spring and summer are

slumbering in the earth, nature is at its best; and, best thing of all

to be able to say, human nature is more at its best than at any other

time of the year. The houses are sweet and fresh, and smiles are on

the faces and in the hearts of the dwellers therein. Men shake hands

more heartily than is their usual custom, and voices have a merry ring

in them, which it does one good to hear. It is an absolute fact, that

many men and women today present themselves to each other unmasked.

Natural kindliness is in the enjoyment of a pretty fair monopoly, and

charity and goodwill are preached in all the churches. One minister

ends an eloquent exordium with 'God help the poor!' and the majority

of his congregation whisper devoutly, 'Be it so!'--otherwise, 'Amen!'

In the church where this is said are certain friends of ours whom, I

hope, we have grown to respect: Mr. and Mrs. Silver with their flock,

and Robert Truefit with his. Mr. Merrywhistle has brought Robert

Truefit and the Silvers together, to their mutual satisfaction; and

Robert has agreed to spend Christmas-day in Buttercup-square with his

family--wife and four young ones. Thus it is that they are all in

church together. They make a large party--fourteen in all, for Mr.

Merrywhistle is with them--and there is not a sad heart among them.

'If I had been the minister preaching,' says Robert Truefit to Mrs.

Silver, as they come out of church, 'I should not have ended my sermon

with "God help the poor!"'

'With what then?'

'With "Man, help the poor!"' answers Robert Truefit gravely.

Here Charley and Ruth come forward with a petition. They want

permission to take a walk by themselves; they will be home within an

hour.

'Very well, my dears,' says Mrs. Silver; 'don't be longer, if you can

help it.'

It is Ruth who has suggested the walk, and she has a purpose in view

which Charley does not know of as yet. But Charley is happy enough in

his ignorance; a walk on such a day with his heart's best treasure by

his side is heaven to him. He is inclined to walk eastward, where

glimpses of the country may be seen; but she says, 'No, Charley,

please; you must come my way.' Perfectly contented is he to go her

way, and they walk towards the City.

'You remember the day we went to the Exhibition, Charley?'

What a question to ask him! As if it has not been in his thoughts ever

since, as if they have not talked of it, and lingered lovingly over

the smallest incidents, dozens and dozens of times! But he answers

simply, 'Yes, Ruth.'

'And what occurred when we came back, Charley?'

'The poor girl do you mean, Ruth?'

'Yes, the poor girl--so much like me!'

'I remember.'

'I have never forgotten her, Charley dear! I want to pass by the spot

where we met her, and if I see her, I want to give her something. I

should dearly like to do so, to-day! Do you remember, Charley?--when

we saw her, she had not a bit of bread in the cupboard. Perhaps she

has none today.'

'Take my purse, Ruth, and let us share together.'

'I shall tell her, Charley, that it is half from you.'

'Yes, my dear.'

But though they walk past the spot, and, retracing their steps, walk

past it again and again, and although Ruth looks wistfully about her,

she sees nothing of Blade-o'-Grass. They walk homewards, Charley very

thoughtful, Ruth very sad.

'Come, Ruth,' says Charley presently, 'we must not be unhappy to-day.

Let us hope that the poor girl is provided for; indeed, it is most

reasonable to believe so.'

'I hope so, Charley, with all my heart.'

'What you hope with all your heart, dear Ruth, is sure to be good and

true. Is there anything else you hope with all your heart?'

There is a tender significance in his tone, and she glances at him

shyly and modestly, but does not answer.

'You can make this happy day even happier than it is, Ruth; you can

make it the happiest remembrance of my life if you will say Yes to

something!'

Her voice trembles slightly as she asks, 'To what, Charley?'

'Let me tell our dear parents how I love you. Let me ask them to give

you to me. Is it Yes, Ruth dear?'

'Yes, dear Charley.' But so softly, so tenderly whispered, that only

ears attuned as his were could have heard the words.

Presently,

'And do you love me with all your heart, Ruth?'

'With all my heart, Charley.'

O, happiest of happy days! Ring out, sweet bells! A tenderer music is

in your notes than they have ever yet been charged with!

It is twilight, and all the elderly people are in the parlour in

Buttercup-square. The children are in another room, engaged in

mysterious preparation.

'I think we shall have snow soon,' says Mr. Merrywhistle.

'I'm glad of it,' says Robert Truefit. 'Something seems to me wanting

in Christmas, when there is no snow. When it snows, the atmosphere

between heaven and earth is bridged by the purity of the happy time.'

Mrs. Silver is pleased by the remark; the firelight's soft glow is on

her face. Charley enters, and bends over her chair.

'My dear mother,' he whispers.

She knows in an instant by the tremor in his voice what he is about to

say. She draws him to her, so that the firelight falls on his face as

well as on hers.

'Is it about Ruth?' she asks softly.

'Yes, yes,' he answers in a tone of eager wonder. 'How did you know?'

She smiles sweetly on him.

'I have known it for a long time, Charley. Have you spoken to her?'

'Yes; and this is the happiest day I have ever known. O, mother, she

loves me! She gave me permission to ask you for her.'

Mrs. Silver calls her husband to her side.

'Charley has come to ask for Ruth, my dear.'

'I am glad of it. Where is Ruth?'

'I will bring her,' says Charley, trembling with happiness.

'Did I not tell you, my dear?' Mrs. Silver asks of her husband.

'It is a happy Christmas, indeed,' he answers.

Ruth is glad that it is dark when she enters the room. Mrs. Silver

folds the girl in her arms.

'My darling child! And this wonderful news is really true?'

'Yes, my dearest mother,' kissing Mrs. Silver's neck, and crying.

'What are you people conspiring together about?' asks Mr.

Merrywhistle, from the window.

'Come here, and join the conspirators,' says Mrs. Silver. 'Our plots

will fail, without your assistance and consent.'

Mr. Merrywhistle joins the party by the fire, and Robert Truefit

steals quietly out of the room.

'It is eighteen years this Christmas,' says Mrs. Silver, 'since Ruth

was given to us. She has been a comfort and a blessing to us, and will

continue to be, I am sure.' Ruth sinks on her knees, and hides her

face in Mrs. Silver's lap. This true woman lays her hand on Ruth's

head, and continues: 'It is time that Ruth should know who is her real

benefactor.'

'Nay, my dear madam,' expostulates Mr. Merrywhistle, blushing like a

girl.

'My dear friend,' says Mrs. Silver, 'it is necessary. A great change

will soon take place in Ruth's life, and your sanction must be

given.--Ruth, my dear, look up. Before you were born, this

friend--whom we all love and honour--came to me, and asked to be

allowed to contribute out of his means towards the support of our next

child. You can understand with what joy his offer was accepted.

Shortly afterwards, my dear--eighteen years ago this day--you came to

us, and completed our happy circle. You see before you your

benefactor--your father--to whom you owe everything; for all the

expense of your training and education has been borne by him. It is

right that you and Charley should know this. And, Charley, as--but for

this our dearest friend--the happiness which has fallen upon you could

not have been yours, it is of him you must ask for Ruth.'

'Sir--'says Charley, advancing towards Mr. Merrywhistle.

'Not another word,' cries Mr. Merrywhistle, with Ruth in his arms;

'not another word about me, or I'll go and spend my Christmas-eve

elsewhere. If, as Mrs. Silver says, my consent is necessary, I give

you Ruth with all my heart.'--He kisses Ruth, and says: 'A happy

future is before you, children. No need for me to tell you where your

chief love and duty lie--no need for me to remind you to whose

parental care and good example you owe all your happiness. To me, an

old man, without kith or kin, their friendship and love have been

priceless; they have brightened my life. It comes upon me now to say,

my dear girl and boy, that once--ah, how many years ago!--such a prize

as the love which animates you seemed to be within my reach; but it

slipped from me, and I am an old man now, waiting to hear my name

called. Cling to your love, my dears; keep it in your hearts as a

sacred thing; let it show itself daily in your actions towards each

other: it will sweeten your winter when you are as old as I am, and

everything shall be as bright and fresh to you then as in this your

spring-time, when all the future before you seems carpeted with

flowers. Ruth, my child, God bless you! Charley, I am proud of you!

Let your aim be to live a good life.'

Mrs. Silver kisses the good old man, and they sit round the fire

undisturbed; for it appears to be understood in the house, that the

parlour must not be invaded until permission is given. It is settled

that Charley and Ruth shall wait for twelve months; that Charley shall

be very saving; that Ruth shall leave her situation, and keep house

for the family, so that she shall enter her own home competent to

fulfil the duties of a wife. But, indeed, this last clause is scarcely

necessary; for all Mrs. Silver's girls have been carefully instructed

in those domestic duties, without a knowledge of which no woman can be

a proper helpmate to the man to whom she gives her love.

The shadows thicken, and the snow begins to fall There is peace

without, and love within. Mrs. Silver, as she watches the soft

snowflakes, thinks that it will be just such a night as that on which,

eighteen years ago, she and her husband brought Ruth home from

Stoney-alley. She recalls every circumstance of her interview with the

landlady, and hears again the pitiful story of the motherless babe.

Then she looks down upon the pure happy face of Ruth, and her heart is

filled with gratitude to God.

And Ruth's twin sister, Blade-o'-Grass?

She was sitting in the same miserable attic from which Tom Beadle was

taken to prison. He was not in prison now, having escaped just

punishment by (for him) a lucky chance. When Tom was brought before

the magistrate, he told his trumped-up story glibly: he had picked up

the empty purse in the street, and the money was, the result of

his own earnings. When asked how he had earned it, he declined

to say; and he advanced an artful argument. The policeman had

reckoned up the money which the man who had lost the purse said it

contained--twenty-three shillings. Twenty-two shillings were found in

Tom's pocket, and the other shilling was spent, according to the

policeman's version, in trotters and gin. Not another penny, in

addition to the twenty-two shillings, was discovered in the room. Now,

said Tom, it wasn't likely that he would be without a penny in his

pocket, and the fact that he had just the sum the purse had contained

was simply a coincidence. He argued that it would be much clearer

against him if a few coppers more than the actual money lost had been

found. Of course this defence was received with derision by the

police, and with discredit by the magistrate. But it happened that the

prosecutor was too unwell to attend on the morning that Tom made his

appearance in the police court, and he was remanded for a week. Before

the week passed by, the prosecutor died, and Tom was set free.

Blade-o'-Grass was overjoyed; it was like a reprieve from death to

her. But the police were angry at Tom's escape, and kept so sharp a

watch on him, that he found it more than ever difficult to live. I am

not pleading Tom's cause, nor bespeaking compassion for him; I am

simply relating certain facts in connection with him. When Christmas

came, things were at their very worst. They had no Christmas dinner,

and Tom was prowling about in search of prey.

On the night before Christmas Blade-o'-Grass listened to the merry

bells with somewhat of bitterness in her soul. Everything about her

was so dreary, the prospect of obtaining food was so faint, that the

sound of the bells came to her ears mockingly. What she would have

done but for her one comfort and joy, it is difficult to say.

Her one comfort and joy! Yes, she had a baby now, as pretty a little

thing as ever was seen. All her thought, all her anxiety, was for her

child. Blade-o'-Grass possessed the same tenderness of nature that had

been so developed in Ruth as to make her a pride of womanhood. How

proud Blade-o'-Grass was of her baby! How she wondered, and cried, and

laughed over it! As she uncovered its pretty dimpled face, and gazed

at it in worship, all the bitterness of her soul at the merry sound of

the bells faded away, and for a little while she was happy. She talked

to the babe, and, bidding it listen to the bells, imitated the glad

sound with her voice, until the child's face was rippled with smiles.

But the hard realities of her position were too pressing for her to be

able to forget them for more than a few minutes. Tom had not been home

since the morning, and she had had but little food during the day. Not

for herself did she care; but her baby must be fed. If she did not eat

and drink, how could she give milk to her child? 'I'll go and arks

Jimmy Wirtue for somethin',' she thought; and so that her appeal to

the old man might be fortunate, she cunningly took her baby out with

her. Jimmy was playing All-Fours with Jack, who, having come into

another fortune, was dissipating it recklessly as usual for the

benefit of his remorseless foe.

'What do you want? What's that bundle in your arms?' growled Jimmy, as

Blade-o'-Grass peeped into his parlour.

'Ifs my baby,' said Blade-o'-Grass; 'I've come to show it to you.'

'And what business have you with a babby?' exclaimed Jimmy, in an

excited manner. 'Ain't you ashamed of yourself? Take it away; I don't

want any babbies 'ere.'

But Blade-o'-Grass pleaded her cause so meekly and patiently, and with

so much feeling, that Jimmy was bound to listen and sympathise, hard

as he was.

'Lookee 'ere,' he said harshly, holding up his finger, as she stood

looking at him entreatingly: 'it's now nigh on eighteen year ago since

Mrs. Manning----you remember Mrs. Manning?'

'O, yes,' sighed Blade-o'-Grass.

'It's now nigh on eighteen year ago since she come round a-beggin' for

you; and now _you_ come round a-beggin' for your babby.'

'I can't 'elp it,' said Blade-o'-Grass; 'don't speak to me unkindly; I

am weak and 'ungry.'

'Why, you was only a babby yourself then----what's the matter?'

Blade-o'-Grass was swaying forward, and would have fallen if he had

not caught her. His tone was so harsh, that the poor girl's heart was

fainting within her at the prospect of being sent away empty-handed.

Jimmy assisted her into his chair; and without considering that he was

about to upset Jack, who was sitting on the box, opened it, and

produced a bottle of spirits. He gave her some in a cup, and she

revived. Then, grumblingly, he took a sixpence out of a dirty bag, and

gave it to her, saying:

'There! And don't you come botherin' me agin!'

How grateful she was! She made him kiss baby, and left him with that

soft touch upon his lips. He stood still for a few moments with his

fingers to his lips, wondering somewhat; but he recovered himself very

soon, and glaring at Jack, took swift revenge in All-Fours for his

softness of heart, and ruined that shadowy creation for the hundredth

time.

When Blade-o'-Grass quitted Jimmy's shop, she felt as if she would

have liked to sing, she was so blithe and happy. She spent the whole

sixpence, and treated herself to half a pint of stout. 'This is for

you, pet!' she said to her baby, as she drank. She drank only half of

it; the other half she saved for Tom. But although she waited up, and

listened to the bells--gratefully now--until long past midnight, Tom

did not come home. And when she rose on Christmas morning, he was

still absent. She wandered out to look for him, but could not find

him; and then hurried back, hoping that he might have come in her

absence. As the day wore on, she grew more and more anxious, and

tormented herself with fears and fancies as to what could have

happened to him. So she passed her Christmas-day. In the afternoon she

fell asleep, with her baby in her arms. At first she dreamt of all

kinds of terrors, and lived over again, in her dreams, many of the

miseries of her past life; but after a time her sleep became more

peaceful, and her mind wandered back to the time when, a child of

three years of age, she sat on the stones in the dirty yard, looking

in silent delight at the Blades of Grass springing from the ground.

When she awoke it was dark. She went to the window, shivering; it was

snowing fast. All the food was gone, and she was hungry again. What

should she do? Suddenly a terrible fear smote her. Baby was very

quiet. She looked at the sleeping child's white face by the white

light of the snow, and placed her ears to the pretty mouth. Thank God!

she felt the child's warm breath. But it would wake up presently, and

she had no milk to give. The child's lips and fingers were wandering

now to the mother's bosom. She could not stand this agony of hunger

and darkness and solitude any longer; she must go into the streets.

Out into the streets, where the snow was falling heavily, she went.

She looked wistfully about for Tom, but saw no signs of him. Into the

wider thoroughfares she wandered. How white they were! how pure! how

peaceful! A virgin world had taken the place of the old; a newborn

world seemed to lie before her, with its pure white page ready for the

finger of God to write upon. She wandered on and on, until she came to

a square. She knew it immediately--Buttercup-square. Why, here it was

that Mr. Merrywhistle lived, and he had made her promise that she

would come to him when she wanted a friend. 'When I don't know which

way to turn, I'll come to you,' she had said. Well, she didn't know

which way to turn. She walked slowly towards a house, through the

shutters of which she could see pleasant gleams of light. It was Mrs.

Silver's house, and she paused before it, and thought to herself,

'I'll wait 'ere till I see 'im.' And so, pressing her babe to her

bosom, she waited, and listened to the music of happy voices

that floated from the house into the peaceful square. Did any

heavenly-directed influence impel her steps hitherward? And what shall

follow for poor Blade-o'-Grass? I do not know, for this is Christmas

eighteen hundred and seventy-one, and I cannot see into the future;

but as I prepare to lay down my pen, I seem to hear the words that

Robert Truefit uttered this morning--'Man, help the poor!'

THE END.

* * * * *

LONDON: ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.

[Frontispiece]

GOLDEN GRAIN.

By B. L. FARJEON,

AUTHOR OF 'BLADE-O'-GRASS,' 'BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES,' ETC.

[Illustration]

I.

THROUGH COUNTRY ROADS TO

SOME GREEN PLEASANT SPOT.

This Christmas I fulfill a purpose which has been in my mind for more

than a year. Until now my days and nights have been so much occupied

that I have not been able to commence my task. But you will see, by

the time you reach the end of these pages--if you have patience to go

through them--that I am enjoying a little leisure. The task that I

have set myself to perform is both sad and pleasant, and no more

fitting time than Christmas could be found for its accomplishment.

Not that it is Christmas at this present moment of writing. But the

good season will be here in a month; and when the mistletoe and holly

are hanging in cot and mansion, and the hearts of men are beating in

harmony, as if one pulse of love and goodwill animated them, I hope,

with God's blessing, that my little book will be completed, ready for

those who care to read what I have written. It may be that certain

persons who appear in these pages will be familiar to some of my

readers. I hope they will not be the less welcome on that account. To

me the story of their lives is fraught with deep and abiding interest.

How sweet the days are!--ay, although it is winter. Happiness comes

from within. Grateful hearts can give light and colour to the

gloomiest hours. But the hours for me are not gloomy, and no effort on

my part is required to make them bright. This is the sweetest part of

my life, both in itself and in the promise that it holds out. Three

days ago I was married. My wife is working in the room in which I am

writing. I call her to me.

'Rachel!'

She comes to my side. I hold her hand in mine. I look into her face,

which is inclined towards me. She cannot see me; she is blind. But she

smiles as I gaze at her. She knows the tender thought which impelled

me to call her to my side.

I am a clergyman, and my name is Andrew Meadow. My duties lie in one

of the most crowded and populous parts of the City, and the stipend I

received (for I no longer receive it) in return for my labours was

small. Far be it from my intention to make a merit of the fact, but it

is necessary that I should mention it. Although I have at times felt

myself cruelly hampered for want of means, my stipend was sufficient

for my personal wants, and I have even been able now and then to spare

a little: but very little. In the clerical, as in many other

professions, the payment to the workers is most unequally apportioned;

it is almost the rule that those who work the hardest receive the

least. So far as I myself am concerned, I have no complaint to make;

but I feel that it is an anomaly that some of those who work in the

Church should receive so much that they leave great fortunes behind

them, while others receive so little as to be scarcely able to

maintain their families. The priests of Him who advised the wealthy to

sell all they had, and give to the poor, should have neither more nor

less than enough. If they do not recognise in their practical life,

and by practical example, that the cause they labour in is the cause

of humanity, they are in a measure unfaithful to their trust.

I have no recollection of my father; but I have learned to honour his

memory. My mother lived until I was eight years of age. She was a

simple good woman--sweetly girlish in her manner to the last--and

although she is dust, I have not lost her. She dwells in my heart.

There is always to my consciousness a strong affinity between good

women; in point of feature, voice, or manner, one reminds you of

another; and' I often see in the face of my wife a likeness to that of

my mother. I read these last words to my wife; her face lights up with

a new happiness, and she says:

'I am glad; very, very glad!'

My wife knows and approves of the task I am engaged upon.

'It will do good, Andrew,' she says; 'I am sure it will.'

In my heart of hearts I hope so. If ever so little good results from

these words of mine, if but a seed is sown, if but a little sympathy

is roused to action which otherwise would have lain dormant, I shall

be amply repaid.

My wife, like myself, is an orphan; unlike myself, she never knew

father or mother. But she had, and has, those who stand to her in that

relation. In the house of these dear souls I first met her.

Their name is Silver. The maternal instinct is implanted in the breast

of every good woman, and it was a great grief to the Silvers that

their union was a barren one; but they turned their sorrow to good

use. Childless themselves, they, to the full extent of their means,

adopted a family of children, and trained them in such a manner as to

make their lives a blessing to them and to those around them. I cannot

hope to give you an idea of the perfect goodness of the lives of these

two dear friends, to whom my present and future happiness is due. I

thank God that I know them, and that they account me their friend.

Could the example which they have set in their small way and with

their small means be followed out on a larger scale, in other places

and localities than those in which I labour, a blessing would fall

upon the land, and humanity itself would be ennobled. These children,

when Mr. and Mrs. Silver adopted them, were babes, unconscious of the

perils which lay before them, and only those were selected who had no

parents. The time chosen for their adoption was within a week or two

of Christmas. They were found in the most miserable courts and alleys

in the metropolis; they were surrounded by ignorance, poverty, dirt,

and crime. God knows into what form of shame they might have

developed, had they been left to grow up in accordance with their

surroundings. But a happier fate is theirs. Under the influence of a

sweet and wise benevolence they have grown into good and useful men

and women, of whom their country may be justly proud.

I made the acquaintance of the Silvers almost as soon as I had entered

upon my duties; but circumstances did not bring us together, and I was

not very intimate with them until some time afterwards. I had heard

much of their goodness, for they are loved in the neighbourhood; every

man and woman has a good word for them.

One memorable day in August, more than four years ago now, I received

a note from Mrs. Silver, who lived in Buttercup-square, asking me as a

great favour to visit her in the evening, if I had the time to spare.

I was glad of the opportunity of seeing something of a household of

which I had heard so much good, and from that evening our actual

friendship commenced. There were present Mr. and Mrs. Silver, and two

of their adopted children, Mary and Rachel. They received me

cordially, and I felt that I was among friends. I saw that Rachel was

blind, and it touched me deeply, at that time and always afterwards,

to witness their tender thoughtfulness for the dear girl's calamity.

Not, I truly believe, that it is a calamity to her. She has been so

wisely trained, and has such strong inherent gratitude for the love

which is shed upon her, for the blessings by which she is surrounded,

that a repining thought never enters her mind. The effect of her

grateful nature is shown in the purity of her face, in the modesty of

her every movement. Were I a sculptor, it would be my earnest wish to

take her face as a model for Purity, and were I talented enough to be

faithful in the reproduction, I am sure that my fame would be made.

'These are only two of our children,' said Mrs. Silver, after I had

shaken hands all round; 'we have three more--Ruth and Charley, who

took into their heads to fall in love with each other, and are

married; and Richard, who is in Canada, and from whom we have received

a letter to-day. Ruth has a baby, and she and her husband will be here

in half-an-hour.'

'Not the baby, mother!' said Mary.

'No, dear, not the baby. She is only three months old, Mr. Meadow.'

'But such a wise little dear!' added Mary. 'I do believe she begins to

understand already.'

Then Mrs. Silver went on to tell me that Mary, the eldest girl--woman

now, indeed, twenty-four years of age--held a responsible position in

a government telegraph-office; that Charley was a compositor; that

Richard was a watchmaker; and that Rachel was as useful as any of

them, for she did all the needlework of the house. Rachel was working

a black-silk watch-guard for Richard, and it surprised me to see how

nimble her fingers were. She was listening intently to every word that

passed, and when I first spoke, she paused in her work to pay

attention to my voice.

'I want you to know exactly all about us,' said Mrs. Silver, 'and to

interest you in us, for I have made up my mind--pray excuse me for

it--that you are necessary to our plans. In a word, I wish to enlist

you.'

Rachel did a singular thing here--something which made a great

impression upon me. She left the room, and returned with a small piece

of bread dipped in salt. She held the plate towards me.

'Pray eat this piece of bread, Mr. Meadow,' she said.

I took the bread, and ate it.

'Now, mother,' said Rachel, with a satisfied expression, 'Mr. Meadow

is enlisted.'

'Yes,' I said, addressing Mrs. Silver; 'I am one of your soldiers.'

'Ah,' rejoined Mrs. Silver; 'but I want you to be my captain.'

At that moment there was a knock at the street-door.

'That's Mr. Merrywhistle,' cried Rachel, running into the passage, and

they all turned their faces to the door to welcome a friend.

'Rachel knows every knock and every step,' observed Mrs. Silver; 'she

will know you by your step the next time you visit us.'

I had heard of Mr. Merrywhistle as a large-hearted charitable man, and

I was pleased to come into closer acquaintanceship with him. He

entered, with his arm around Rachel's waist. An old man with white

hair and a kind eye.

Mrs. Silver was the first to speak. 'We have enlisted our curate, Mr.

Merrywhistle.'

'I knew,' he said, as he shook hands with me, 'that he had

only to be spoken to. I am truly pleased to see you here. Well,

children'--turning to the girls--'what is the news?'

The important news was Richard's letter from Canada. Mr.

Merrywhistle's face brightened when he heard of it. It was not to be

read, however, until Ruth and Charley came in. They arrived earlier

than was expected, both of them in a glow of excitement. It was

evident that they also had important news to communicate. Ruth, after

the first affectionate greetings, went to Rachel's side, and for the

rest of the evening the maid and the wife were never apart. A

special affection seemed to exist between them. Now that the whole

family was assembled, I thought I had never seen a more beautiful

group--especially beautiful because the ties that bound them together

were made fast by love and esteem. I knew to whom this was due, and I

looked towards Mr. and Mrs. Silver with increased respect and

admiration.

The first inquiries were about Ruth's baby. The young mother's

enthusiasm in answering the inquiries, and in detailing the wonderful

doings of her treasure during the last twenty-four hours, warmed my

heart; and when, after a long and almost breathless narration, Ruth

exclaimed, 'And I really think the darling has a tooth coming!' I

thought I had never heard anything more delicious. As for Mr.

Merrywhistle, he rubbed his hands with delight, and took Ruth's hands

in his, and rubbed those also, and exclaimed, 'Wonderful, wonderful!

Really I never did!' a score of times at least. Flushed with pride and

pleasure, Ruth as she spoke nodded at the others, now wisely, now

merrily, now tenderly, with looks which said, 'Of all happy mothers, I

am the happiest!' Never in my life had I seen so exquisite a home

picture.

'And now, Charley,' said Ruth, when she had exhausted her budget,

although she could have gone through the whole of it again with

perfect satisfaction, as if it were something entirely new, 'and now,

Charley, tell them.'

What Charley had to tell was simply that he was to be made overseer of

the printing establishment in which he was employed. There was an

honest ring in his voice as he spoke of his good fortune, and I was

convinced that it had been earned by merit.

'That is good news, indeed,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, with his hand on

Charley's shoulder. 'Charley, by the time you are thirty, you will be

a master printer. Bravo! Bravo!

Mrs. Silver kissed him, without saying a word, and as he drew her face

down to his and returned the kiss, and her gray hair mingled with his

brown curly locks, he whispered something in her ear which brought a

happy sigh from her.

Then came the reading of Richard's letter. Mr. Silver took it from his

pocket and opened it, and there was a general rustle of expectation in

the room and a closer drawing together of chairs. He looked around him

with a wistful air; the movement reminded him of a time when those who

were now men and women grown were children. To this purpose he spoke,

in a soft tone, before he commenced to read Richard's letter:

'You remind me, children, you remind me! It brings many happy evenings

to my mind. Do you remember _Paul and Virginia_ and the _Vicar of

Wakefield?_'

This challenge loosened their tongues, and for five minutes they were

busy recalling refreshing reminiscences. When memories of times that

were sweet and pleasant come to us, they come wrapt in a cloud of

solemn tenderness, and the voices of these children were pensive as

they spoke.

Behind the year whose seasons we are now enjoying is an arch of

overhanging leaves and boughs, receding, as it were, and growing

fainter in colour as old age steals upon us. Within this arch of green

leaves and boughs live the memories of our past. As, with a wistful

yearning to the days that were so sweet, we turn towards the arch,

which spans from heaven to earth, it opens, as by the touch of a magic

wand, and we see the tender trees that made our young lives green.

They are fair and good, and their leaves and branches are dew-laden,

though we of whom they are a part are walking to the grave. Some

sadness is there always in the mind as we recall these memories, but

only to those who believe not in the future, who see no hope in it, do

they bring pain and distress.

'When our children were in jackets and pinafores,' said Mrs. Silver to

me, 'my husband used to read to them every evening, and the hour was

always looked forward to with delight.'

'One night,' said Charley, with a sly look at his wife, 'when we were

in the middle of _Paul and Virginia_, and left off where Paul was

carrying Virginia in his arms, Ruth said, "Charley, you are like

Paul!" "But Where's my Virginia?" I asked. "_I'll_ be Virginia!" Ruth

cried; "and you can carry me about where you like." That's the way it

came about, sir.'

Of course there was much laughter at this reminiscence, to the truth

of which they all vouched, and Ruth, with a saucy toss of her head,

said,

'Ah, but there's no doubt that I was too little then to know my own

mind.'

'I don't know that, Ruth,' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, chuckling; 'I

don't know that. It's my opinion you determined to marry Charley long

before you were out of short clothes.'

After this innocent fashion they made merry.

'Dear me, dear me, children!' cried Mr. Silver, with assumed

petulance. 'How much longer am I to wait with Richard's letter in my

hand?'

'Read it now, father,' said Mrs. Silver; and there was a general hush

of expectancy.

The letter was a long one, and in it were recounted all the writer's

experiences in the land of his adoption. It was written hopefully and

confidently, and yet with modesty, and was filled with expressions of

love for the dear ones at home. 'Everything before me is bright, and I

have no doubt of the future. Not a day passes that I am not assured

that I was right in coming, and the conviction that I have those in

the old country who love me, and whom I love with all my heart and

soul, strengthens me in a wonderful manner. I can see you all as I

write, and my heart overflows towards you. Yes, I was right in coming.

The old country is over-crowded; there are too many people in it, and

every man that goes away gives elbow-room to some one else. When I see

the comfortable way in which poor people live here, and compare it

with the way they live at home--and above all, when I think of the

comfortable future there is before them if they like to be steady--I

find myself wishing that hundreds and hundreds of those I used to see

in rags, selling matches, begging, and going in and out of the

gin-shops, could be sent to this country, where there is room for so

many millions. I daresay some of them would tum out bad; but the

majority of them, when they saw that by a little steadiness they could

make sure of good clothes and good food, would be certain to turn out

good. I am making myself well acquainted with the history of this

wonderful country, and I mean to try hard to get along in it. You

can have no idea what a wonderful place it is; what opportunities

there are in it; what room there is in it. Why, you could put our

right-little tight-little island in an out-of-the-way corner of it,

and the space wouldn't be missed! If I make my fortune here--and I

believe I shall--I shall know how to use it, with the example I have

had before me all my life. I hope to have the opportunity of doing

more good here than I should have been able to do at home, and depend

upon it I will, if I have it in my power, for I want to repay my dear

mother and father for all their goodness to me. Want to repay you! No,

my dearest parents, I do not want to do that; I never could do it, if

I tried ever so hard. O, if I could put my arms now round my dear

mother's neck, and kiss her as I used to do! But I can kiss her

picture and all your pictures. Here's Mary and Ruth and Rachel--I feel

inclined to cry as they pass through my hands--and Charley--How are

you, Charley?--here you are, all of you, with mother and father, lying

before me as I write. Upon my word, I fancy you almost know that I'm

speaking to you. God bless you, my dears!... I've got ideas, and

there's room to work them out in this new country. And one day, when

Mary writes to me that she is going to get married, I shall be able to

say, perhaps, to my dear sister, "Here is a purse from runaway Richard

to help you and your husband along in the battle of life." For it is a

battle, isn't it, dears? And I mean to fight it, and win. Yes, and

win! You'll see if I don't!'

In this way the letter ran on--eagerly, impetuously, lovingly--and

there was not a dry eye in the room when Mr. Silver read the last

words, 'Ever your own faithful and loving Son and Brother, RICHARD.

God bless you all, again and again! Now I shall go to bed, and dream

of you.'

I am particular in narrating this incident of the reading of Richard's

letter, for Richard, although he will not appear in person in these

pages, plays an important part in them on one momentous occasion, as

you will see.

The reading being concluded, eager tongues related anecdotes of

Richard; and, 'Do you remember, mother, when Richard----?' and,

'Do you remember, Rachel, when we were at Hampstead-heath, and

Richard----?' so-and-so and so-and-so. And then, when there was

silence, Ruth said pensively, 'I wish Richard could see baby!'

And thus, in various shapes of love, the thoughts of all travelled

over the waters to the absent one. I can fancy that the very breezes

that waft thitherward, and thence to the mother-land, are sweetened by

the loving thoughts which float upon them from one shore to another.

'Mr. Meadow will forgive us,' said Mrs. Silver, 'for detaining him

with these family details. We are apt to be selfish in our joys.'

I assured her that I regarded it as a privilege to be admitted to

these family confidences, and that I hoped it would not be the last

occasion I should share them.

'I hope not, dear sir,' she replied. 'Mary, give me my desk.'

Mary brought the desk, and took her purse from her pocket.

'I have two contributions, mother. A gentleman came to our office

to-day, and when he read the paper they allowed me to put up, he gave

me five shillings. Jane Plunkett, too, who has only been in the office

three weeks, gave me ninepence.'

'I collected four shillings and twopence,' said Charley, 'among the

men and boys in the office. Some of the boys gave a halfpenny each;

and my master has promised half-a-sovereign.'

'This partly explains our business,' said Mrs. Silver to me; 'and the

reason for my asking you to come this evening. We have been collecting

subscriptions for the purpose of taking a number of the poorest

children in the parish into the country for a day. Richard sent us two

pounds a little while ago to give away, and the idea struck us that it

could not be better devoted than to such a purpose. So we commenced a

fund with his subscription, and we shall write him a full description

of the holiday, telling him that it was he who initiated it. Indeed we

call it Richard's Day. Nothing could please him better. You, who go so

much among the poor, know what numbers of poor children there are who

have never seen the country, and to whom the sight of flowers and

green fields will be like gentle rain to drooping blades of grass.'

I noticed here that Mr. Merrywhistle started; but he offered no

explanation of his sudden movement.

'Whosoever,' I said, 'shall give to drink unto one of these little

ones a cup of cold water only, shall in no wise lose his reward.'

'Thank you, dear sir,' was Mrs. Silver's earnest rejoinder. 'Our

reward will be the brightening faces and the innocent delight of these

poor little waifs. We have been very successful in our collection, and

I think we shall have sufficient money to take a hundred and twenty

children. My idea is, that we shall engage vans, and drive as much as

possible through country roads to some green pleasant spot, where the

children can play, and have dinner and tea. I must tell you that it is

only the poorest of the poor who will be chosen, and that in the

matter of shoes and stockings there may be here and there a

deficiency. But we will endeavour that they shall all have clean

faces. Will you join us, and take the command of our ragged army?'

I consented to join them with pleasure, but said that I must be

regarded more in the light of a soldier than of a captain. 'We can

divide the command,' I said. 'Have you any place where the children

can assemble before starting?'

'That is one of my difficulties,' said Mrs. Silver. 'Some of these

children will be sure to come not over clean, and I want to make them

so before they get into the vans. I have plenty of help in the shape

of hands, but I want the room.'

'I can wash some,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, in perfect sincerity. The

good old man was like a child in his simplicity.

'I think we women will do it better,' replied Mrs. Silver gaily; 'but

we will find you plenty to do.'

'To be sure,' mused Mr. Merrywhistle, 'there are the buns and the

fruit----' And lost himself in the contemplation of these duties.

I then told Mrs. Silver that I could obtain the use of a large

warehouse, which had been for some time unoccupied, and that she might

depend upon my fullest assistance in the arrangement of the details.

Their pleasure was unbounded, and I myself felt happier and more truly

thankful than I had felt for a long time past. I left the house with

Mr. Merrywhistle, and he beguiled the way with stories of the doings

of these his dearest friends. He was in the heart of an enthusiastic

speech when a poor woman, carrying a child, brushed past us; her head

was bent down to the child, and she was murmuring some restful words.

'Dear me!' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, suddenly stopping. 'You will

excuse me, my dear sir. Goodnight! Good-night!'

Without waiting for a reply, he shook hands warmly with me, and

hurried after the woman. They turned the corner of the street almost

at the same moment.

[Illustration]

I walked home by myself, and thought of the pleasant evening I had

spent. The last words I had heard in the house of the Silvers were

from Rachel's lips.

'Good-night,' she had said, with her hand in mine. 'I am so glad you

came!'

But she was not more glad than I.

II.

THANK GOD FOR A GOOD BREAKFAST!

It is not necessary, nor is it within the limit of these pages, to

narrate how the details necessary to make the day in the country a

success were got through. Sufficient for my purpose to say that

everything was satisfactorily arranged and completed on the evening

before the appointed day. The number of applications was very great;

ten times as many as we were able to take begged to be allowed to go.

Mothers entreated; children looked imploringly into our faces. There

were many heartaches, I am sure; but none suffered greater pain than

we, the committee, upon whom devolved the duty of making the

selection. But we gave pleasure to many; and for the others---- Would

there were more workers! Each can do a little, with time or purse, and

that little may prove to be so much! Remember what the strongest and

most beautiful trees were, once upon a time. So may a good life be

developed even from such a seedling as this.

There was one anxiety which nature alone could allay, if it were kind:

the weather. Many a heart beat with mingled hope and fear that night

before the day, and many a child's prayer was thought and whispered

that the sun would shine its best in the morning. Nature _was_ kind,

and the sun broke beautifully bright. How we congratulated ourselves,

with smiling faces, as we all assembled at seven o'clock in the large

warehouse I had borrowed for the occasion! The door was to be opened

for the children at half-past seven.

I have mentioned the committee. Let me tell you who they were. All

Mrs. Silver's family, of course. Mary and Charley had obtained a

holiday, and Ruth was there with her baby, whom the fond mother every

now and then consulted with bewitching gravity, and to whom she

whispered, in the delicious tones that only a mother's voice can

convey, all sorts of confidences about the party. I include in Mrs.

Silver's family Mr. Merrywhistle, for he was truly one of them. But

Mr. Merrywhistle was a member of the selecting committee for only one

day; he had been summarily dismissed and deprived of power, because he

found it impossible to say No to a single application. 'My rock ahead,

sir,' he whispered to me confidentially, when we reproached him. 'I

never _can_ get that word out! I _mean_ it often, but there's an imp

in my throat that invariably changes it into Yes. I ought to know

better at my age.' And he shook his head in grave reproof of himself.

As Mrs. Silver had warned him, however, we gave him plenty to do. He

was unanimously elected chief of the commissariat, and he made himself

delightfully busy in the purchase of buns and fruit and lemonade. We

were not aware that he was unfit even for this task, until we

discovered that he had provided twice as many buns as were necessary.

When his blunder was pointed out to him by Mrs. Silver on the ground,

he gazed disconsolately at the heap of uneaten buns. 'Dear me!' he

said mournfully, 'what is to be done with them? I suppose they must be

divided among the children. You see, my dear madam, I am not to be

trusted--not to be trusted!' But I am sure I detected a sly twinkle in

his eye as he condemned his own shortcomings. In addition to the

persons I have mentioned, there were two other members of the

committee--to wit, Mr. Robert Truefit and Mr. James (or Jimmy) Virtue;

as singular a contrast in individuals as can well be imagined. Robert

Truefit I hold in high esteem. He is a fine, and I take pleasure in

thinking a fair, representative of the sterling English working-man,

with a higher intelligence than is possessed by the majority of his

class. He is a married man, with a large and increasing family, and

his earnings will probably average a trifle under two pounds a week.

With these earnings he supports and 'brings up' his family in a manner

which commands admiration. His children are likely to be a credit to

the State; it is such as he who form the sound bone and muscle of a

great nation. Jimmy Virtue is of a lower grade. Outwardly a cynic, one

who sneers at goodness, but who has, to my knowledge, occasionally

been guilty of an act of charity. He kept a leaving-shop in one of the

worst thoroughfares in the locality where my duties lie. Everything

about him outwardly was unprepossessing; the wrinkles in his face

seemed to snarl at you; he had a glass eye, and he was ill-dressed and

ostensibly ill-mannered to those in a better position than himself.

Such was Jimmy Virtue, of whom you will find, as you proceed, some

exciting record. You may reasonably ask. How came such a man on your

committee? Both Robert Truefit and Mr. Merrywhistle were his friends,

and took pleasure in his society. This surprised me at first, but not

afterwards. I found that, to read his character properly, it was

necessary to read between the lines. Having lived amongst

misery-mongers all his life, he was well acquainted with the class

from which our children were to be chosen; and, as it proved, his

services were most useful to us.

A word about Rachel in connection with the selection. Instances

occurred where opinion was divided as to the suitability of

candidates; it was our natural desire to choose those who were most

deserving, and it was impossible to take them haphazard, as they

presented themselves. Here was a mother with two children, pleading,

entreating, imploring that they might be taken. Jimmy Virtue shook his

head. Robert Truefit, with a quiet motion, also gave an adverse vote.

We--the Silvers and I--were in favour of the applicants, but we felt

that, the two dissentients were more fitted to judge than we. It

seemed that there was something worse than usual against the mother,

whose face grew almost wickedly sullen as she observed signs of a

refusal in Truefit and Virtue.

'Let Rachel decide,' said Mrs. Silver.

We all experienced a feeling of relief at this suggestion. The woman

and the children went aside with Rachel, and kept together for fully

twenty minutes, while we continued the business of the hour. I,

furtively watching the group in the corner of the large room, saw

Rachel sit down and take the two miserable children by the hand. Then

the woman went towards Rachel, and gradually the sullen expression in

her face softened; and shortly afterwards she was on her knees by the

side of the blind maid, listening and speaking with tears in her eyes.

Not a word reached me; but when the interview was ended, Rachel rose

and walked towards us with a child on each side of her. Behind her was

the mother, hiding her face, as if ashamed of her tears. As Rachel

stood before us, looking upwards, with her face of purity and

goodness, clasping the ragged children to her, a light seemed to fall

upon her in my eyes--a light which touched with merciful glance the

figure of the wretched mother in the rear.

'I am to decide?' said Rachel, gently and earnestly.

'Yes, my dear.'

'Then we will take these little ones with us. They will be very good.'

'Very well, my dear.'

And their names were put down and instructions given to the weeping

mother. The woman showed no gratitude to us; but as she turned to go,

with a lingering look at Rachel, the blind girl held out her hand. The

woman seized it, kissed it, and muttered, 'God love yer, miss!' We

were all satisfied with Rachel's decision. Even Jimmy Virtue shut his

useful eye and glared out of his glass one, that being, as I

understood the action, the only mode he could find of taking a clear

view of the difficulty.

Among those who were chosen were no fewer than seven children, maimed

and deformed; one could not walk; another used crutches, and proved to

be one of the most active of the whole party, much to our surprise,

for when he applied, he appeared to be very lame indeed. One little

fellow presented himself without a guardian; he was about six years of

age, and had the largest and roundest eyes I ever saw in a child. To

all our questions about his parents he gave no answer; he only stared

at us.

'What is your name?'

He found his tongue. 'Jacky Brown.'

'And what do you want?'

'I wants to 'ave a ride and see a lot o' trees.'

'Who told you to come to us?'

'Old Rookey.'

'And what did Old Rookey tell you to say?'

'Old Rookey ses, he ses. You go, Jacky, and arks 'em to take yer to

'ave a ride and see the trees. And Old Rookey ses, he ses, Don't you

come away, Jacky, till they puts your name down.'

Who Old Rookey was we were unable to discover. Jimmy Virtue recognised

the child, and told us his mother was in prison, and that he didn't

know how the little fellow lived. There was something so interesting

about Jacky, that we promised to take him. We wrote instructions on a

piece of paper, and gave it to him, telling him to give it to Old

Rookey.

'You must come very clean, Jacky.'

'I'll tell Old Rookey,' he said. 'He knows wot's wot.'

Long before half-past seven o'clock on the holiday morning the

children and their friends began to arrive. The committee of selection

had given them to understand that they were to have breakfast before

they came. At the back of the warehouse was a recess screened off by

sacks hung over a line, in which were ample supplies of water, soap,

and towels; and the girls were ready to do the washing, with their

sleeves tucked up and aprons on to save their dresses. The process was

this: we, the men, stood at the door and received the visitors, taking

their names and otherwise identifying them, so that no deceit should

be practised. Each child, as he established his right of entrance, was

passed into the room, where, if he were not clean and tidy, he was

made so, as far as possible, by the women. Some of them, I must admit,

required washing badly; but when the work was done, and the children

stood in lines along the benches, their bright eager faces and

restless limbs formed a picture which dwelt vividly in my mind for a

long time afterwards. Jacky Brown was very punctual, and, contrary to

our expectation, very clean. We looked for some person answering to

the description we had formed of Old Rookey, but we were not

successful in finding him. Jacky had something to say to us.

'Old Rookey ses, he ses, you'll open yer eyes when yer sees me.'

And Jacky pointed to his well-polished face and held out his clean

hands. We thought we would improve the occasion.

'We are very pleased with you, Jacky. It's much nicer to be clean than

dirty, isn't it?'

But Jacky was dubious.

'It gets inter yer eyes, and 'urts,' he said.

Soap was evidently a disagreeable novelty to him.

Mrs. Silver and the girls were putting on their bonnets and getting

ready for the start, when a serious innovation in our programme

occurred. The guilty person was one of the most esteemed members of

our own body.

'Children,' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, suddenly stepping in front of

them, 'have you had breakfast?'

A mighty shout arose of 'No!' but whether those who gave evidence were

witnesses of truth I dare not venture to say.

'Then you shall have some,' cried Mr. Merrywhistle, with a triumphant

look at us; but there was conscious guilt in his gaze.

The 'Hoorays!' that were sent forth in voices shrill and gruff formed

a fine p[ae]an certainly, but scarcely recompensed us at the moment

for the loss of time. But it all turned out splendidly. Mr.

Merrywhistle had planned his artifice skilfully, and, in less than

seven minutes, buns and hot milk in mugs were in the hands of every

member of our ragged crew. The moment we found we were compromised, we

rushed to assist, and (although we were sure we were wrong in

encouraging the traitor) we shook hands heartily with Mr.

Merrywhistle, whose beaming face would have been sufficient excuse for

fifty such innovations. I am not certain that, when the children were

served, Ruth and Rachel did not take the good old fellow behind the

screen of sacks where the washing had been done, and kiss him; for he

came forth from that recess with an arm round the waist of each of the

girls, and with his face beaming more brightly than ever.

In the middle of breakfast the vans rattled up to the door; they were

decorated with bright ribbons and flags, and the drivers had flowers

in their coats; the very horses wore rosettes. There were five vans,

and they presented so gay an appearance that the street was filled

with sight-gazers. Immediately the vans drew up--which they did

smartly, as if they knew what they were about, and that this was a day

of days--the children paused from their eating to give vent to another

cheer, and another, and another. Their faces flushed, their little

hands trembled, their restless limbs shifted and danced, and took part

in the general animation. As for ourselves----Well, we paused also,

and smiled at each other, and Ruth held baby's face to Charley to

kiss.

'A fine sermon this, sir,' said Robert Truefit to me.

'Indeed, indeed,' I assented. 'Better than any that tongue can

preach.'

There was no need to tell the children to hurry with their meal; they

were too eager to be on the road.

'Now, children, have you finished?'

'Yes, sir! Yes, marm! Yes, miss!'

'Then thank God for a good breakfast!'

The simple thanksgiving was uttered by all with earnest meaning. Then

out they trooped to the vans, the sight-gazers in the street waving

their arms and hats at us. The deformed children were placed in

advantageous positions, so that they could see the roads through which

we were to drive, and were given into the charge of other children,

who promised to take care of them; Jacky Brown had a seat on the box;

we took our places on the vans; the drivers looked seriously at their

reins; the horses shook their heads; and all was ready. If I had the

space at my command, and were gifted with the power, what scenes I

could describe here of mothers, sisters, friends, who showed their

gratitude to us in various ways as we prepared to start! Not all of

them as low as by their outward presence you would judge them to be.

Written history--notwithstanding that we pin our faith to it, that we

pride ourselves upon it, that we strive to shape our ends according to

its teaching--is to unwritten history, in its value of example, as a

molehill to a mountain; even the written history of great national

conflicts, which strew the cornfields with dead and dying, upon whom

we throw that sham halo called Glory, as compared with the unwritten

history of courts and alleys, which we push out of sight with cruel

carelessness.

III.

THEY LISTENED WITH ALMOST BREATHLESS ATTENTION TO EVERY WORD

THAT FELL FROM HER LIPS.

And so, with our mud-larks and street arabs, we rode out of the busy

city, away from the squalid walls in the shadow of which the bad

lessons which lead naturally to bad lives are graven on the hearts of

the helpless young. It was the end of August, and the corn was being

cut. The children sniffed the sweet-smelling air, and asked one

another if it wasn't prime. Every turn of the road through which we

gaily trotted opened new wonders to our ragged crew; and we were kept

busy answering the torrent of questions that were poured upon us.

What's that? A field of clover. Three cheers for the clover. Fields of

barley, wheat, oats, all were cheered for lustily. What's them fellers

diggin' up? Potatoes. Hurrah for the taters! Hallo! here's a bank of

lavender, filling the air with fragrance. Most of the children were

noisy in their expressions of delight; but a few sat still, staring

in solemn wonder. The golden corn which the scythe had not yet

touched--how it bowed and waved and whispered in the breeze that

lightly swept across it! How few of the uncultured children could be

made to understand that bread--to them so scarce and precious--was

made from these golden wavelets! A windmill! Another! The huge fans

sailed slowly round. 'Here,' we said, 'the corn is ground to flour.'

'Wonder what makes the flour so white!' whispered a mudlark to his

mate; ''t ought to be yaller.' Now we were driving along a narrow

lane, between hedges; the sounds of music came from our rear. I stood

up and looked. Some twenty or thirty yards behind the last van was a

spring-cart, with a band of musicians in it. What cheers the children

gave for 'the musicianers'! Their cup of happiness was full to the

brim. I caught Mr. Merrywhistle's eye: it fell guiltily beneath my

gaze; but as I smiled with grateful approval at him, he brightened up,

and rubbed his hands joyously. Every popular air that the musicians

played was taken up by a full chorus of voices. Here and there, along

the country roads, housewives and children came out to look at us.

There was a greeting for all of them from our noisy youngsters, and

they greeted us in return. One woman threw a shower of apples into the

vans, and received in return the acknowledgment, 'Bravo, missis!

You're a good sort, you are!' At half-past ten we reached our

destination--a very pretty spot, with a wood adjacent, and a meadow to

play in. Everything had been judiciously arranged, and, marshalling

the children, we acquainted them with the programme. They were free

for two hours to do as they pleased. They might play their games where

they liked in forest or meadow. The band would play in the meadow. But

a promise was to be exacted from them. They were to be kind to every

living creature they came across; they were to kill nothing. Would

they promise? 'Yes, sir; yes, marm; yes, miss! We won't 'urt nothink!'

Very well, then. In two hours the horn would sound, three times. Like

this. Listen. The musician who played the horn gave the signal. When

they heard that again they would know that dinner was ready; they were

not to go too far away, else they would not hear it, and would lose

their dinner. 'No fear, master!' they shouted. 'Let's give three

cheers,' one of them cried. 'And look 'ere! The boys fust, and the

gals arterwards.' So the cheers were given as directed, and the boys

laughed heartily at the girls' piping voices. 'Now, then, you all

understand---- But stop! what is this?' Here was Mr. Merrywhistle

again, with another of his triumphantly-guilty looks, introducing new

features into the programme. Two of the biggest boys were carrying a

trunk towards us, and when it was opened, out came balls, and traps

and bats, and rounder-sticks, and kites, and battledores and

shuttlecocks, and skipping-ropes. The shout that arose as these things

were given out was mightier than any that had preceded it, as the boys

and girls, like wild birds released from prison, rushed off with their

treasures.

'I suppose,' said Mrs. Silver, with the kindest of looks towards Mr.

Merrywhistle, 'there is no reclaiming you.'

'I'm too old, I'm too old,' he replied deprecatingly. 'I hope you

don't mind.'

Mind! Why, he had done just the very things that we had forgotten, and

the very best things too, to keep the youngsters out of mischief. We

had plenty to do. Here and there was a solitary one, who knew nobody

in all that wild band, wandering by himself, and casting wistful

glances at the other children who were playing. Here was a little

fellow who had lost his brother, crying lustily. Here was a shy timid

girl, absolutely without a friend. All these human strays--strays even

among the forlorn crew of youngsters who were tasting a pure enjoyment

for the first time in their lives--we collected together and formed

into bands, instructing them how to play, and taking part in their

games until they were sufficiently familiarised with each other to get

along without help. The children who were unable to run about we

arranged comfortably together in a place where they had a clear view

of the sports. Rachel, by tacit consent, took this group under her

care; and not long afterwards I saw her seated in the midst of them,

and heard her telling them, in admirable language and with admirable

tact, the best of those fairy stories which delight our childhood's

days. Blind as Rachel was, she could see deeper into these children's

hearts than we. They listened with almost breathless attention to

every word that fell from her lips--and every word was sweet--and saw

the scenes she painted, and learnt the lessons she taught. Among all

our children there was no happier group than this over which she

presided; and many whose limbs were straight and strong approached the

deformed group, and listened in delight and wonder. During the whole

of that day I noticed how the most forlorn and friendless of the

children congregated about Rachel. Perhaps they saw in her blindness

something akin to their own condition, and eyes that might have been

mournful grew soft and tender beneath the influence of her

sightlessness and kindly help. One of the most favourite pastimes of

the day was dancing to the music of the band. Such dancing! Girls went

round and round in the waltz with a solemn enjoyment in their faces

most wonderful to witness; boys, more demonstrative, executed amazing

steps, and flung their arms and their legs about in an extraordinary

manner. There were two champion dancers--boys of about twelve years of

age--whose capers and comicalities attracted large audiences. These

boys, by some means had secreted about their persons two immense pairs

of 'nigger' shoes, which were now tied on to their feet. They danced,

they sang, they asked conundrums of each other with amusing

seriousness; and I was privately and gravely informed that they

intended to become negro minstrels, and were saving up to buy a banjo.

Dinner-time came, and the horn was blown. Such a scampering never was

seen, and dull eyes lightened, and bright eyes grew brighter, at the

sight of the well-stocked tables. If it were necessary, I could

vulgarise this description by mention of certain peculiarities--forms

of expression and such-like--which existed among our guests; but it is

not necessary. No one's enjoyment was marred, and every youngster at

our tables was perfectly happy. The children stood while I said grace.

I said but a very few words, and that the brevity of the grace was

appreciated was evidenced by a remark I overheard. 'That's proper! I

thort the parson-chap was goin' to pray for a hour.' The children ate

very heartily, and here and there, with the younger ones, we had to

exercise a salutary check. But the older boys and girls were beyond

our control. 'Tuck away, Sal!' cried one. 'It'll be all over

to-morrer!' When the children--dinner being finished--were, at play

again, we had a little leisure. Mrs. Silver, seated on a bench, looked

around upon her family and friends, and said, with a satisfied smile,

'I really am tired, my dears.'

[Illustration]

IV.

FOR MERCY'S SAKE, TELL ME! WHOSE VOICE WAS IT I HEARD JUST NOW?

I also was tired. I had been up very late three nights during the

week, and on the night previous to this day I had had only four hours'

sleep. Glad of the opportunity to enjoy a little quietude, I strolled

from where the children and my friends were congregated, and walked

towards the rise of a hill on the other side of which was a wooded

knoll, where I supposed I should be quite alone. There it was my

intention to stretch myself, and rest for fully half an hour by my

watch.

The day had continued gloriously fine, and there was no sign of

change. I had much to think about. An event of great importance in my

private history was soon to take place, and I knew it, and was only

waiting for the time. It made me sad to think that when that time came

I should probably lose a friend--not an ordinary friend, but one to

whom I owed my education and my present position. It will find record

in its proper place, however, and needs no further reference here. I

had mounted the hill, and was descending towards the clump of trees,

when I saw, at a little distance, three persons sitting on the ground.

One of them I knew. It was Mr. Merrywhistle, and he was attending to

the wants of a very poorly-dressed girl, who was eating her dinner,

which it was evident Mr. Merrywhistle had brought to her from the

tables. There was a large quantity of wild flowers by the girl's side,

which I judged she had gathered during the day, and in the midst of

these flowers sat a child between two and three years of age, towards

whom the girl directed many a look of full-hearted love. The face of

the child fixed my attention; it was a dull, pale, mournful face, and

there was an expression of weariness in the eyes which hurt me to see.

To detect Mr. Merrywhistle in an act of kindness did not surprise me;

and yet I wondered how it was that he was here, in a certain sense

clandestinely, with this poor girl, who had the look of the London

streets upon her. Not wishing, however, to disturb the group, I walked

slowly in the opposite direction; the conformation of the hill

favoured me, so that I was very soon hidden from their sight, although

really I was but a very few yards from them. I threw myself upon the

ground, my thoughts dwelling upon the scene of which I had been an

unseen witness. It struck me as strange that Mr. Merrywhistle and this

poor girl were evidently well acquainted with one another; their

familiar bearing convinced me of that. Then by what singular chance

was it, or was it by chance at all, that they had met here in this

sweet spot, so far away from her natural haunts? For there was no

mistaking the type to which this poor girl belonged; it can be seen,

multiplied and multiplying, in all our crowded cities, but not in

country places such as this in which we held our holiday. Could this

be the same girl and child, I asked myself, whom Mr. Merrywhistle

followed when he left me so abruptly on the night we walked together

from Mrs. Silver's house? But presently my thoughts wandered to more

refreshing themes. The many beautiful pictures of sweet charity and

unselfishness I had witnessed this day came before me again, and I

thanked God that my country held such noble specimens of true

womanhood as Mrs. Silver, Mary, Ruth, and Rachel. And then, knowing

full well the history of these girls, I contrasted their present lives

with that of the poor girl in Mr. Merrywhistle's company. In the midst

of my musings, and while I was contemplating the picture (to which my

thoughts had wandered) of Rachel standing before us, as she had stood

three days ago, with a child on each side of her, and the weeping

mother behind--as I was contemplating this picture, and weaving

idealisms about it, the sound of a harsh voice reached me, and

dissolved my fancies. I recognised the voice immediately--it belonged

to Jimmy Virtue, and it came from the direction where Mr. Merrywhistle

and the poor girl were. Not quite trusting Jimmy Virtue, as I did not

at that time, I rose to my feet, and walked towards the group, the

disposition of which was now completely changed. The girl was standing

in a half-frightened, half-defiant attitude, pressing her child to her

breast; in the eager haste with which she had snatched the child from

the ground, she had clutched some wild-flowers, and these were

trailing to her feet; Jimmy Virtue, with head inclined, was holding up

an angry finger; and Mr. Merrywhistle, with an expression of pain and

distress on his features, seemed by his attitude to be mediating

between them. The girl was the first to see me, and she turned to fly,

as if every human face she saw were a new terror to her, or as if in

me she recognised a man to be avoided. I hastened to her side, and

laid my hand on her arm. With a convulsive shiver, but without a word

and without resistance, she bowed her head to her baby's neck, and

cowered to the ground, like a frightened animal. And there she

crouched, a poor forlorn thing, ragged, defiant, panting, fearing,

with the world sitting in judgment upon her.

* * * * *

Bear with me a little while. The memories connected with this poor

girl fill my heart to overflowing. They belong not only to her and her

mournful history; she is but one of many who are allowed to drift as

the careless days glide by. If you do not enter into my feelings, bear

with me, I pray.

And I must not flinch. To be true unto others, you must be true to

yourself. My conscience, no less than my heart, approves of the course

I pursued with reference to certain passages in this girl's career.

Many who hold a high place in the world's esteem will differ from me,

I know; some, who look with self-righteous eyes upon certain bad

features in the lower social life of the people, and whose belief

inclines them to touch not lest they be defiled, will condemn me

because I did not, from the very first, attempt to turn this girl's

heart with prayer, believing themselves in its full efficacy for all

forms of trouble. But let them consider that this girl-woman was

already grown to strength; veined in her veins were hurtful fibres

which once might have been easily removed, but which, by force of

surrounding circumstance, were now so deeply rooted in her nature that

they could only be weakened by patience, forbearance, tender handling,

and some exercise of wise benevolence. Here was a mind to be dealt

with utterly ignorant of those teachings, the following out of which

renders life healthful and pleasant to contemplate; but here at the

same time was a hungry stomach to be dealt with--a hungry stomach

continually crying out, continually craving, which no words of prayer

could satisfy. And I, a clergyman, who preach God's word in full

belief and believe fully in His mercy and goodness, say to those who

condemn for this reason, that words of prayer--otherwise lip-worship,

and outward observances according to set forms--are, alone and

in themselves, valueless and unacceptable in the eyes of God.

Self-accusation, self-abasement, pleadings for mercy, unaccompanied by

good deeds, go for naught. A merciful action, a kindly impulse

practically acted upon--these are the prayers which are acceptable in

His eyes.

* * * * *

I looked around for an explanation.

'Ah,' exclaimed Jimmy Virtue, threateningly, ''ere's the parson! He'll

tell you whether you're right or wrong.'

A proof that I, the parson, had been set up by Jimmy Virtue as a man

to be feared. It was natural that the poor girl should shrink from my

touch. Mr. Merrywhistle drew me aside.

'It is all my fault,' he said, in a tone of great emotion. 'I smuggled

her here.'

'How did she come?' I asked. 'She was not in any of the vans.'

'I smuggled her in the cart that brought the provisions, and I bade

the driver not to come too close to us, for fear poor Blade-o'-Grass

should be discovered and sent back.'

'Poor who?'

'Blade-o'-Grass. That's the only name she has. It came into my mind

the first night I saw you in Mrs. Silver's house. Mrs. Silver, you

remember, was telling you the plan of this holiday, and was saying

that you, who go so much among the poor, knew that there were numbers

of poor children who had never seen the country, and that the sight of

flowers and green fields would be to them like gentle rain to drooping

blades of grass.'

'I remember well.'

'I don't know if Mrs. Silver used the expression purposely, but I

thought immediately of this poor girl, whom everybody round about

Stoney-alley, where she lives, knows as Blade-o'-Grass, and I thought

what a fine thing it would be for her if I could smuggle her here with

her baby, so that she might enjoy a day in the country, which she

never set eyes on until now. She danced for joy, sir--yes, sir, she

did!--when I asked her if she would like to come. And she has enjoyed

herself so much, and has kept out of the way according to my

instructions. See, Mr. Meadow, she has been gathering wildflowers, and

has been talking and singing to her baby in a way it has made me glad

to hear. Poor girl! poor girl! I have known her from a child, and, if

you will forgive me for saying it, I think I almost love her. Although

she has always stood in her own light--always, always! It was wrong of

me to bring her here, but I did it for the best I have been told often

I was doing wrong when I have foolishly thought I was doing good.'

'You have done no wrong,' I said emphatically, 'in bringing that poor

girl here. I honour you for it. And now tell me what has occurred to

spoil her pleasure, and what is the cause of Mr. Virtue's anger.'

'Why, you see, Mr. Meadow, that Jimmy Virtue, of whose rough manners

you must not take any notice--you must not judge harshly of him

because of them--has taken a liking to the girl.'

'Well?'

'He has been kind to her, I feel certain, though you'll never get him

to acknowledge it--indeed, he'll tell you fibs to your face without

ever a blush--and he has been trying for a long time to persuade her

to come and live with him. She has persistently refused, and now he is

angry with her. He is an old man and a lonely man, and he feels it

perhaps; but, anyhow, it is as much for her good as his that he makes

the offer. He says he will look upon her as a daughter, and it would

be better for her than her present lot.'

'Why does she refuse?'

Mr. Merrywhistle hesitated.

'Tell me all,' I said, 'plainly and without disguise.'

'Well, Mr. Meadow, nothing on earth can induce her to leave Tom

Beadle.'

'Who is he? What is he?'

'He is a thief, and the father of her child.'

Mr. Merrywhistle's voice trembled from sadness as he spoke these

words. I understood it all now. To my grief, I knew what would be the

answer to my next question; but it must be asked and answered.

'Is she married?'

'No.'

[Illustration]

We were but a few paces from Jimmy Virtue and Blade-o'-Grass, and our

conversation had been carried on in a low tone. I turned towards them.

Jimmy Virtue, in a heat, was wiping his glass eye. Blade-o'-Grass had

not stirred from her crouching attitude. She might have been carved in

stone, so motionless had she remained, and to discover any signs of

life in her, you would have had to put your head down to her beating

heart So she cowered among the wildflowers, with sweet breezes about

her, with beautiful clouds above her.

'Now, parson,' said Jimmy Virtue, in a menacing tone, 'per'aps you'll

tell that gal whether she's right or wrong!'

'I must first know,' I said, striving to induce gentleness in him by

speaking gently myself, 'what it is I am to give an opinion upon.'

'I know that. Mind you, I ain't overfond o' parsons, as a rule, and I

ain't overfond o' words, unless there's a reason for 'em. You see that

gal there--she's a pretty article to look at, ain't she? Judge for

yourself; you can tell pretty well what she is by 'er clothes and 'er

babby, though she does 'ide 'er face. She's not so bad as you might

make 'er out to be, that I must say; for I ain't a-goin' to take

advantage of 'er. But you may make 'er out precious bad, what

with one thing and another, and not be far wrong arter all. She's got

no 'ome to speak of; she's got no clothes to speak of; she's got no

babby that she's got a right to. Well, I orfer that gal a 'ome in my

leavin'-shop. I say to 'er, You can come and live along o' me, and

I'll look arter you like a daughter; and I would, for I'm a man o' my

word, though my word don't amount to much. Now what does she say, that

gal, as couldn't lay 'er 'and on a 'arf-a-crown as she's got a right

to, if it was to save 'er life--what does she say to my orfer? She

says. No, and says as good as I'll see you further fust! Now, tell 'er

whether she's right or wrong--tell 'er once and for all. You're a

parson, and she'll believe you, per'aps.'

I beckoned him away, for I knew that his harsh tones no less than his

words hurt the girl.

'Our mutual friend, Mr. Merrywhistle,' I said----

'That's right; our muchel friend, Mr. Merrywhistle. Though he's too

soft-'earted, mind you! I've told 'im so a 'underd times.'

----'Has made me acquainted with some part of this poor girl's story.

Don't speak so loudly and so angrily. She hears every word you say.'

'I know that,' he growled. 'She's got the cunnin' of a fox.'

'And, after all, she has a right to choose for herself; you can have

no real claim upon her.'

'She ain't got no right,' he said vehemently, 'to choose for 'erself,

and if I ain't got no claim on 'er, I'd like to know who 'as! I've

knowed 'er from the time as she was a babby. She growed up almost

under my eyes. She's played on my doorstep when she was a little 'un,

and 'as been shoved off it many and many a time. I knowed 'er

mother--I knowed 'er father, the mean thief! as run away afore she was

born. No claim! Ain't that no claim, I'd like to know? And don't I

know what she'll come to if she goes on much longer as she's a-goin'

on now? It's a-comin' to the end, I tell you, and I want to stop it!

Why, Tom Beadle, the man as she's a'----I put my finger to my lips,

out of compassion for the poor girl----'the man as she ain't married

to, was took up this mornin' by the peelers afore my very eyes'---- I

caught his wrist, and pointing to Blade-o'-Grass, stopped his further

speech. A moan came from the girl's lips, a shiver passed over her

form, like a despairing wave. She struggled to her feet, and throwing

her hair from her eyes, looked distractedly about her.

'O, why did I come?' she cried.

'Why did I come? Which is the road to London?'

And she ran a few steps wildly, but I ran after her and stopped her.

She struggled to escape from me.

'Let me go!' she beseeched.

'Let me go! I want to git to London! I must git there at once! O Tom!

Tom!'

'You would not get there tonight,' I said; 'it is eighteen miles away.

You would never be able to walk so far with your baby. You must wait

and go with us; we shall start in an hour.'

She shrank from my grasp and moaned upon the ground, and pressed her

child closer to her bosom, with sighs and sobs and broken words of

desolation.

'O baby! baby! baby! Tom's took up agin! What shall we do? O, what

shall we do?'

Something like a vapour passed over my mind as the wail of this

desolate girl fell upon my ear. I seemed to 'recognise in its tones

something akin to the fond accents of a happier mother than she. I did

not like to think of the resemblance, and I tried to shake off the

impression that had stolen upon me; but it remained with me. It was in

vain that I attempted to console Blade-o'-Grass; she paid no heed to

my words. I was a stranger to her then.

'Your news is true?' I said to Jimmy Virtue.

'As I was comin' to the room this mornin',' he replied, 'I saw Tom

Beadle with the peeler's grip on 'im, and the peeler told me he was

wanted agin.'

'What for?'

'The old thing--pickin' pockets.'

This was a sad episode in our holiday-making. I could not leave

Blade-o'-Grass alone. In her despair, in her belief that the hands

and hearts of all were against her, she would be certain to take the

first opportunity of escaping from us, and would thus bring further

trouble on herself. I looked towards Mr. Merrywhistle; his face

was turned from me. I called to him, and he came. I had a thought

which I resolved to act upon. I desired him to keep by the side of

Blade-o'-Grass until I returned, and I went at once in search of

Rachel. The musicians were doing their best, merrily, and the children

were dancing and playing joyously.

'This is a very happy day,' said Mrs. Silver, as I approached her;

'see how they are enjoying themselves, poor things. It will be a great

remembrance for them.'

Her tone changed when she saw the anxiety in my face; she laid her

hand upon my arm.

'You are in trouble.'

'Yes,' I said; 'but make your mind easy. It is nothing at all

connected with our children. I will tell you about it by and by. Where

is Rachel?'

'There, helping to get tea ready. You must come and have a cup, Mr.

Meadow. 'It will refresh you.'

I said that I would, and I asked if she would spare Rachel for a

little while. Yes, she answered, with a solicitous look. I smiled at

her to reassure her. As I walked towards Rachel, I passed Ruth; she

was suckling her baby. A white kerchief covered her bosom and her

baby's face, and she raised a corner of it to whisper some endearing

words to her treasure. Again the vapour passed over my mind. I

trembled as I detected the resemblance in her voice to the voice of

the hapless mother I had just left. But I was now close to Rachel. She

smiled at me, knowing my step. I remember that that was the first

occasion on which I called her by her Christian name.

'Rachel, I want you to help me. Mrs. Silver says she can spare you.'

Rachel took off her apron, and gave me her hand, and I led her to

where Blade-o'-Grass was lying. As briefly as I could I told her all,

and I asked her to comfort Blade-o'-Grass.

'Indeed, indeed, I will try, Mr. Meadow!' she said earnestly.

'We must not lose her; she must go back to London with us. In her

present state of mind she believes every one to be against her. But

she will trust you, Rachel, because----'

'Because I am blind,' she said sweetly. 'I will strive to do my best.'

She paused a moment, and added, 'Is it not a good thing, Mr. Meadow,

that I cannot see?'

I could not answer her; my emotion stopped my utterance. I left her

with Blade-o'-Grass, and Mr. Merrywhistle and I stood apart from them.

'Give me your hand, my dear,' Rachel said. Blade-o'-Grass made no

movement 'My dear, I am blind!'

Involuntarily, as if the claim were sisterly, and could not be denied,

the hand of Blade-o'-Grass was held out to Rachel, and Rachel clasped

it, and sat down by her side. What passed during the next few moments

I did not hear; but I saw that Rachel was speaking to Blade-o'-Grass,

and presently Blade-o'-Grass's baby was in the blind girl's arms, and

the mother was looking wonderingly into her face. I acknowledged the

wisdom of Rachel's act; by that tie she held Blade-o'-Grass to her.

But up to this time Blade-o'-Grass had not spoken; Rachel had not won

a word from her lips.

'Let us join our friends,' said Mr. Merrywhistle; 'we can leave them

safely together now.'

'One moment,' I answered; 'I am waiting for something.'

What I was waiting for came presently. Rachel was fondling the child's

hand, and holding it to her lips, when Blade-o'-Grass spoke. A look of

terror flashed into Rachel's face. I was by her side in an instant, my

hand in hers. She clung to it, and raised herself to her feet.

'Tell me,' she whispered, in a tone of suffering; 'for mercy's sake,

tell me! Whose voice was it I heard just now?'

'It was Blade-o'-Grass that spoke,' I replied; 'the unhappy girl I

told you of. She is younger than you are, my dear, and you hold her

child in your arms. Comfort her, Rachel; she needs comfort sorely!'

'I have heard her voice before,' said Rachel, with sobs, 'and it

reminds me--O, it reminds me of one I love so dearly, so dearly!'

'The greater reason, my dear, that you should aid her in her

affliction. Her heart is bleeding, Rachel. Do not alarm her

unnecessarily--she suspects everybody but you; she is looking towards

us now, with struggling doubt in her face. Be strong, for pity's

sake!'

She needed no other encouragement; I left them together, and when the

time for our departure to London arrived, they were still sitting side

by side. An expression of solemn pity rested on Rachel's face. She

kissed Blade-o'-Grass and the child before they parted, and asked

Blade-o'-Grass to kiss her. The poor girl did so, with grateful tears.

Then I gave Blade-o'-Grass into the charge of Mr. Merrywhistle, and

led Rachel to her friends. But only to Ruth did she cling; she clasped

her arms round her sister's neck, and sobbed quietly on her shoulder.

'Why, Rachel!' exclaimed Ruth. 'Rachel, my dearest!'

'Let me be, Ruth dear!' sobbed Rachel. 'Let me be! Do not say anything

to me. I shall be better presently.'

It was no easy matter getting our children together. We had to call

them by name, and count them; it was an anxious task, and it occupied

a longer time than we anticipated. And in the end there was one

missing--Jacky Brown. None of the boys or girls could tell us where he

was, and we were fully a quarter of an hour hunting for him. We were

in great trouble, but at length we discovered him, with such a dirty

face! sitting under one of the largest trees in the wood.

'Come, come, Jacky,' Mrs. Silver said, 'this isn't good of you. Didn't

you hear the horn?'

'Yes, I 'eerd the 'orn, but I ain't a-comin',' was his confident

reply.

'O Jacky, Jacky!' she remonstrated.

'I ain't a-goin' 'ome any more. I'm a-goin' to stop under this tree as

long as ever I live, and I don't want to move.'

[Illustration]

We absolutely had to use a little force with him, and while we carried

the little fellow to the vans, he cried again and again that he didn't

want to go home any more. References to Old Rookey had no effect upon

him; he wanted to live among the trees always, and he was passionately

grieved because he could not have his way. The children sang all along

the road to London; and I was glad to see that the majority of them

had bunches of wild-flowers in their hands. And thus the day ended

happily--for all but one.

'We shall sleep well to-night,' said Mrs. Silver, with a satisfied

sigh.

I did not, although I was thoroughly tired out.

V.

YOU'RE A PARSON, SIR, AND I PUT IT TO YOU. WHAT DO _YOU_ SAY TO

PARTING MOTHER AND CHILD?

It was not alone because Mr. Merrywhistle urged me that I took an

interest in Blade-o'-Grass. I was impelled to do so by certain

feelings of my own with reference to the poor girl. I became nervously

desirous to learn her history, and I questioned Mr. Merrywhistle, He

could tell me nothing, however, but the usual tale attached to such

unhappy human waifs--a tale which I had heard, with slightly-varying

forms of detail, many times before. I desired to learn something more

definite--something which I scarcely dared to confess, even to myself,

working as I was in the dark, and with only a vague impression or a

morbid fancy for a basis. But then came the thought that Rachel shared

the impression with me, and I continued my inquiries.

'Jimmy Virtue knows more about Blade-o'-Grass than I do,' said Mr.

Merrywhistle, 'It was through him I first became acquainted with her.'

Jimmy Virtue was not very communicative; it was not in his nature to

take easily to new friends.

'But you yourself,' I urged, 'spoke of her mother and father as if you

knew them intimately.'

'Did I?' he replied. 'Ah! I ain't over-particular what I say

sometimes, so you must put it down to that. You see, they were not

long in this alley afore the father cut away, and the mother--well,

she died! So what should I know of 'em? The mother was buried afore

the kids was three weeks old.'

'The children!' I exclaimed, my heart beating fast at this discovery.

'Then the poor mother had twins?'

'Yes, there was two on 'em; as if one warn't enough, and more than

enough! And then a woman--Mrs. Manning her name was--comes round

a-beggin' for the babbies, and a nice row she kicked up about it.

Arksed me what I'd lend on 'em--as if babbies warn't as cheap as dirt,

and a deal sight more troublesome!'

'These twins, Mr. Virtue--were they both girls?'

'Yes, they was both gals, I 'eerd.'

'What became of the other child?'

I asked eagerly.

'What other?' demanded Jimmy Virtue surlily. 'I didn't know no other.

Blade-o'-Grass was the only one left.'

And this was all the information I could elicit from him. I inquired

of other old residents in Stoney-alley, but not one of them remembered

anything worth hearing. I returned to Mr. Merrywhistle, and after

narrating to him the fruitless result of my inquiries, I asked

abruptly if he knew anything concerning the circumstances attending

the birth of Ruth. The old man changed colour, and his manner became

very nervous.

'I can see your drift,' he said in a troubled voice. 'In your mind,

Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass are associated, as if some undiscovered

tie exists between them. I once shared your suspicion. I saw in

Blade-o'-Grass a likeness to Ruth, and I mentioned it to Mrs.

Silver. But when Mrs. Silver adopted Ruth, the babe was orphaned

indeed. Both father and mother were dead, and Ruth was the only

child. It is impossible, therefore, that the likeness between Ruth and

Blade-o'-Grass can be anything but accidental. Do not say anything of

this to Ruth or Mrs. Silver; it would grieve them. Look at Ruth and

Blade-o'-Grass; see them as they are, and think what a gulf separates

them.'

A gulf indeed! But still I was not satisfied.

I found it much easier to learn the fullest particulars concerning Tom

Beadle. Plainly and simply, he was a thief, and had been in prison a

dozen times at least. The day following our holiday-making he was

brought up at the police-court on a common charge of pickpocketing.

Blade-o'-Grass begged me to intercede for him with the magistrate; but

it was impossible for me to do so, as I knew nothing concerning him

but what was bad. 'He loves me, sir, does Tom,' she pleaded; 'and I

love 'im!' And said it as if it were a sufficient reason for his not

being punished. It was impossible to reason with her on the matter;

all that concerned herself and Tom Beadle she could look at from only

one point of view. Whether he worked or whether he stole, nearly every

farthing he obtained was spent in food. Blade-o'-Grass's standpoint

was that she and Tom and the baby must have bread, and that if they

could not get it one way they must get it another. Tom Beadle did work

sometimes as a costermonger; but the difficulties in his way were very

serious because of his antecedents, and he rebelled against these

difficulties sullenly and savagely, and bruised his soul against them.

He was no casuist, and made no attempt to excuse himself. He was

simply a man at war with society, a man whose keen intellect had been

sharpened and perfected in bad soil. As I write of him now, I can see

him slouching along in his patched clothes, with defiance in his mind.

Watchful eyes have been upon him almost from his birth; they are upon

him now, whichever way he turns, and he knows it, and has grown up in

the knowledge. Respectability turns its back upon him--naturally, for

he is its enemy. Even benevolence shrinks from him, for the spirit of

cunning and ingratitude lurks in his every motion. I paint him as I

knew him, in the plainest of colours. He had one redeeming trait in

his character; he loved Blade-o'-Grass, after his fashion, with as

much sincerity as good men love good women. His love for her had come

to him naturally, as other worse qualities in his nature had come. By

Blade-o'-Grass he was loved, as she had truly said, but with that

deeper love of which only a woman's nature is capable. Hers was

capable of the highest form of gratitude, of the highest form of love.

She was faithful to Tom Beadle, and she loved her child with as

perfect, ay, and as pure a love as can animate the breast of the most

delicate lady in the land. Overshadowing these bright streaks of light

was a darker line. When she was a mere babe, afterwards when she was a

child, afterwards when she was a woman, she frequently suffered the

pangs of hunger; she often knew what it was to want a crust of bread.

From these sufferings came the singular and mournful idea that she had

within her a ravenous creature which she called a tiger, and which,

when she was hungry, tore at her entrails for food. This tiger had

been the terror of her life, and it was with her an agonising belief

that she had endowed her child with the tiger curse: I can find no

other term of expression. From this belief nothing could drive her.

Talk to her of its folly, of its impossibility, and you talked to

stone. Her one unfailing answer was, 'Ah, I know; you can't. I feel

it, and my baby feels it also.' I learnt the story of this tiger from

her own lips. I found her waiting for me one morning at the corner of

the street in which I lived. It was while Tom Beadle was undergoing

his term of imprisonment. I stopped and spoke to her, and she asked

might she say something to me. Yes, I answered, I could spare her a

few minutes; and I led the way to my rooms.

'It was Mr. Wirtue as told me to come to you, sir,' she said; 'he

ain't so 'ard on me as he was.'

'I am glad you are friends again,' I said. 'Will you have some

bread-and-butter?'

'Yes, if you please, sir.'

I cut some bread-and-butter for her and her child, and I dissolved

some preserved milk in warm water for her. She watched with keen

interest the process of making this milk, and when she tasted it said,

with a touch of humour of which she was quite unconscious:

'They won't want no more mothers by and by, sir, what with sich milk

as this, and feedin'-bottles, and p'ramberlaters!'

While she was eating and giving her child to eat, she reverted to

Jimmy Virtue.

'You see, sir, he was mad with me 'cause I wouldn't give up Tom; but I

couldn't do that, sir, arter all we've gone through. We growed up

together, sir. If you knowed all Tom's done for me, you'd wonder 'ow

anybody could 'ave the 'eart to arks me to give 'im up. Tom 'as stuck

to me through thick and thin, and I'll stick to 'im as long as ever I

live! I've 'eerd talk of sich things as 'eart-strings. Well, sir, my

'eartstrings 'd break if I was to lose 'im. Leave Tom! Give 'im up

_now!_ No, sir; it wouldn't be natural, and what ain't natural can't

be good.'

Blade-o'-Grass cut straight into the core of many difficulties with

her unconsciously-uttered truisms. When she and her child had eaten

all I had set before them, she opened the business she had come upon.

Then it was that I heard the history of the tiger.

'It's inside o' me, sir; I was born with it. When I was little, there

was a talk o' cuttin' me open, and takin' the tiger out; but they

didn't do it, sir. Per'aps it'd been better for me if they 'ad.'

I attempted to reason her out of her fancy; but I soon saw how useless

were my arguments. She shook her head with sad determination, and

smiled piteously.

'It don't stand to reason as you can understand it, sir. _You_ ain't

got a tiger in _your_ inside! I 'ave, and it goes a-tearin' up and

down inside o' me, eatin' me up, sir, till I'm fit to drop down dead.

It was beginnin' this mornin', sir, afore I seed you.'

'Did you have any breakfast, my poor girl?'

'Not much, sir; a slice o' bread and some water 'tween me and baby.

You see, sir, Tom's not 'ere, and I've 'ad some bad days lately.'

'You don't feel the tiger now?'

'No, sir; it's gone to sleep.'

I sighed.

'I wish,' she continued, 'I could take somethin' as 'd kill it! I

tried to ketch it once--yes, sir, I did; but it was no go. I 'adn't

'ad nothink to eat for a long time, and it was goin' on awful. Then,

when I got some grub, I thought if I put it down on the table, and set

it afore me with my mouth open, per'aps the tiger 'd see it, and come

up and fetch it. I was almost frightened out o' my life as I waited

for it; for I've never seed it, sir, and I don't know what it's like.

But it wouldn't come; it knows its book, the tiger does! I waited till

I was that faint that I could 'ardly move, and I was forced to send

the grub down to it. I never tried that move agin, sir.'

I told her I was sorry to hear that she had been unfortunate lately.

She nodded her head with an air of weary resignation.

'It can't be 'elped, sir, I s'ppose. A good many societies 'as sprung

up, and they're agin me, I think. O, yes, sir, we know all about 'em.

It warn't very long ago that I was walkin' a long way from 'ome, with

some matches in my 'and; I thort I'd try my luck where nobody knowed

me. A gentleman stopped and spoke to me. "You're beggin'," he said. I

didn't deny it, but I didn't say nothin', for fear o' the peelers.

"It's no use your comin' 'ere," he said; "we've got a society in this

neighbourhood, and we don't give nothink to the poor. Go and work."

Then he went on to tell me--as if I cared to 'eer 'im! but he was one

as liked to 'eer 'isself talk--that it was sich as me as was the cause

of everythink that's bad. Well, sir, that made me open my eyes, and I

couldn't 'elp arksing 'im if it was bad for me to try and git a bit o'

bread for my baby; but he got into sich a passion that I was glad to

git away from 'im. Another gentleman persuaded me to go to a orfice

where they looked arter the likes o' me. I went, and when they 'eerd

me out, they said they'd make inquiries into my case. Well, sir, they

did make inquiries, and it come to the old thing that I've 'eerd over

and over and over agin. They said they'd do somethink for me if I'd

leave Tom; but when they spoke agin 'im I stood up for 'im, and they

got angry, and said as I was no good. Then another party as I went to

said they'd take my child--which I 'ad no business to 'ave, they

said--if I liked, and that they'd give me ten shillin's to set me up

in a stock of somethink to sell for my livin'. Part with my child!'

exclaimed Blade-o'-Grass, snatching the little one to her lap, and

looking around with fierce fear, as if enemies were present ready to

tear her treasure from her. 'Sell my 'eart for ten shillin's! You're a

parson, sir, and I put it to you. What do _you_ say to partin' mother

and child?'

What could I say? I was dumb. It was best to be so upon such

straightforward questions propounded by a girl who, in her position

and with her feelings, could understand and would recognise no logic

but the logic of natural laws; it was best to be silent if I wished to

do good, and I did wish it honestly, sincerely. The more I saw of

Blade-o'-Grass, the more she interested me; the more she interested

me, the more she pained me. I saw before me a problem, hard as a rock,

sensitive as a flower--a problem which no roundabout legislation can

solve in the future, or touch in the present. Other developments will

to a certainty start up in time to come--other developments, and worse

in all likelihood, because a more cultivated intelligence may be

engaged in justifying what now ignorance is held to be some slight

excuse for.

'Then, sir,' continued Blade-o'-Grass, driving her hard nails home,

'if I was one o' them unnatural mothers as don't care for their

children, and took the orfer--'ow about the ten shillin's to set me up

in a stock o' somethin' to sell? What do the peelers say to a gal as

tries to sell anythin' in the streets? Why, there ain't a inch o'

flagstone as she's got a right to set 'er foot on! And as for the

kerb, as don't belong properly to nobody, and's not wanted for them as

walks or them as rides, why, a gal daren't stand on it to save 'er

life! And that's the way it goes, sir; that's the way it goes! But I

beg your pardon, sir. I'm wanderin' away from what I come for, and I'm

a-takin' up your time.'

'Go on, my poor girl,' I said; 'let me know what I can do for you.'

'It ain't for me, sir; it's for my baby.'

'What can I do for her, the poor little thing?' I asked, pinching the

child's cheek, who showed no pleasure, however, at my caress; there

dwelt in her face an expression of mournfulness which was native to

her, and which nothing could remove. 'What can I do for her?'

'Pray for 'er!' implored Blade-o'-Grass, with all her soul in her

eyes, from which the tears were streaming.

I started slightly, and waited for further explanation. Blade-o'-Grass

regarded me earnestly before she spoke again.

'You see, sir, she was born with a tiger inside of 'er, the same as I

was; it ain't 'er fault, the dear, it's mine. It breaks my 'eart to

think as she'll grow up like me, and that the tiger'll never leave

'er. I talked to Mr. Wirtue about it yesterday, and he says to me,

"Why don't you go to the parson, and arks 'im to _pray_ the tiger out

'er?" And so I've come, sir. You'd 'ardly believe what I'd do if it

was set me to do, if I could get the tiger away from my dear. I'd be

chopped up, sir, I would! Mr. Wirtue says prayer'll do anythink, and

that if I didn't believe 'im, I was to arks you if it won't I can't

pray myself; I don't know 'ow to. So I've come to you to arks you to

pray the tiger out of my baby!'

I scarcely remember in what terms I replied. I know, however, that I

sent Blade-o'-Grass away somewhat consoled, saying that she would

teach her baby to bless me every day of her life if my prayers were

successful.

VI.

FOR THESE AND SUCH AS THESE.

And now it becomes necessary that I should say something concerning my

private history. I have made mention of a friend to whom I owed my

education and position, and whose friendship it saddened me to think I

should probably soon lose. It is of this friend, in connection with

myself, that I am about to speak.

His name was Fairhaven. He was a great speculator, and his ventures

had been so successful that he had become famous in the stock and

money markets. At this time he was nearly seventy years of age,

unmarried, and he had no family connection in which he took the

slightest interest, none, indeed, which he would recognise. Although I

was indebted to him in the manner I have stated, I did not see him,

and did not even know his name, until I had arrived at manhood and had

chosen my career. All that I knew was that he was very wealthy, and it

was by almost the merest accident that I discovered his name and real

position. I made this discovery at a critical time. A season of great

distress had set in in my parish, and I became acquainted with much

misery, which, for want of means, I was unable to alleviate. I yearned

for money. Where could I obtain it? I thought of Mr. Fairhaven. I said

to myself, 'He has been good to me, and he is a wealthy man, and might

be willing to assist me. Surely he would not miss a little of his

money, and I could do so much good with it!' I must explain that I had

before this time endeavoured to ascertain the name of the gentleman

who had befriended me when I was left an orphan, but I was told by his

agents that it was his wish to remain unknown. I respected that wish,

and did not prosecute my inquiries. Even now that I had accidentally

discovered his name, I should not for my own sake have pressed myself

upon him; but for the sake of those suffering ones whom I was unable

to relieve for want of money, I determined to do so. When I presented

myself to him, he regarded me attentively, and with some symptoms of

agitation. I said I hoped he was not displeased with me for coming to

him. No, he answered, he was not displeased; and he made me so welcome

that I ventured to thank him for his past goodness to me. Then I made

my appeal to him, and after some consideration he placed at my

disposal the sum of a hundred pounds, intimating that the same amount

would be paid to me every year, to spend according to my own

discretion among the poor of my parish. I was overjoyed at this good

result of my courage, and I thanked him cordially for his liberality.

Up to this time I had received the money regularly, and had been

enabled to do much good with it. I visited him occasionally to inform

him how his money was expended, and even in the midst of his vaster

operations, I think he was glad to hear of the good which sprang from

the seed he placed in my hands to sow among my poor. After a time he

asked me to visit him more frequently, saying that he was a lonely

man, and that my visits were an agreeable relief to him. I owed him

too deep a debt of gratitude to refuse, and I saw him as often as the

duties of my position would allow. As our intimacy ripened, I learned,

from chance words which escaped from him now and then, that he was not

satisfied with the groove in which I was working. Knowing that we were

not in the slightest way related to each other, I was naturally

curious to learn why he took so deep an interest in me; but when I

approached the subject he stopped me somewhat sternly, and desired me

to speak of other matters. The impression I had gained that he was

dissatisfied with my career became strengthened in every succeeding

interview. And one night he made me a startling proposition.

I have a clear remembrance of that night and all the details connected

with it. We were conversing in the pleasant garden of his house, which

was situated on the bank of the river Thames. From where we sat we

commanded a clear view of the river. The tide was ebbing, and the

river's water was flowing towards the sea. The heavens were bright,

and the fragrant air was whispering among the leaves. The water was

murmuring with a sweet sibillation as it flowed towards a mightier

power, and the stars were flashing in its depths.

On that night Mr. Fairhaven said that he wished he had known me

earlier in life; he would have chosen for me a different career; but

it was not too late now. 'I am a childless man,' he said, 'and I have

grown to love you.' He proposed that I should resign my office, and

come and live with him as his heir; had I been his son he could not

have expressed himself more affectionately towards me. He took me

entirely into his confidence, and endeavoured to win my sympathy in

his career. He showed me how he had risen to wealth--nay, he showed me

by his books and by other evidence the wealth itself which he had

accumulated. I was amazed at its extent. I had no idea that he was so

rich. As a proof of the sincerity of his offer, he said he would

settle a large sum of money on me immediately, and that the bulk of

his fortune should be mine when he was dead. There were certain

conditions attached to his proposal. I was to bear his name when he

died, and I was to pledge myself on my honour to live fully up to my

means, and to take what he considered to be the proper position in

society of a man who possessed so large a fortune. 'Money has its

duties,' he said--'duties which I perhaps have neglected, but which it

shall be your pleasant task to perform.' In a word, I was to become a

man of fashion, and I was to do whatever was necessary in the world of

fashion to make the name of Fairhaven notable. He laid great stress

upon this latter stipulation, and I understood that his money was not

to be mine to do as I pleased with in any other way.

I listened to his proposal in silence. For a short while I was

overwhelmed by the offer and by the generosity which prompted it. But

even as I listened I felt that I could not accept it. The prospect he

held out to me did not dazzle me. To my mind, the mere possession of a

large amount of money has no attraction, and confers no distinction;

to possess it and to spend it in the way Mr. Fairhaven had set down

appeared to my understanding a dreary task, and was distinctly

inimical to the views I had formed of life and its duties. Besides, I

had grown to love my labours; I was bound by the tenderest links of

love and humanity to the people among whom I moved. Look where I

would, I saw no higher lot in life than that which I had chosen,

and--a selfish reason perhaps--I was happy in my choice.

I answered Mr. Fairhaven to this effect, and was about to refuse his

offer absolutely, when he stopped me. I saw by his face that he

anticipated what I was about to say. He did not want my answer then,

he said; he wished me to take a certain time for reflection--a time

extending over two years, and to expire on the anniversary of my

thirty-third birthday. He asked me to study the matter well during

this interval, and in the consideration of it to throw aside all false

sentiment and eccentricity. He proposed to gain admission for me into

certain circles, where I could see in full operation the machinery of

the life he wished me to adopt; and he added--not as a threat, but

simply as part of a resolution he had formed--that if, at the

expiration of the allotted time, I did not accept his proposal, I must

never expect to receive one shilling of his money. The time passed. At

the expense of my duties I made leisure to move in the society in

which he wished me to move; I studied its machinery; I made myself

acquainted with its inner life, with its aims, desires, ambitions,

results; as far as opportunity served, I probed its depths, and my

resolution to decline Mr. Fairhaven's offer was strengthened. It is

not for me here to state the reasons which led to the conclusion I

formed. They sprang from my heart and my conscience; they were and are

part of myself, which I could no more tear from myself than I could

resist the course of time.

I visited Mr. Fairhaven on the appointed day, and acquainted him with

my decision. I spoke in words and tone as gentle as I could command;

for I bore in mind the great debt I owed him, and the exceeding

generosity of his offer. He looked at me with eyes of doubt and

surprise as I spoke, and turned from me when I finished. When he spoke

it was in a hard cold tone.

'And that is your positive decision?' he said.

'Yes, sir.'

'There is nothing hidden behind it----or stay! Perhaps you have not

had sufficient time for reflection. Let the matter rest for a little

while longer.'

I told him that, if I had twenty years for reflection, my answer would

be the same.

'You are aware,' he said, 'that you are inflicting a great

disappointment upon me?

'I cannot but be aware of it, sir,' I replied, 'and it pains me

exceedingly to know it.'

'You said a little while ago,' he said, referring to words I had used,

'that when I took you into my confidence, I endeavoured to win your

sympathy in my career. Did I win it?'

'No, sir.'

'Why?'

I determined to speak frankly.

'It seemed to me that you had amassed money simply for its own sake,

and not for the sake of the good uses to which it may be applied.

According to my thinking, money is only sweet when it is well-earned

and well-spent.'

I saw that he pondered over these words.

'Your life,' he said, 'must contain special attractions, that you are

so wedded to it. You have made friends, doubtless.'

[Illustration]

'Many, sir, thank God! Friends to whom I am deeply attached.'

'Tell me of them, and let me ascertain for myself the superior

inducements of the life you lead to the life which you reject.'

I considered for a few moments, I thought of Mrs. Silver and her happy

home and family; but connected with them in my mind were the less

wholesome figures of Tom Beadle, Blade-o'-Grass, and Jimmy Virtue. As

a foil to these, however, were the figures of Mr. Merrywhistle and

Robert Truefit and his family. I resolved to show this picture in a

complete form, as presenting a fair variety of those among whom my

life was passed. As I mentioned the names of these persons and

described them, Mr. Fairhaven wrote them on a leaf in his pocket-book.

I laid the greatest stress upon the figures of Mrs. Silver and her

family, and I endeavoured to show this part of the picture in bright

colours. But I was honest throughout, and I spoke plainly of Tom

Beadle, Blade-o'-Grass, and Jimmy Virtue. When the picture was

completed, Mr. Fairhaven read the names aloud, and exclaimed angrily:

'A pretty circle of portraits truly! The principal of them thieves and

gutter children! Andrew Meadow, it is incomprehensible to me. But your

mind is set upon them evidently. Can anything I say move you from your

resolution?'

'Nothing, sir.'

'Then here we part,' he said sternly and bitterly. 'As you cannot be

moved from your resolution, I cannot be moved from mine. Not one

shilling of my money shall you ever receive. I have striven hard for

your good, and you reject me for these and such as these!'

He tapped the list scornfully, and rose. I understood from his action

that I was dismissed. I knew it would be useless to attempt to soften

him; he was a man of inflexible resolution.

'You need not trouble yourself,' he said, 'to call upon me again,

unless I send for you. Goodnight.'

'Before I go, sir,' I said, very sad at heart, 'let me say how truly

grateful I am to you for your past kindness to me. I shall hold you in

my heart and mind with thankfulness and gratitude until my dying day.'

Then I walked sadly out of the peaceful garden towards the City, where

lay my labour of love.

Two matters must be mentioned before I close this chapter.

The first is that before I acquainted Mr. Fairhaven with the decision

I had arrived at, I endeavoured again to ascertain from what motive he

had educated and befriended me when I was left an orphan. He refused

distinctly to give me any explanation.

The next is that the hundred pounds a year he had hitherto given me to

spend among my poor was stopped from that day. This grieved me

exceedingly. I think I had never fully understood the power of money

until then.

VII.

HEALTHY BODY MAKES HEALTHY MIND.

It was but natural that the loss of so good a friend as Mr. Fairhaven

should have had an effect upon my spirits, and I felt it the more

deeply because he had parted from me in anger. I did not for one

moment doubt that I had decided rightly, but it would have been a

happiness to me to have retained Mr. Fairhaven's friendship. I found

myself brooding over it and growing melancholy. I sorely felt the need

of sympathy, or at least of that consolation which one derives from

unbosoming himself to his friends. Mrs. Silver saw my distress of

mind, and with delicate tact led me to confide in her. I told her the

story--the temptation, the trial, the result--and I asked her if I had

done right. Only she and Rachel were present when I commenced to tell

my story; and Rachel, divining by my first words that I was about to

impart a confidence to Mrs. Silver, rose to leave the room; but I

desired her to stay, and she resumed her seat and continued her work.

'Have I done right, dear friend?' I asked of Mrs. Silver when I had

concluded.

I saw that she was much affected. 'Between friends such as we had

grown to be but few words were needed. I was bending anxiously towards

her as I asked the question. She took my hand and kissed me.

'I am old enough to be your mother,' she said; 'it gladdens me to know

that we are friends.'

I was inexpressibly consoled and comforted. I looked towards Rachel.

Her bosom was heaving, and a tender radiance was in her face. My heart

leaped up as I saw. Immediately I turned to her she knew that I was

gazing at her, and she rose hurriedly and left the room. Mrs. Silver

looked at me with solemn tenderness and followed her blind child. From

that moment a new tie seemed to be established between us, and I came

and went as one of the family.

As regards private social life, I know of no happier phase of it than

that which allows you to have only a few intimate friends, and which

does not compel you to fritter away your hours among a host of

acquaintances who have no heart-regard for you--paying a cold visit

here, a cold visit there, glad when they are over; receiving these

conventional visits in return, and uttering commonplaces the while

which are devoid of meaning and have no suspicion of earnestness.

Where you have within hail a few friends between whom and yourself a

sincere esteem exists, room is given for earnest feeling to flower;

the true heart-glow is felt, and you give and receive smiles which are

not artificial, and speak and hear words which are good and glad

utterances. In time the ties which bind you and your friends grow as

strong as ties of blood-kindred, and when a face is missed from the

circle, you mourn for it with genuine grief and affection.

Such a phase of social life existed with the Silvers and their

friends, of whom Robert Truefit was not the least esteemed. Wherever

he was, the conversation was always animated. He was a man who thought

for himself, and was not willing to be led unless his reason approved.

Under any circumstances, Robert Truefit would not have been satisfied

with going through the world blindfold. In no sense of the word an

agitator, he was always ready to express his opinion, and you might

depend that that opinion would be the result of a fairly-exercised

judgment. He was contented with his position as an ordinary workman,

but this does not imply that he was without ambition. He simply

recognised that it is folly to knock your head against stones. In a

new country, such as America, Canada, or any of the Australasian

colonies, he would have risen by sheer force of character; but in

England, with the ties that he had gathered about him, the chances

were against him. I am anxious that the character of Robert Truefit

should not be misunderstood. He was in no wise discontented with the

groove in which he laboured. He was a good husband and a good father.

Fond of an argument he certainly was; but he was not that kind of man

who justifies himself by a proverb. He chafed at injustice to others,

and he often expressed indignation at the neglect of public morality

which, he contended, characterised the government of the country.

'They look after the trees,' he said, 'and neglect the flowers. It is

a cant saying that you cannot make people moral by Act of Parliament.

Keep dinning a thing in the people's ears, and, whether it be true or

false, it will come to be believed in as something not to be

controverted. They will believe that a bread pill will prolong life

indefinitely, if it be advertised sufficiently. I say you can make

people moral by Act of Parliament. You can make them clean and you can

compel them to be decent, and those qualities go a very long way

towards morality.'

We were all together one evening, talking of the good prospect that

lay before Charley, who, firmly established as the overseer of a large

printing establishment, was saving money with the view of setting up

for himself in business, 'one of these fine days,' as he said. Ruth

was busy upon something marvellous in the shape of a frock for baby,

and much serious conversation was indulged in by the females on the

subject of trimmings. Said Ruth,

'Charley, when baby grows up she shall write a book, and you shall

print it.'

'Why,' exclaimed Charley, 'you don't want baby to be a bluestocking,

do you, Ruth?

'She will be clever enough for anything,' said Ruth confidently.

'There, mother, don't you think she will look beautiful in this?' And

Ruth held up the frock for inspection.

'I begin to think,' said Charley, 'that I am ambitious. Are you?' he

asked of Robert Truefit.

'I can't afford to be,' answered Robert Truefit, with a smile. 'In my

position, and with my responsibilities, ambition would lead to

discontent--discontent to unhappiness. I have seven pairs of feet to

provide boots and shoes for, and you can guess what that means.'

I had heard and read a great deal of the extravagance and improvidence

of the working-man, and looking upon Robert Truefit as a fair sample

of the better class--better because right-minded and intelligent--I

asked him if he was saving money for a rainy day, as the saying is.

'The only rainy day,' he said, 'for which I have been able to provide

in the shape of money, is the day on which I shall die. Then my wife,

if she is alive and if the company in which my life is insured is not

dishonest, will receive two hundred pounds. Every year I pay the

insurance a weight is taken from my heart; not so much because I am

able to pay it, as because my children are a year nearer to the time

when they will be able to work for their mother and assist her, should

anything happen to me.' He gave me a bright look. 'I am endeavouring

to train my young ones properly, and in that way perhaps I may say

that I am saving up for a rainy day. But I see that you are anxious

for further particulars. If you will give me a hint in what direction

to let my tongue run, I shall be glad to oblige you.'

'Well,' I suggested; 'concerning income and expenditure.'

'I can give you a plain experience on those heads,' he said frankly,

'because I am, after a certain fashion, methodical, much more so than

many of my mates. I put down my earnings every week in a little

memorandum-book, and on the opposite side I put down the way in which

my earnings are spent. This is a good lesson for my youngsters, who

learn the value of system in the practical matters of life. You know,

sir, that I have five children--two girls and three boys. The youngest

is eleven months old, the eldest is ten years of age on his next

birthday. Now, last year, from the first day to the last, I earned

ninety-nine pounds ten shillings, and every farthing of my earnings,

with the exception of thirty-eight shillings, which was spent in

junketing, went in the necessaries of life and in paying my policy.'

'What were your out-door pleasures?'

'Once during the year we took the children to the Crystal Palace. We

went once to the theatre to see a pantomime; and my eldest youngsters

begged so hard to be taken to the Brighton Aquarium on one of the Bank

holidays, that I could not resist them; and really I was glad of the

opportunity of seeing it myself. We had a capital day, and it did the

children good in many ways; it opened the eyes of their minds, I may

say. Our rent makes a big hole. We pay seventeen pounds a year,

including taxes, for our house, which contains three rooms and a small

kitchen or washhouse--quite as little as we can do with. Meat is

another big item. Then, I work three miles away from home, and that's

an item. In examining the figures, which Jane and I did very carefully

when I balanced the account--we have the fear of that rainy day you

have mentioned very strong upon us sometimes, I assure you, sir!--we

could not find one item which was not properly in its place, and which

in our opinion could have been set under the head of extravagance. Yet

I know that there are political economists--I call them by the name

they give themselves--who would not agree with me. The money spent in

amusements I have no doubt they would say I ought to have saved: I

deny it. We have a right--every human being has--to a reasonable share

of healthful pleasure. "Your meat bill ought to have been a little

less," they would also doubtless say: I deny it. We have little enough

as it is; more than half the meat we eat is Australian meat--and we

like it! The children's bodies must be healthfully nourished if they

are to grow into right-minded, reasonable men and women. Healthy body

makes healthy mind. Twenty-two shillings a year spent in reading!

"Monstrous!" the political economists would exclaim. Why, my

newspapers cost me not less than eight shillings a-year, and there's a

weekly publication, and an occasional oddment for the children; and is

my wife, or am I, not to read a work of fiction occasionally--or are

these things not for such as we? It is they who are monstrous who set

up such monstrous cries. So they would go through my book, and prove

that out of my earnings of ninety-nine pounds ten shillings I ought to

have saved a handsome sum. I have observed that it is only among the

ranks of the well-to-do that you find your political economists. They

argue from the wrong end--they themselves, mind you, being seated the

while on a snug and comfortable elevation; they cast up lines of

figures, and judge the life of an individual by means of a monster

called Aggregate--which Aggregate, I take it, is, applied to such a

purpose, the most absurd and unjust standpoint that mind of man could

have invented.'

VIII.

THIS 'ERE FREE AND 'LIGHTENED COUNTRY OF OUR'N'S CRAMMED FULL

O' TEMPLES O' LIBERTY.

The withdrawal of Mr. Fairhaven's hundred pounds a year compelled me

to relinquish many plans I had formed. It was a sore blow to me, and I

had to pinch and save in order to carry out promises I had made to

some of my poor people. From the Silvers I received not only sympathy,

but help in the shape of money, without which I am sure I could not

have got along. Between Rachel and myself a confidence of a peculiar

and affectionate nature was gradually established. I spoke to her

freely of my troubles, and confided in her, and asked counsel of her.

By what mysterious means it was that she--blind from her birth, and

with no such knowledge of the world as comes from actual contact with

it--could have gained the wise insight into character which she

possessed, it is beyond my power to say. Perhaps it was because she

did not doubt, and believed in the capacity for goodness in others.

A long time had now passed since the children's holiday in the

country, and yet the incident of Rachel's distress on that day at the

sound of Blade-o'-Grass's voice had never been referred to in any of

our conversations. Truth to tell, I hesitated to open a subject which

had caused so much pain to the blind maid; but I never lost sight of

it. I was often on the verge of speaking about it, but I checked the

impulse. One day, however, I referred to it, almost without thought.

'I knew,' said Rachel, 'that you would speak to me about it at some

time or other, and I have thought it strange that you have not done so

before now. I think it was out of consideration for me.' I did not

answer. 'But you have had it in your mind?'

'Yes, Rachel, I have never forgotten it.'

'Nor I.' She clasped her hands upon her lap, and said quietly, 'Seeing

that you were silent, I should have mentioned it myself, if I could

have mustered sufficient courage; but I was too much afraid. Are we to

speak of it now?'

'As you think fit, Rachel.'

'It will be best, perhaps. Mr. Meadow,' she said earnestly, 'it is not

wrong for two persons to have a secret, If the keeping of it harms no

one, and if the disclosure would bring pain to their friends?'

'Surely not in such a case, Rachel.'

'I am so glad to know it! Will you, then, let what we say to each

other upon this subject remain a secret between us, unless you should

think it will serve a good end one day to refer to it, or disclose

it?'

'Yes, Rachel. This shall be a confidence between us.'

'That is good; it is a confidence between us.' She placed her hand

upon mine for a moment, as if that action sealed the confidence. 'Mr.

Meadow, I told you that I had heard the poor girl's voice before that

day. It was when Ruth and Charley were courting. We had spent a happy

day at the Exhibition with Charley, and we were walking home, when I

heard some one utter words which ring in my ears now. It was Ruth's

voice, but it was not Ruth who spoke. The words were: "For God's sake,

Tom, bring home some money, for there's not a bit of bread in the

cupboard!" Without stopping to think, I cried out to Ruth, and asked

her if it was she who spoke. I told her what I had heard, and that the

voice was like hers; and Ruth went to the poor girl, and gave her

money.'

'It was Blade-o'-Grass you heard, Rachel. The man who finds food for

her is named Tom.'

'I never spoke of it afterwards; I did not dare to, for my thoughts.

Mr. Meadow, what is Blade-o'-Grass like? Describe her to me.'

I described the poor outcast as faithfully as it was possible for me

to do. Rachel was silent for a little while; she was looking at the

portrait.

'What colour is her hair, Mr. Meadow?'

'Dark-brown.'

'The same colour as Ruth's!' she exclaimed, in a tone of distress.

'And her eyes?'

'Dark-brown, also.'

'So are Ruth's.'

She twined her fingers nervously.

'She has a very pretty dimple, Rachel.'

Rachel uttered a sob of thankfulness.

'Ruth has no dimple,' she said gratefully.

I reflected seriously before I spoke. Such implicit faith did I have

in Rachel's instincts that, without a shadow of direct evidence,

indeed with all evidence against it, I was tempted still to believe

that there was kinship between Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass. Yet what good

purpose could possibly be served in tracing it? Would it not be

bringing pain and shame to Ruth's door?----' No, no!' I cried, in my

thoughts, 'pain doubtless, but not shame! Ruth has been too purely

brought up for shame to touch her. She would stretch forth a

sympathising hand to Blade-o'-Grass. With a loving heart and with

loving words she would influence her for good: love would prevail

where friendship failed. Blade-o'-Grass might by that influence be

brought to see in their proper light the relations that existed

between Tom Beadle the thief and herself, and might----'

Ah, me! ah, me! I paused here, in grief, too sorrowful to carry out

the thread of my reflections. I had had but few interviews, with

Blade-o'-Grass; but when, feeling my duty press heavily upon me, I had

approached the subject which most grieved her friends, I had found her

deaf and implacable to my words. She placed her back against the rock

of natural affection, and every argument used against Tom Beadle

struck her with a feather's weight. To break the tie seemed to me to

be impossible. There remained, then, but one right thing to be done.

To sanctify it by the sacrament of marriage, and thus fasten the hold

which the thief had upon her. Let no man come between them then! This

girl, in whom there was so much latent good, would be linked for life

to a thief. His infamous life would be hers, his lot would be hers,

and nothing should separate them but death!

At the date of my present conversation with Rachel, I had not seen

Blade-o'-Grass for many weeks, and I knew that Tom Beadle was out of

prison and at work again in his bad way. I determined to seek her out

that very night. I had promised to visit Jimmy Virtue in company with

Robert Truefit. Jimmy had expressed a wish to see us, and he would

most likely be able to tell me where I could find Blade-o'-Grass.

These thoughts occupied but a very few moments in passing through my

mind; and I turned again to Rachel.

'When I heard poor Blade-o'-Grass,' I said to her, 'speak to her baby,

her voice sounded strangely familiar to me. Yet it seems scarcely

possible that what you and I have in our minds with reference to her

should be more than fancy.'

But Rachel gently shook her head, and we diverged to other subjects.

Robert Truefit and I met by appointment, and walked together to Jimmy

Virtue's leaving-shop. Jimmy Virtue was in his parlour, and upon our

entrance he hastily gathered up an old pack of cards, with which he

had been playing. The deal table was bare of cloth, and was smeared

over with chalk figures representing many thousands of pounds.

'Hallo!' exclaimed Jimmy Virtue; 'there you are! I've been 'avin' a

game of All-fours with Jack.'

I looked around for Jack, but saw no signs of him. There was but one

tallow-candle burning in the room, and that was stuck in a ginger-beer

bottle and was guttering down.

'I'll be with you in a minute,' said Jimmy Virtue; 'I've got a bundle

to tie up in the shop.'

'This is a miserable place to live in,' I said to Robert Truefit when

Jimmy Virtue had left the room. 'Who is Jack?'

'A shadow,' replied Robert Truefit; 'a shadow of Jimmy's creation,

with whom he plays at cards in his loneliness, and cheats out of

fabulous sums--money, Jack, and all being things of air. Look at the

chalk-score on the table; Jimmy has won more than three thousand

pounds of Jack. Is not truth stranger than fiction, Mr. Meadow? Jack

sits there.'

Robert Truefit pointed to a chest upon which the imaginary Jack was

supposed to sit while he was being robbed. So dimly-lighted was the

room that I could easily have fancied a shadow was really sitting on

the chest, gazing with lack-lustre eyes upon another shadow in Jimmy

Virtue's chair, where Jimmy Virtue was not. A mournful picture of a

desolate life, I thought.

Jimmy Virtue appeared to have forgotten us, for Robert Truefit and I

had been ten minutes together, and were not disturbed.

'Is he attending to customers?' I asked.

'There's no customer in the shop,' said Robert Truefit, peeping in.

He went into the shop, and I followed him. Jimmy Virtue was standing

at the street-door, muttering to himself.

'That's the second time I've seed 'im 'ere,' he muttered, 'the second

time this week; but it's been too dark to ketch a good sight of 'is

face. Now, what does he come 'angin' about 'ere for?'

He was watching the figure of a man who was standing in that part of

Stoney-alley where the deepest shadows lay.

'Do you know him, Jimmy?' asked Robert Truefit.

'He's a 'Postle,' replied Jimmy Virtue.

'An Apostle,' explained Robert Truefit to me. I wondered, not knowing

what meaning might be attached to the word.

'He calls 'isself a Delegate, but I calls 'im a 'Postle--a 'Postle o'

Liberty. I'd like to ketch a good sight of that there 'Postle's face.

Pff! What's this a-runnin' in my 'ead?'

[Illustration]

He glared around with his one useful eye, as if shadows were jostling

him on every side; and in a thoughtful mood he accompanied us to the

parlour. There he opened the chest which formed Jack's resting-place,

and diving to the bottom brought up a small wooden box. Without a word

he opened the box, and turned out the contents. 'There's a rum lot o'

things 'ere,' he said, after a long pause, during which he had been

examining the articles, each of which was wrapped in paper, upon which

there was writing. 'All gold and silver things that's never been

called for. I didn't like to part with 'em. 'Ere's a bit o' coral,

'xactly like a foot and leg; this garter round the leg is gold. I lent

fourteenpence on it to a cove as 'ad seen better days--so he told me.

Them better days must ha' been a precious long time afore I set eyes

on 'im! 'Ere's a bit o' jade with a band o' silver on it. That come

from Chiney. 'Ere's a woman's likeness on a broach--enamel, it is a

pretty face! 'tain't so pretty now, I'll be bound! I've 'ad this for

thirty year. 'Ere's a----ah, 'ere it is!' He lighted upon something he

had been seeking for. 'What do you call this, now?' he asked.

'I should call it a wedding-ring,' said Robert Truefit.

'So should I. I ain't 'ad many things like what's in this box brought

to me to lend money on. Peddicuts, and gownds, and old boots is more

in my line.'

He replaced all the things in the wooden box with the exception of the

wedding-ring, which he put in his pocket.

'Now, then, Jimmy,' said Robert Truefit, 'tell us what you wanted to

see us about.'

'Well, you know that place they calls Paul's-buildin's. It's been

empty ever so long, and there's a large 'all in it.'

'I know it, Jimmy.'

'Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. The 'all's been

taken for twelve bob a week by some fellers as 'as formed theirselves

into a society called the Workin'-man's League--a society as is goin'

to stick up for workin'man's rights and all that sort o' thing. And

what do you think they've painted on the door. Bob? Why, The Temple o'

Liberty! And this feller as comes 'angin' round 'ere to-night calls

'isself a Delegate. _I_ calls 'im a 'Postle. It sounds better, don't

it? 'Im and 'is mates meets three times a week at the Temple o'

Liberty to take in members at tuppence a 'ead, and to collar

subscriptions. Lord! they'd collar anythink, sich fellers as them!

They do a pretty good stroke o' business altogether, I should say.'

'If Jimmy's not mistaken,' observed Robert Truefit to me, 'these are

some of the men who live by the trade. But what makes you so

interested in this one particular man, Jimmy?'

'I'd rather not say jist now, Bob. But I did ketch jist a glimpse of

'is face, and if I'm right, I've seed it afore. Per'aps I _am_ right;

per'aps I ain't. Any'ow this ain't the time to speak, 'cordin' to my

judgment, till I'm more settled about it. There's a big meetin' next

week at the Temple o' Liberty, and there'll be some tall speechifyin',

I daresay. I'll 'ave a good look at that there 'Postle's face then.

Will you go, Bob? and you, sir? This is a sort o' thing as ought to be

looked into. If I was a workin'-man like Bob, I shouldn't be satisfied

without I 'ad a finger in the pie--though there's nothin' good to be

got out of it, mind you, unless you're a 'Postle! And if I was a

parson, I'd think it my duty to 'eer what they've got to say for

theirselves.'

We promised to accompany Jimmy Virtue to the meeting; and then I asked

him if he knew where Blade-o'-Grass lived. He went into Stoney-alley

with us, closing has shop-door, and pointed out the house.

'She's got a room on the third floor,' he said; 'she went into it last

week. They about like birds, them gals do; it seems as they can't rest

nowhere. But they allus comes back to the old spot! She was born about

'ere, and it's my opinion she'll die about 'ere. What are you goin' to

do, Bob?

'I shall stop here until Mr. Meadow's visit is paid. Nay, sir,' he

said, seeing that I was about to attempt to dissuade him, 'I shall

wait for you. Our roads home are same, and perhaps you will allow me

to walk part of the way with you.'

'I shall go,' said Jimmy Virtue, 'and smoke a pipe outside The True

Briton's Delight. I've got the lonelies on me to-night, and Jack's not

allus the best o' company; gits stupid like, and 's got no go in 'im.

You'll see me there as you pass.'

I walked up the dark stairs until I came to the third floor, and

knocked at the door of the only room in which there was a light.

Blade-o'-Grass came to the door, and opened it. She curtseyed when she

saw me, and asked me to come in. There was some anxiety in her face,

but this was no new phase in her. I asked after the child.

'It's that as troubles me, sir,' she said. 'Come and look at it.'

The child was lying on the bed, with its eyes closed. Blade-o'-Grass

touched her, and she opened her eyes; but there was no sign of

recognition in her face, and no smile or look of gladness as the

mother leaned over her. The expression was one of settled

mournfulness; it appeared to me as if neither pain nor joy could

affect it.

'She's been like this, sir,' whispered Blade-o'-Grass, 'for nigh on a

week, and I don't know what to make of it. She lays there for hours

without movin' and without speakin'. She don't complain a bit; but it

can't be right, can it, sir? Speak to me, my life! Speak to me!'

But the child made no response to these and other endearing words; a

mournful lethargy had fallen upon her, and she lay like one in a

trance.

'She takes her food?'

'Yes, sir, but not much; she don't seem to care for it. She don't arks

for none.'

'Has any doctor been to see her?'

'I've got no money, sir.'

I knew of a doctor of fair repute who was popular among the poor, and

whose charge was eighteenpence a visit, with medicine included. I gave

Blade-o'-Grass three shillings, and told her it would pay for two

visits. She thanked me with tears in her eyes, and said that she would

run for the doctor immediately I was gone.

'I wish to say a few words to you first, my dear; I will not detain

you long.'

She placed a chair for me, and stood before me.

'Where is Tom?' I asked.

'I don't know, sir; I ain't seed 'im all day.'

'It is about him I wish to speak, Blade-o'-Grass.'

She looked distressed; but I was not to be discouraged.

'Is it not possible,' I continued, 'for him to get a living in any

other way than the way he does?'

''Ow do I know, sir? I think Tom 'd do anythink to earn a pound a

week. A pound a week! 'Ow 'appy we should be then! But 'ow's he to do

it, sir? Tell us the way, sir.'

'Nay,' I said, 'he must find the way himself----'

She interrupted me impatiently. 'If I didn't know as you was a good

friend to me, sir, I should think as you was mockin' of me, like the

others. Don't you say it all over agin, sir!' she entreated, with a

nervous movement of the hands. 'It makes me sick and mad-like! I've

'eerd it a 'underd times afore, and every time I arks which way we're

to turn, I'm told that we've got to find out the way for ourselves.'

She looked towards her child, and I saw that she was anxious to go for

the doctor. It would have been cruel to continue the theme then; but I

could not leave her without carrying out my intention. I asked her if

she had ever been to church.

'Once,' she answered.

'Only once!' I said sadly. 'That's all, sir; I never went agin. I

stood near the door while the bells was ringin'. I like to 'eer them

bells; they rest me like, and it was them as drawed me on. A lot o'

fine people was comin' along the streets all round, and goin' in

while I stood there. Some on 'em looked 'appy, 'specially the gals as

was about the same age as me; but some on 'em looked orfle glum,

as if they knowed they was bad uns, and was goin' to be preached

to!--beggin' your pardon, sir. Some of the ladies was dressed

beautiful, and more nor one on 'em 'eld their gownds away from me as

they parsed, for fear I should 'ave spoiled 'em by touchin' 'em. One

lady in lavender silk pulled 'er two little gals away because they was

close to me, and looked at me as much as to say that I'd got no

business to be there. No more I 'ad, sir, I know. I remember them

things, sir. All the people got in, and the bells stopped, and then I

thought 'ow I should like to go in too. It took a deal o' courage to

push open the door, and my 'eart was in my mouth when I did it; but

that was nothin' to what come arterwards. When I was inside, I thort I

should ha' dropped down with fright, a lot on 'em stared at me so

'ard-like; and what with that and the place bein' so grand, I turned

all over like a jelly. Then a big man comes up to me, lookin' very

stern and solemn. I thort he was a-goin' to give me in charge, and I

was goin' to cry out and beg 'im not to, when he clapped 'is 'and on

my mouth, and put me somewhere where I couldn't see nothink, and where

I could only 'eer a drummin' in my ears like a lot o' flies, except

when the people was a-singin'. But I was frightened all the while, and

when the doors was throwed open, I run out as fast as I could, for

fear somethin' 'd be done to me. I never went no more; it seemed to me

as if I'd no right to go.'

'Do you know where my church is, child?'

'No, sir.'

I wrote the address on a piece of paper, and gave it to her.

'I can't read, sir,' she said, with a flush in her cheeks.

I begged her pardon, and told her the name of the church, and the

street it was in. 'If you will come there, my dear, next Sabbath, I

shall be glad to see you. And don't think you have no right there! You

have as much right as the best-dressed lady in the church.'

She thanked me, and said she would come because I had been good to

her.

'And bring Tom,' I said.

She shook her head. 'I don't think Tom'll come, sir.'

'Not for your sake?' I asked.

'Tom'll do almost anythink for me,' she said, tears gathering in her

eyes.

'Do you know,' I said very gently, 'that living as you are living now

with Tom gives great pain to your friends?'

She bit her lips rebelliously, and put on her dogged look.

'And that it is wrong in the sight of God?'

There was no softening of the dogged look; it hardened rather.

'And,' I continued, 'there is so simple and so good a way of atoning

for this wrong--a way that will bring Tom nearer to you, that will

bind him closer to you. If, as you say, Tom will do anything for you,

ask him to marry you.'

The dogged look vanished; joy, wonder, took its place.

'Marry me!' she exclaimed softly. 'O Tom, if you would! if you would,

Tom!'

'Is there any doubt of it?'

'I never arksed 'im, sir! I never arksed 'im!'

'Well, dear child, ask him now, and let me know.'

'Won't it cost money, sir? she asked anxiously.

'But little; and that little I will find.'

She held out her hands to me in thankfulness. She had learned to trust

me.

'I'll arks Tom, sir. Though, mind!' she said, out of the noble

chivalry of her nature; 'nothink that Tom can do can bring me nearer

to 'im, or make 'im stick closer to me! But I'll do it, sir, because

you think it's good, and because I think, too, it might be righter

so.' She turned with a newborn joy in her face, and knelt by the bed,

and as I went out of the room, I heard her whisper to her child,

'Baby! baby! me and Tom's goin' to git married! Ain't you glad, baby?'

Robert Truefit was waiting for me in Stoney-alley.

'I am glad you have come at this moment,' he said, as we walked out of

the alley. 'You see those two men before us? One is Tom Beadle, and

the other is the Delegate who roused Jimmy so strangely to-night.'

'They are not walking together; they do not seem to be acquainted.'

'No; but supposing this one to be an Apostle of Liberty, and that one

a thief, it is well that they should be strangers.'

Their destination, however, was the same. They both paused before the

door of The True Briton's Delight, and both entered the building,

which was a triumph of architecture, with its gay decorations and

pillars. The light that came from this bad palace was dazzling.

'A bright coffin,' observed Robert Truefit, 'for virtue and morality.'

Jimmy Virtue was leaning against one of the lamp-posts opposite the

public-house, smoking his pipe.

'I've been thinkin', Bob,' he said, with reflective puffs, 'as I've

been standin' watchin' the people go in and out, that this 'ere free

and 'lightened country of our'n's crammed full o' Temples o' Liberty.'

'Crammed full of them!' exclaimed Robert Truefit, humouring his

friend. 'Why, what kind of places, Jimmy?'

Jimmy Virtue extended his pipe in the direction of the True Briton's

Delight.

'Them kind o' places,' he said.

Robert Truefit laughed. 'And where on earth, Jimmy, in those temples

is liberty to be found?'

'At the bottom o' pewter pots,' replied Jimmy Virtue, with a flourish

of his pipe. 'And the persevering way the free and 'lightened Briton

searches for it in them pewter pots is a 'stonishing thing. Bob--a

very 'stonishing thing!'

IX.

OPEN YOUR EYES, BABY! SPEAK TO ME! LOOK AT MOTHER, MY LIFE!

I looked in vain from my pulpit on the following Sabbath for Tom

Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass, but they were not in church. I had

introduced into my discourse on that day certain words applicable to

the beauty and holiness of the marriage tie--words which I had

designed especially for those two humblest members of my congregation,

and which I had hoped they would have understood and appreciated. It

pained me not to see them, and I was sure that some special

circumstance had prevented Blade-o'-Grass at least from attending. I

had promised to take a cup of tea with Ruth and her husband after the

evening service, and if anything could have made me forget for the

time the sorrow which oppressed me, it would have been the peaceful

happiness which pervaded their bright and modest home. But the image

of Blade-o'-Grass was too strongly fixed in my mind to be forgotten,

and in the course of the evening my fancy placed that image by the

side of Ruth, as the latter, with all a mother's love in her face, sat

rocking the cradle with her foot. It was a terrible contrast, and I

strove to banish the fancy; but it refused to leave my mind's eye. Let

me, I thought, strive at all events to give it a more pleasing

colouring. Ruth was dressed in a brown-stuff gown, and she had a piece

of pink ribbon round her neck; she wore dainty white collar and cuffs,

and her hair was done up in a simple knot. Merely to look at her as

she sat rocking the cradle in which her baby was sleeping created that

Home feeling to which all the humanising influences of life are due.

In my fancy now I gave Blade-o'-Grass such a dress and such cuffs and

collar; I placed the piece of ribbon round her neck, and arranged her

hair in similar fashion; and then I placed her by the side of Ruth. It

was wonderful; they were of the same height, and the colour of their

hair and eyes was the same. But the look of peaceful happiness which

dwelt in the face of Ruth was wanting in the face of Blade-o'-Grass. I

gave the poor girl this; I banished the anxiety and sorrow from her

face, and the likeness was perfect. As I gazed upon the picture,

half-real, half-ideal, the sound of Ruth singing softly to her baby

stole upon my ear, and the little tricks and turns of the voice which

Nature varies in her myriad children with such marvellous skill as to

make each distinctive in itself, or assimilative only where ties of

blood exist, brought to me the voice of Blade-o'-Grass speaking to

_her_ child. I started to my feet to dispel the illusion, and bade

Ruth and Charley good-night, for fear I might be tempted to disturb

their happiness by even a mention of my thought.

It was a wintry night, and the snow was falling. I had other visits to

make in pursuance of my duties, and it was quite eleven o'clock by the

time I had completed my rounds. At that hour I was crossing the

wonderful piece of road which connects the Mansion House with the

Royal Exchange, and I bustled along briskly to keep myself warm. I was

in the open space in front of the Royal Exchange, and I was walking

towards Leadenhall-street, when a woman hurriedly approached me from

that direction. She came almost abruptly to my side, and, with a

reckless movement of her body, in which every limb seemed to take its

part, was about to accost me, when, as I turned my face towards hers,

she uttered a suppressed cry of terror, and flew round the corner

which leads to Threadneedle-street. I had not seen the woman's face,

but the cry told me who she was. Shocked and surprised I ran after

her, and, in her endeavour to escape me, the poor wandering soul fell

upon the ground at the foot of the statue of one of America's greatest

philanthropists. Even in that moment of trouble, the coincidence

struck me as singular, and in the fleeting glance of admiration I cast

upon the statue the thought flashed upon me that it would have been

more charitable, and would have shown more true benevolence, had the

vast sums the philanthropist gave to the poor of London been expended

less after the fashion of a commercial speculation. That the merciful

intentions of the testator--whose kind heart must have been filled

with pity for the unmerited sufferings of the poor, and with a desire

to relieve them--have been made to miss their mark by the manner in

which the trust has been administered, there is, in my mind, not a

shadow of a doubt.

'Blade-o'-Grass!' I exclaimed pityingly, and I stooped to raise the

writhing form at my feet.

But she shrank from me and repulsed me with her hands; and bade me, in

a desperate voice, to go, for the Lord's sake! and leave her to

herself.

'Nay, dear child,' I said, 'I cannot leave you. Tell me what brings

you out on such a night as this.'

'Don't arks me!' she cried, with a wild movement of her hands. 'O, my

God! don't arks me. O, if I could die this minute, and take my child

with me! O, if we could die together, the pair on us!'

She looked up to the dreary sky with a face as white as the falling

snow. Never in my life had I witnessed such passion, such utter

prostration of soul, and my heart bled for her--and bled the more as I

observed her scanty clothing and the miserable coverings she wore on

her feet. And then there came to me again the fancies I had raised

concerning Blade-o'-Grass but a couple of hours ago in Ruth's cheerful

room. The reality was before me, in all its naked truth. What a

reality! Stone-deaf, blind, dumb, and utterly senseless to stern

preaching and mild exhortation; to the torrent of words which

comfortably-good creatures listen to from lip-philanthropists who, by

some strange mental jugglery, really believe that they are doing good;

to the raising of voices calling upon the fallen to turn and repent;

to statistics which prove so much and do so little. Only to be

affected, only to be sensibly touched, only to be altered for the

better by the angelic wand of practical benevolence, which sees,

pities, and at once wisely relieves. I knew and recognised that it was

from no fault of hers that this poor girl had fallen so low. _Had_

fallen! no; she was born fallen, and had been kept so. There was no

road open for her to traverse which would lead to pleasanter paths.

Gardens and fair places she had seen, doubtless, and her soul must

have yearned to them with sickening desire, but they were on far-off

hills, and the gates that led to them were shut for such as she. As

she lay before me now, looking upward to the sky, no fair places shone

for her. Every principle of goodness, the exercise of which brings us

present peace and future bliss, seemed to point at her in bitter

mockery. The reward that waits on worthy endeavour--how could she hope

to win it? The blessing that attends on a pure life--how could she

hope to gain it? Despair and desolation surrounded and encompassed

her. What words I used to comfort her, I do not remember; but I know

that two quarters of the hour had chimed from the solemn bells--doubly

solemn in my ears at this momentous time, and in hers also, for when

they struck we both paused to listen--before she grew calmer and could

speak with coherence; and then only was I able to draw from her lips

an explanation of her terrible distress.

Her child was perilously ill. She had spent the money I gave her for

the doctor, as I had directed. She thought her dear was a little

better after the first visit, but the doctor had told her yesterday

the child must have nourishing food, or he could give no hopes for it.

What kind of nourishing food? she had asked. A little port wine,

arrowroot, and jelly, was the answer. She repeated these last words

bitterly. 'Threepence-ha'penny was all that we 'ad in the place, and

there warn't a blessed thing in the room that we could ha' raised

fourpence upon. What was I to do? I went on so about it to Tom that he

said last night, "Keep up your pluck, old gal; I'll go and make a

rise."' Nerved to daring deeds, as I understood, and determined to get

money somehow, Tom Beadle left Blade-o'-Grass with a kiss; 'and I've

never set eyes on 'im since!' There was but one inference--the usual

one--to be drawn from his absence; he had been taken up again by the

police. In the mean time the condition of the child was growing more

perilous every hour. 'She never complained once, sir; if she'd ha'

cried it'd ha' been a relief to me I think, but she never opened 'er

lips, the pretty dear; and there she's been a-layin' all the day, with

'er eyes wide open, _lookin' at somethin' as I couldn't see!_ When it

got dark, sir, I 'adn't a farthin' in my pocket, and there wasn't a

bit o' bread nor a drop o' milk in the cupboard. And all the while I

kep' on thinkin' that my dear was a dyin', and that if I could get 'er

a little jelly or a cup of arrerroot, she would git better. It drove

me a'most mad, sir, but I tried to keep up my 'eart by thinkin' that

Tom per'aps 'd come in directly, and make it all right. I 'ad a little

bit o' candle left, and I lighted it, so that I might watch my dear's

face; but it only lasted about a hour and then it went out. I laid

down by my dear's side, and took 'er in my arms to warm 'er; she never

spoke or moved, sir; 'er 'eart beat, that was all. I felt 'er eyes

with my fingers, and they was still wide open. I began to git

frightened. What was it my dear was a-starin' at, and could she see it

even in the dark? Well, sir, I laid so for a long time, until I fell

asleep. 'Ow long I slep', sir, I can't tell, but when I woke up, my

dear was moanin'--not cryin', sir, but moanin'. I tried to coax 'er to

speak to me, but she didn't seem to know that 'er poor mother was by

'er side, and she never answered a word, but went on moanin'. O, sir!

as I laid there in the dark listenin' to my dear, I thought I should

ha' gone out of my mind! And then 'er poor 'ands--they're nothink but

skin and bone, sir!--begun to wander about, and it seemed to me that

she was searchin' and arksin' for somethin' to eat. What _could_ I do,

sir? what could I do? I run out to Mr. Wirtue's, but 'is place was

shut; per'aps he'd ha' given me somethink, but I couldn't find 'im.

Then I went back to my dear, and stood in the dark, fightin' with

myself, and with sich thoughts comin' over me as made me 'ot and cold.

I daren't tell you what they was, sir--I 'ardly know myself, but I

feel that to be dead's better than them! And in the middle of it all,

my dear's voice changed, and I knew that the tiger was tearin' at 'er.

It was tearin' at me, too, and, with the fear of my dear's death

starin' me in the face, I run out of the 'ouse. I didn't know where I

was goin'. I wanted money--food for my dear! I think I was mad! And

that's the way I met you. It's God truth, sir, every word of it!'

This was the story that, with sobs and gasps and many pauses for

passion which she could not control, Blade-o'-Grass told me. I

breathed a prayer of thankfulness that I was by her side in this awful

crisis of her life. I felt that practical relief must be given at

once. To leave her to her own resources in such a moment of terrible

desperation would have weighed on my soul like a sin which could never

be washed away. I looked around upon the bleak night; not a footfall

was to be heard. The snow was turning to sleet; the streets were

deserted; every door was closed.

[Illustration]

As I was considering what was best to be done, the bells began to

chime again. It was twelve o'clock, and the Sabbath was at an end.

From far and near the iron tongues, in solemn muffled tones,

proclaimed the commencement of a new week's toil. For a few moments

the air was filled with sound, and it would scarcely have surprised me

to feel that the sleeping millions were suddenly aroused--to hear the

din, the roar, the rattle of the roads--to see the anxious faces

flashing all around me, and the streets peopled with the throngs that

struggle this way and that, and contribute to the sum of the busy

world. But with the last faint echo of the bells the fancy vanished;

the night was more lonely and desolate than before, and Blade-o'-Grass

was turning from me in despair.

'Come with me,' I said.

'Let me be!' she cried hoarsely. 'My child's starvin', and I'm goin'

to get food for it--some'ow--or die in the streets!'

'I am going to help you. I am going to get food for you and your

child.'

She grasped my hand with a convulsive movement, and sobs of hysterical

joy escaped from her. But weakness and the revulsion of feeling

overcame her, and she would have fallen to the ground again but for my

support. By good fortune I heard the wheels of a cab.

'Can you keep up for a moment or two?' I whispered to her

hurriedly. 'Take hold of these rails; they will support you. That's

right--that's right! Do not stir till I return. I may be able to stop

that cab, and it will take us to my place, where we can get food.

Think of your child, and gather strength.'

I left her clinging to the rails and I ran after the cab, and hailed

it. The driver drove on, shaking his head. But I ran by the side of

the horse and entreated him so earnestly that he stopped. He said he

was wet to the skin and tired out, and that he wanted to tumble into

bed. But when he heard my rapidly-told story, and that the life of a

little child might be saved or sacrificed by him, he hesitated not a

moment.

Blade-o'-Grass was somewhat better and stronger when I returned to

her, and we drove quickly to my lodgings. There I armed myself with

candles, with what food there was in my cupboard, and with a little

brandy which I fortunately had by me. Back to Stoney-alley we drove

swiftly. On the road I urged Blade-o'-Grass to eat. She could not, she

said; it would choke her if she tried.

'I can't go down this alley, sir,' the driver said, pulling up; 'it's

too narrow.'

We alighted, and I paid the man his fare. He fumbled the money in his

hand; hesitated; looked doubtfully at it.

'I hope you will think it enough,' I said. It was all the money I had

about me.

With a rough tenderness he answered, 'I beg your pardon, sir; but I'd

like to----' and he held sixpence towards Blade-o'-Grass.

'I will give it to her,' I said. 'God bless you!'

I shook hands with him, and he jumped on his box and rattled away,

whistling his loudest.

We walked through the dark alley, unlighted by a single lamp, into the

house, and up the dark stairs. The house contained many inhabitants,

and we heard their breathing as we shuffled quietly along. When we

reached Blade-o'-Grass's room, she paused at the door and listened.

'My dear's not moanin' now,' she whispered gladly. 'Per'aps she's

asleep. We're a-comin', my dear, we're a-comin'! We've got somethin'

nice to eat!'

By the time I lit a candle, I saw that Blade-o'-Grass had crept to the

bed and was bending over her dear. She raised the child tenderly in

her arms. I mixed a little brandy-and-water in a broken cup and

approached them.

''Ad we better wake 'er? asked Blade-o'-Grass. I nodded. 'Baby! baby!'

she cried.

She looked at me for a moment with a struggling fear in her eyes.

'Baby, my dear! 'Ere's somethin' nice for you! We're goin' to send the

tiger to sleep; it sha'n't 'urt you any more. Baby! She don't answer

me! For gracious God's sake, sir, come 'ere! Quick! Baby! my love, my

'eart! Mother's a-callin' to you. Open your eyes! Speak to me! Look at

mother, my life!'

The fear in her eyes grew stronger, spread over her face and turned it

deathly white. With a wild shudder she tore the child from the bed,

and pressing her to her breast, turned to me with a look so agonising

and despairing as blanched my face to the whiteness of hers.

'What's this!' she muttered piteously. 'For the good Lord's sake, tell

me what is this?' She passed her hand over her child with swift and

fierce tenderness, and with a scream that must have made terrible the

dreams of the sleepers, cried, 'The tiger! the tiger! The tiger's

killed my child! O, my 'eart, my life!' and fell to the ground,

clasping her dear closer to her heart, and rocked to and fro in an

agony of passionate ungovernable grief.

Alas! alas! The child, on whose face I had never seen a smile, had

died during the mother's absence, and the tiger that had been the

curse of her life would never more disturb her. Never more! Never

more!

X.

NO, NO! BORN IN LOVE! IN LOVE!

I was busy writing on the following morning when Mr. Merrywhistle

called upon me.

'You look tired,' he said.

I told him that I had been up all night with Blade-o'-Grass, and that

her child was dead. He being her nearest and most faithful friend, I

related to him the circumstance of my meeting Blade-o'-Grass on the

previous night, and all that followed. The good old man shed tears,

and was sincerely grieved.

'Can I do anything?' he asked.

'You can do a great deal,' I answered. 'There is the burial of the

child.'

'I will see to that,' he interrupted; 'and the poor child shall be

buried decently.'

This was a weight off my mind, for I knew by his words and his manner

that he intended to defray the charges of the funeral out of his own

purse; mine unfortunately was empty. I pressed his hand.

'Heaven forgive me for saying it,' he said, wiping the tears from his

eyes, 'but it is a happier fate for the poor little thing to die, than

to live as her mother has lived.'

Then, I told him, there was the mother herself to look after.

'I should not have remained with her so long, for I needed rest; but

it was impossible for me to leave her. If she were left to herself and

her thoughts, I am afraid that something bad would happen. Jimmy

Virtue is with her now, and will remain until I send some one to

relieve him, or go myself.'

'Jimmy is a good fellow,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, rising, 'but he's as

poor as a church mouse, and must attend to his business. I will see to

the poor girl, and when I am absent I will get some woman in the house

to look after her. There, there! make your mind easy till tomorrow,

and go to bed early tonight.'

I felt much relieved, and I rose the next morning thoroughly refreshed

in mind and body. As early in the day as I could I walked towards

Stoney-alley. On my way I met Mr. Merrywhistle. I asked him after

Blade-o'-Grass. He shook his head gravely, and said,

'I was anxious to see you about her. It is with her just as you

described. If she were left to herself she would do something

desperate.'

'Has Tom Beadle come home?'

'No, and I have heard nothing of him. His presence might arouse her

from the awful melancholy which has fast hold of her. It is dreadful

to see. She has not spoken a word since you left, and it is with the

greatest difficult that the woman I have employed has induced her to

touch food; I am sure she has not eaten sufficient to keep life in

her. She sits by her dead child, looking at it with a blank look in

her eyes that almost freezes my blood to see. Sometimes she turns her

head, and gazes into one particular corner of the room, with a gaze so

fixed and steadfast that I have half expected--I am very nervous, my

dear sir--to see something start out of the wall.'

'She told me on the night I met her by the Royal Exchange, that her

baby lay all the day with her eyes wide open, staring at something she

couldn't see. She laid great stress on the words. Perhaps she is

trying to discover what it was the poor child was gazing at.'

'I have been thinking, my dear sir----'

'Yes,' I said, gently, for he had paused.

----'That if you were to speak to her, not simply as a friend who is

interested in her bodily welfare, but as a minister----'

'I understand you. Such thought was in my own mind. I have not

forgotten my duty, believe me.'

Upon entering the room where the dead and the living lay, I saw at a

glance that Mr. Merrywhistle had indeed well discharged his duty. It

was cleaner and tidier than I had yet seen it. One or two humble and

necessary pieces of furniture had been added, and on the window there

was a clean white muslin blind, edged with black ribbon. The dead

child was on the bed, with a white sheet over it, and Blade-o'-Grass

was lying on the ground, with her hand beneath the sheet embracing the

body. I motioned the woman in attendance from the room; she went

softly, and I closed the door behind me. As I stood with the handle in

my hand, I heard a knock. I opened the door, and saw one of the

lodgers--a tail, gaunt woman, with a decided moustache--with a yellow

basin in her hand. She dropped a curtsey.

'I've brought a little mutton broth for Blade-o'-Grass,' she said.

'Mind! It's 'ot!'

I thanked her, and taking the basin from her laid it aside. Then

closing the door again, I approached Blade-o'-Grass, and placed my

hand on her shoulder. She gazed at me with no sign of recognition, and

turned her face again towards her child. I bent over the clay

tenderly. The child looked well in death. Never in its life had its

face worn so peaceful an expression. I sat on a chair beside the

hapless mother, and spoke to her of that other and better life into

which her child had entered; I spoke to her of the goodness of the

all-beneficent God, of the comprehensive love which He, who watches

over all His children, bears to the meanest of them. But my words

touched her not; she made no movement in response to them, but sat

motionless, with hopeless eyes fixed upon the child. I did not dare

attempt to arouse her attention by sternness. Every word that came

from my lips seemed to me to be dissolved into gentle utterance by the

intense mother's love, which closed the door upon all outward

sympathy. And still I continued,

'Think,' I said, in my most earnest tones, 'think but for a moment

Cast your thoughts from your own misery and your own unhappiness, and

let them dwell wholly and solely upon your child.'

A gleam that faintly expressed scornful wonder passed into her eyes. I

hailed even that faint sign with gladness.

'The mother's love that dwells so strongly in your breast, is it as

sweet as it should be, is it as perfect as it should be, if it blind

you to the happier lot that lies before your child, and make you

regardless of it? Love in its perfect form is shown in unselfishness.

Are you unselfish in your grief? While your child lived you found your

happiness and your consolation in her. But was she happy? Carry your

thoughts to the many times that you saw her in pain, that she suffered

hunger, that she cried because of the tiger that tormented her----'

A shiver passed over the form of Blade-o'-Grass; her stony gaze

relaxed, and I saw that I had aroused her attention.

'----And think if a happier lot lies before her, as it does, if even

now the power is given to her, by the wisdom and the goodness of God,

to comprehend and be grateful for the love which has filled your heart

from her birth--think but for a moment, if this be so, As It Is!

whether you should not rather rejoice than mourn? By doing this you

would show love in its most perfect form of unselfishness. All her

pain is gone, all her sufferings have passed away, and the tiger is

stilled for ever. Yes, this child, born in sin,'----

'No, no!' cried Blade-o'-Grass, in a piercing tone of anguish,

springing to her feet, and pleading for her lost child in the strong

agony of her soul. 'Born in love! In love--in love!'

'Born in love,' I said sadly, 'and yet in sin'----

'I didn't know,' she sobbed, sinking again to the foot of the bed.

''Ow could I know; and 'ow could baby know? O, don't be 'ard on baby!

O, my 'eart, my life! O, baby, baby!'

The mere utterance of the word so overwhelmed her, that for a time she

was blind and deaf to all around her. Dark clouds encompassed her; she

was conscious of nothing but the overpowering grief which was born of

love; all else was blotted out from her comprehension. She and her

dead baby were alone, distinct from every thing in nature. Divine

sympathy for her touched her not; human love for her touched her not

She did not ask for them; she did not know the good that lay in them.

All that she desired, all that she yearned for, was her baby, and with

that dear soul of her soul and heart of her heart in her arms, she

would be content to wander into the Oblivion where peace was, where no

gnawing hunger was, where no unkind looks were, where no pain was. In

that Oblivion only one thing could live--her love for her baby.

I waited until she was calmer, and could heed my words.

'Your child is purified by its death. In the better life that lies

beyond this, all her troubles, all her unconscious shame, all her

sufferings are washed away and forgotten. Ah, my dear! think of it and

be grateful for the Divine compassion that has brought peace to her

suffering soul. She waits for you in the better land to reward you for

your love; and until the Divine Hand is laid upon you, and calls upon

you to join her there, let it be your consolation to know that she has

been spared the misery that has fallen to your lot.'

She echoed wonderingly, with overflowing eyes,

'The better land that lays beyond this! She waits for me in the better

land! Tell me.'

Then, in words as plain as I could find, I spoke to her of those

Divine truths, of that Divine hope, without a belief in which our

lives would be dark indeed.

'And the tiger!' she cried. 'Is the tiger with her? For the Lord's

sake don't tell me that the tiger is with her there!'

These and other questions I had to answer to her satisfaction, and

gradually, gradually the expression of stony despair left her

features, and into her eyes there stole a softened look of hope and

belief.

'She will see me there!' she sobbed. 'My dear will see me there, and

will smile upon me! I shall 'old 'er in my arms! O, my dear, my dear!'

She knelt with me by the side of the lifeless clay, and repeated after

me her first prayer, dwelling upon the words slowly and wistfully.

Another voice joined ours in the prayer: Mr. Merrywhistle's; and she,

recognising it, stretched out her hand to that faithfullest of

friends. Side by side we knelt in silence when the prayer was done,

and no sound was heard in the room but the quiet sobs of the bereaved

mother. After a time she turned to me, and, in broken, grateful words,

said that I had done her good. Yes, we had comforted her; thank God we

had comforted her! With what fervent gratitude did I bless the

gracious God for giving us the power of comforting that poor bruised

heart!

Other comfort was given to her also. The Silvers had been told of the

death, and Mrs. Silver and Rachel came and sat with Blade-o'-Grass. At

first she shrank from Mrs. Silver, but no person could long resist the

gentle tenderness of that good woman.

'She is truly your friend,' I said.

'I know it, I know it,' whispered Blade-o'-Grass humbly; 'but I'm

not--not good enough.'

I repeated these words to Mrs. Silver, and with a beautiful smile she

embraced the poor girl and kissed her.

'Will you not kiss me, my child?' Mrs. Silver asked.

The sobs that came from Blade-o'-Grass came from a heart overcharged

with gratitude. But she was most at home with Rachel, and the two

girls sat by the bed, while Mrs. Silver busied herself about the room.

She stopped until the evening, and when she and Rachel were preparing

to go, I saw an imploring look in Blade-o'-Grass's eyes. I stepped to

her side.

'What is it you want, my dear?' She made no reply, but she looked at

Rachel most wistfully and yearningly. I saw the thought and the wish

that she was too humble to express.

'Let Rachel stop with her tonight,' I said to Mrs. Silver.

For one moment only did Mrs. Silver hesitate; her child had never

slept away from her home.

'Rachel, my dear,' she said, 'will you stop to-night with

Blade-o'-Grass?'

'O yes!' answered Rachel with cheerful willingness; 'I shall be glad

to stop.'

With a gasp of joy Blade-o'-Grass caught Rachel's hand, and fondled it

and kissed it again and again. Rachel released her hand, and placed

her arm round Blade-o'-Grass's neck. The head of Blade-o'-Grass

drooped to her breast, but Rachel's was lifted in simple trustfulness

and love. We left to Mr. Merrywhistle the task of seeing to Rachel's

comfort for the night.

'I shall be here very early in the morning,' said Mrs. Silver, as she

kissed her child. She kissed Blade-o'-Grass again also, and went out

of the room with Mr. Merrywhistle. I lingered behind for a moment or

two. With Rachel's hand in mine I could not help saying to her,

'You gladden my heart, my dear.'

She flushed slightly, and trembled.

'I am glad you are pleased with me, Mr. Meadow. Good-night.'

'Good-night, my dear.'

We left Mr. Merrywhistle in Stoney-alley; he expressed his intention

of sleeping in the house, and I saw Mrs. Silver home.

'How shall I thank you, dear madam,' I said as I stood with her in

Buttercup-square, 'for the confidence you place in me?'

'Do you know what I have been thinking of as we walked along, Mr.

Meadow?'

'No.'

'That it was a fortunate day for me when I wrote to ask you to assist

us in our children's holiday. If it had pleased God to have given me a

son of my own, I should have wished him to resemble you.'

I cannot resist writing these words here, for they were very pleasant

to me.

The funeral took place on the Thursday. Rachel, Mrs. Silver, and Mr.

Merrywhistle accompanied Blade-o'-Grass to the last resting-place of

her child. The women brought some winter flowers with them. If

anything could have soothed the heart of Blade-o'-Grass on that

occasion, it was the sight of these flowers, as well as the tender

consideration which lay in the act. Before the lid of the coffin was

nailed down, Blade-o'-Grass, with trembling hands and white lips,

placed some of these flowers in her dead child's hands; her tears

rained upon them as she stooped and kissed the lifeless clay. She did

not raise her head for many moments, and I heard her whisper to her

dear to be sure and wait for her in the better land. I led her from

the coffin, and bade her take heart.

'I do, sir, I do!' she sobbed. 'I remember every word you said.

Stoney-alley and the narrow streets through which we wended our way to

the wider thoroughfares were thronged with poor people, and many a

'Lord love you!' came from their lips, and women pressed forward and

asked Rachel, whose arm was round the weeping mother's waist, to shake

hands with them. When we arrived at the churchyard, we found Jimmy

Virtue waiting by the side of the grave. The simple service was soon

ended, and the clay of the poor child was left to peace and God.

XI.

ONCE UPON A TIME THERE LIVED ON AN ISLAND----

There was a considerable stir in the immediate neighbourhood of the

Temple of Liberty on the night of the great meeting. Paul's-buildings,

now newly christened, was situated in a dimly-lighted narrow street,

and had in its time played many parts. It had been a lecture-hall, a

warehouse for old clothes, a dancing academy, a refuge for 'fat women'

and 'living skeletons,' a home for the tamest of wild beasts; and it

had brought misfortune upon all who had flown to it. It was a moot

point whether the social regenerators who had christened it the Temple

of Liberty would fare better than their predecessors.

On the night in question, little knots of men hung about the portico,

in which dangled a dejected oil-lamp, the despondent light in which

showed the way to liberty. The ostensible purpose for which the

meeting was to be held was to pass resolutions condemnatory of a

miscarriage of justice in one instance, and of a too-violent carrying

out of the law in another; but it was generally understood that other

and more important matters connected with the position of the working

man were to be brought forward. There was no charge for admission, but

before the proceedings commenced, the Secretary--whom we discovered to

be the Delegate or 'Postle' whose appearance in Stoney-alley had

caused so much mental disturbance to Jimmy Virtue--announced that the

smallest subscription in aid of the defrayal of expenses would be

thankfully received. 'Those who cannot afford more,' he said, 'can

give their ha'penny or their penny in aid of the good cause. We know

how the poor man is ground down, and the smallest subscription is in

our eyes equal to the largest. In the same way,' he added, with a

touch of cunning, 'as the poorest man should be equal to the richest

in the eyes of justice!' 'Equaller!' cried an unreasoning demagogue,

smelling strongly of beer, as he handed in a penny with a flourish,

and with the air of one who, with that copper donation, was giving the

deathblow to a bloated aristocracy.

'What's that Secretary 'Postle's name?' muttered Jimmy Virtue as he

looked at a small handbill of the proceedings. 'Mark Mallard! H'm!

Mark Mallard.' And then turned his attention to a study of Mark

Mallard's face, which seemed, indeed, to be the principal reason for

Jimmy Virtue's presence on the occasion.

'You are strangely interested in that secretary, Jimmy,' observed

Robert Truefit.

'You let me alone,' replied Jimmy Virtue; 'I'm a puzzlin' out

somethin'. I've got my considerin' cap on.'

And as he was evidently engaged in an intricate mental process, we did

not disturb him.

The Temple of Liberty held probably nearly two hundred persons, and it

was quite full. We three were among the earliest arrivals, and

occupied the front seat directly facing the platform. I noticed that

there was a large number of decently-clad working men present, some

with earnest faces, who had evidently come with the intention of

arguing matters out in a certain sense fairly. Many members of the new

Working-man's League were also present, and these were prepared to

support their officers through thick and thin. The chief of these

officers and the principal speaker among them was the Secretary, Mark

Mallard, who was voted to the chair. He was a common-looking man

between fifty and sixty years of age, and his face bore strong marks

of a life's discontent of mind; a man, thought I, who would be envious

of his neighbour's ox, but too indolent to work for that which he

envied. The unfavourable opinion I formed of him became strengthened

as I studied the signs in his face: he was evidently an unfit man to

be a leader in any good cause. But he could speak in a fairly-fluent

style and with a certain rough readiness which found favour with many

among his audience. He was not eloquent, but ready-tongued, and from

long practice, as I judged, knew how to make such use of his materials

as would best please the kind of assemblage he was addressing now. He

first proceeded to give a brief account of the establishment in the

neighbourhood of the new Working-man's League, a branch, he said, of a

greater institution which was to set everything right for the working

man--and by the working man he meant the poor man. Throughout the

whole of the proceedings he placed idle poverty and honest labour on

one pedestal, and sought to prove--and did prove to many only too

ready to believe--how the poor man was ground down, oppressed, and

crushed by the 'ruthless' heel of the rich. The Working-man's League

would seek to bring about a different state of things; its aim was to

give the working man the rights which were unlawfully denied to him in

the present condition of things, and to prove that the real power of

the nation lay in labour, and not in capital. This, of course, was

received with cheers. The orator showed no originality either in his

propositions or in his mode of placing them before his hearers; but

they were none the less enthusiastically received on that account.

Fairly sifted and summed up, his utterances amounted to nothing more

than the usual declamation concerning the rich and the poor, and the

atrocious injustice of a state of things which allows one man to have

more money in his purse than another. The old platitudes which cling

to the vexed subject came trippingly off his tongue. If, he said, the

real power of the country lay in labour and not in capital, then

labour should govern the country; but to show the unfairness of

things, and the howl that the moneyocracy raised at the slightest

attempt to set things right, let them bring to mind how, if a working

man tried to get into Parliament, he was hounded down and barked at by

the wealthy classes. Well, if the wealthy classes, and he was sorry to

say the middle classes also, denied justice to the working man, the

time had come for the working man to set up shop for himself. He did

not lose sight of the ostensible purpose for which the meeting was

called. He detailed two instances of the mal-administration of justice

which had gone the round of the papers and had created some noise.

[Illustration]

There is nothing that so impresses a meeting composed of ordinary

minds, such as this was, as the bringing forward of small facts

which have already been commented on among themselves. One instance

of the miscarriage of justice was where a gentleman-farmer had

flogged a labourer to within an inch of his life, and was punished

for the offence by a fine of five pounds inflicted by another

gentleman-farmer, before whom, as a magistrate, the case was brought.

'What was five pounds to him?' asked the speaker. 'What's five pounds

to the man who has thousands in the bank? Five pounds or three months'

imprisonment! Why, the rich farmer pulled out the money with a grin on

his face, and was heard to say afterwards that what he'd done was the

proper thing to do to such scum--meaning the working man--when they

dared to say they were not well enough paid, and couldn't support a

family on twelve shillings a week. Twelve shillings a week! That was

the sum this agricultural labourer had starved upon--him and his wife

and children--for more than twenty years. And he became a union-man,

and spoke up for his rights; and his master marked him, and nigh

killed him for it. Was that five pounds' fine justice, I should like

to know?' The other instance was that of a labouring man who, under

more aggravating circumstances, had thrashed a gentleman and beat him

severely, and who was put in prison for six months for the offence.

'And while he was in prison,' said the speaker, 'how was his wife to

get bread for her children? After this, will any one dare to say that

there's not one law for the rich and another for the poor? And shall

this state of things be allowed to continue?'

The recapitulation of these familiar illustrations accomplished more

than could have been accomplished by volumes of rhetoric, and cries of

'No, no!' came from all parts of the hall.

'The mischief is,' whispered Robert Truefit to me, 'that these

instances are true. See how intent Jimmy is upon our worthy chairman.'

After the passing of resolutions condemning the judicial decisions in

the strongest terms, other and more daring matter was gone into; and

then I saw plainly, what I had hitherto only suspected, that the

Working-man's League was in reality a republican club (in the shell),

the promoters of which were ready with fiery words to inflame the

minds of the ignorant against all recognised authority. One of the

great points that Mark Mallard made was, that he, like themselves, was

a working man.

'Look at my clothes; look at my hands! They are the same as yours, and

I have as little money in my pocket, I daresay, as any of you.'

'Yes,' growled Jimmy Virtue; 'and you're as ready as any on us to be

treated to a pint o' beer.'

'Order, order!' cried some.

'Quite as ready to be treated,' said Mark Mallard, with a frown at

Jimmy Virtue, which Jimmy received with a sneer; 'and as ready,' he

added, brightening up, 'to treat when my turn comes. We're rowing in

the same boat, you and me.' ('I'm 'anged if we are!' growled Jimmy

Virtue under his breath.) But Mark Mallard proceeded: 'I'm not being

rowed; I'm rowing, as all of you are; and we'll all row together, and

show our muscle.'

There was a murmur of approval at this figure of speech; and thus

encouraged, the speaker proceeded. The cunning skill with which he

mingled familiar matters was enough to mislead any but fairly-balanced

minds--royal pensions dating back hundreds of years; manhood suffrage;

attempts to interfere with the poor man's beer; justices' justice; the

price of meat and coals; one man rolling in his carriage while another

starved in rags; bank and other directors who had ruined thousands of

poor families living, after exposure, on the fat of the land; the

starvation price which capital put upon labour, as instanced in the

condition of the agricultural labourers--all these were brought

forward and artfully handled to prove into what a deplorable and

abominable Slough of Despond the Rights of Man had been trodden by

masters and gentlemen.

During the whole time Mark Mallard was speaking, Jimmy Virtue had

scarcely once removed his eyes from the man's face; and he had openly

expressed his disapproval of the false conclusions drawn by the

speaker. At first Mark Mallard had endeavoured to bully Jimmy Virtue

into silence, but Jimmy Virtue was the last man in the world to be so

bullied, and he expressed his dissent in stronger terms every time the

attempt was made. I noticed that Mark Mallard was gradually drawn to

observe the close manner in which he was being watched by Jimmy

Virtue, and I saw that he grew uneasy and nervous beneath the steady

gaze of my eccentric friend. From that time Mark Mallard took no open

notice of Jimmy Virtue, but nevertheless looked at him stealthily

every now and then. He wound up his most lengthy speech with a

peroration in which the Rights of Man and the boast that he, like

themselves, was a working man, were the two most conspicuous features;

and having resumed his seat amid applause, was wiping his forehead,

when Jimmy Virtue rose suddenly, and said in a loud tone that he

wanted to ask the Delegate a question or two.

Cries of 'Hear, hear!' and 'No, no!' responded to this announcement;

and the latter, on a secret sign from Mark Mallard to his immediate

supporters, were swelling into a roar, which would have speedily

silenced those who were curious to hear Jimmy Virtue, when Robert

Truefit leaped upstanding on to the bench, and cried, in a ringing

voice which quelled the tumult,

'Fair play! fair play!'

The appeal, strengthened by the manly manner in which it was made, was

taken up and indorsed in different parts of the room. In the midst of

this counterbalancing excitement, Robert Truefit leaned down to Jimmy

Virtue, and asked hurriedly,

'Jimmy, what is it you are about to do?

'You stick to me. Bob,' replied Jimmy Virtue; 'I know what I'm about

You stick to me, and you'll 'ear somethin' as'll interest you. The

warmint!' His features were working in an extraordinary manner, and

his last two words were intended to apply to Mark Mallard.

'Look here, mates,' cried Robert Truefit, commanding and compelling

silence by his earnest voice and action, 'we've been called

together to-night to discuss certain matters affecting the working

man. How _can_ we discuss these matters, and arrive at a proper

understanding--and from that point to a proper solution--of the

difficulties which surround us, unless we give fair play to those who

wish to speak? ('Hear, hear, hear! Well said, mate; go on.') 'I _am_ a

working man. My name's Robert Truefit, and I'm a working mason in Mr.

Turner's yard. Some of you know me, perhaps; I think I see a face or

two that I've seen before.' ('You do. Bob, you do. Go it, old fellow!

Fair play! fair play!' And a distinct voice from a gray-haired man in

a corner of the room, saying, 'There ain't a man in London that's got

the real interest of the working man more at heart than Robert

Truefit. And he's got a wife and six children as 'd be a credit to the

best man as ever trod shoe-leather.' This statement elicited cheers

for Robert Truefit, and 'Another for the old woman!' and 'Another for

the kids!' which were given heartily. Then a laughable episode

occurred by Robert Truefit saying, in correction, 'No, mate; I've only

five young ones;' and a voice replying, 'Never mind, old man; you can

soon make it up half a dozen!' A great many who had listened

listlessly to Mark Mallard's platitudes now shifted on their seats, as

if the meeting was beginning to be interesting.)

'This man here,' continued Robert Truefit, 'who wants to ask Mr. Mark

Mallard a question or two, is a friend of mine. He's a rum 'un to look

at, but he's sound at bottom.' (Cries of 'Let's see him! Let's have a

look at him!') 'Wait a bit. _I_ don't know what he's going to say any

more than you do; but he has told me that he knows what he's about,

and I believe him, as I'd believe anything else he says.' ('Hurrah for

the rum 'un to look at!') 'And now to those who have made up their

minds beforehand not to hear what he has got to say, all I've got to

do with them is to direct their attention to the name of this hall,

written up over the chairman's head. Look at it. "The Temple of

Liberty!" A big name, mates, for such a little room as this, but it

will do if it prove to be what it professes to be. Great things have

been accomplished in little places before to-night; even now, I've no

doubt, busy hands and busy minds are at work in common garrets and

kitchens, and the world will be the better for their labours by and

by, I hope. Let those who wrote "The Temple of Liberty" at the head of

this hall--Mr. Mark Mallard, I presume, is chiefly responsible for

it--take it down if we are not to have a fair hearing.' ('Bravo, Bob!

You're a sound man, you are!') 'I hope so. I cry "Shame" on those who

would deny us a hearing! Why, if there were masters and gentlemen

among us who wanted to be heard, I hope we are manly enough to listen

to them. _Beg_ for fair play, indeed! Why, it's an Englishman's boast

that he makes a clear ring for all who, believing they have right on

their side, have the pluck to stand up for themselves and their

opinions; and we're not to be told to-night that in this respect we

are a nation of liars. Whatever our opinions, however much we may

differ about this and that, we're Englishmen, and we're proud of it!

Shall we, then, scream out--as we do--for liberty of speech, and deny

it to one of ourselves?'

Robert Truefit had done his work well. From all parts of the room the

cry arose, 'Get on to the platform, mate!' and in obedience to that

request Robert Truefit jumped on to the platform, and assisted Jimmy

Virtue to get up after him. They pulled off their caps, and stood side

by side, facing the meeting. Immediately the people caught sight of

Jimmy Virtue's eccentric face and form, a shout of laughter came from

them, which the cause of it received most good-humouredly. But his

earnestness of purpose was apparent in the midst of the good-humoured

nods with which he responded to the merriment his appearance created.

When silence was restored, Jimmy Virtue said:

'I want to ask the honourable Delegate a question or two as you'll

see the drift on presently. If he'll 'ave the kindness to step

forward----'

'Well, here I am,' said the Chairman, rising; 'and now be quick with

your questions, for there's a deal of business to be got through.'

'Some on us want to be sure,' replied Jimmy Virtue, 'that you're the

proper person to conduct the business; I'm one o' them as wants to be

convinced.' He referred to the handbill. Your name's Mark Mallard.'

'That's my name. What's yours?'

'Jimmy Virtue; and it's the name as I was christened by, and I never

'ad no occasion to take no other. Can the honourable Delegate say as

much as that?'

'What do you mean by this fooling?' blustered Mark Mallard. 'What has

my name to do with the object of this meeting?'

Some of those present were evidently asking this question of

themselves, but when Jimmy Virtue said excitedly, 'You wait a bit, and

you'll 'eer somethin' as'll open your eyes!' their curiosity became a

check to their impatience.

'Now,' continued Jimmy Virtue, 'you've talked a good deal about the

Rights o' Man, and you say you're a workin' man yourself. For my part,

I've got a big respect for the Rights o' Man, and I wish with all my

'eart that every man 'ad his rights; though what the world'd do if it

was all rights and no wrongs, it's beyond me to answer. But about

you're bein' a workin' man, Mr. Delegate. What kind o' workin' man?

What's your trade?--that's what I want to know. What's your trade, and

where do you work?'

Mark Mallard held out his arms to the meeting in remonstrance, and was

about to protest against the introduction of such irrelevant matter,

when Jimmy Virtue stopped him.

'No; I bar that! No shirkin'. No runnin' away from what I'm a-coming

to. If you're a workin'-man you've got a trade, and you're not one o'

the sort this meeting's come to 'eer if you're ashamed of it.' ('Hear,

hear, mate!') 'There's a 'underd men 'ere as 'd be willin', if they

was asked, to say what their trade is and what shop they work for. And

why'd they be ready and willin' to say? Because they ain't got

nothink to be ashamed on--that's why!'

But here Mark Mallard called out authoritatively that it was time this

nonsense was put a stop to. 'We are not here to discuss

personalities,' he said; 'we have higher matters in hand. The

condition of the working man has become too serious to be pushed out

of sight by one who is evidently no friend to the good cause. As

chairman of this meeting----'

'Say Captain,' suggested Robert Truefit quietly.

'Well, as Captain, if it pleases you better----'

'It does,' said Robert Truefit, pushing his way to the front again,

'for it fits the story I'm going to tell.'

'We want no stories,' shouted Mark Mallard; and a few of his followers

took up the cry.

'A story,' continued Robert Truefit, not heeding the interruption,

'which concerns the business for which we have been called together,

and which concerns I won't say all here, but every honest-minded man I

see before me.'

The meeting here was convulsed with laughter. Jimmy Virtue, in his

excitement, had taken out his glass eye, and was polishing it

vigorously with his red cotton handkerchief, perfectly unconscious

that he was doing anything extraordinary.

'Go it, old chap,' cried a number of voices, 'with your one eye!'

'I can see as far,' retorted Jimmy Virtue, 'with my one eye as you can

with two. And look 'ere, mates. This' (holding up the piece of glass)

'is the only sham thing I've got about me.'

This hit told well, and when the laughter had subsided there were

calls for Robert Truefit's story.

'I won't keep you long, mates, and I'll commence after a good

old-fashioned style. Once upon a time there lived on an island a great

number of persons of all stations and degrees. Some were born with

silver spoons in their mouths, some with iron ladles. Some were poor,

some were rich; some idled and lived well; some worked all the working

hours of the day and lived hard. These last were like ourselves,

working men; and whilst they had much to be grateful for, they had

also, no doubt, much to complain of. Many of them were married and had

children; others were courting and on their road to wedlock. The wages

they earned were about the same as we earn--say, from twenty to

forty-five shillings a week--and they found they had as much as they

could do to squeeze out a sufficient and reasonable subsistence for

their families. This pressed heavily upon them, and they began to

murmur at the inequality of things. "We can't enjoy ourselves as we

ought," they said to one another; "we can't afford to eat meat every

day; we can't afford to go to the theatres; we can't afford a holiday;

we can't make any provision for sickness, or for the time when we are

too old to work." These complaints they made, and a hundred others,

many of which were undoubtedly well-founded from their point of

view--and you will agree with me that the point of view which comes

home to their own doors is the only point of view from which nine

hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand care to argue, whether

they be rich or poor. Some sensible and straightforward workmen among

them resolved to agitate their grievances in such a manner as to make

things better for their children, if not for themselves. You know, I

daresay, what is the meaning of the Constitution: it is a system of

fundamental principles for the government of rational and social

beings. Well, these men were sensible enough to recognise that the

Constitution by which they were governed, and which was accountable

for the burdens which pressed heavily upon them, was not a creation,

but a growth--a steady gradual growth of many centuries. Let us liken

it to an old and deeply-rooted tree, which by undue favour or by force

of circumstance had grown crooked--but a tree, nevertheless, from

which they drew food and protection. The common sense of these men

told them that desolation and misery would fall upon them if by

violent and sudden means they strove to _force_ the crooked tree

straight. The violent straining of the fibres would weaken them, and

would so destroy the power of reproduction that the tree would not be

able to bear sufficient food for those who lived in the shadow of its

branches. And as to planting another, and expecting it to grow up and

have healthy limbs in a night----well, you know what a foolish

expectation that would have been! "But," they said, "we can sow the

seed for another and a healthier tree, and while it grows we will

wait, and watch, and assist it to the extent of our wisdom, and we'll

work steadily on the while--like men!" There were others who were for

more violent means--with as much reason as would exist in the man who,

having suffered all his life from an internal hereditary disease, goes

abruptly to a physician, and demands a dose of medicine that shall

cure him on the spot. But the sensible men were the most powerful

body, although possibly not the most numerous, and they worked

steadily on, educating their children, and taking advantage of those

aids which their own persistence and the natural advancement of the

times brought to them. In the midst of this, there comes to the island

a ship, and the Captain, convening a meeting of working men, says, "I

am one of yourselves, and I know a means of remedying your grievances.

Sail under my colours, and the oligarchs who monopolise the fat of the

land shall be mown down like chaff. There shall be no waiting! You

shall have as much fresh meat every day as you can eat; you shall have

good clothes always; you sha'n't know what it is to be pinched; you

shall have a man's rights--full measure! And these things shall be

accomplished at once." He spoke confidently and boldly, and his words

were tempting, and made an impression even upon those whose views were

in favour of more temperate action than he advocated. But some among

them asked of themselves, "What is it that we are asked to do?" And

they thought, after all, that there were worse lots than that they had

to bear. Many of their homes were happy, though poor. By their own

firesides they enjoyed the greatest blessings of life. They loved

their wives; they loved their children. They saw these stems of theirs

growing to womanhood and manhood under their loving protection. "If we

stagger," they said to themselves, "they will fall and get hurt." And

we know,' said Robert Truefit, with intense and heartfelt earnestness,

'we who are husbands and fathers--we know how our own hearts bleed

when those who are dear to us suffer! Said these men to themselves, as

they looked around upon other communities and other countries, "Here

is a community that strove to accomplish by force what we are striving

to accomplish by steady and reasonable means. What do we see as the

result? Fire, pillage, murder, civil war; food-fields laid waste,

homes burnt to the ground, families in mourning, lives wrecked! Shall

we bring these things upon ourselves and upon our wives and children?"

But still the captain urged his views. "Well, then," said they,

turning to him'--and Robert Truefit with a startlingly significant

movement turned towards Mark Mallard--'"prove to us at all events that

you are honest--prove to us that you are one of ourselves--that the

name you go by is your own, and has always been your own. Some of us

fear that you have hoisted false colours, and they don't want to sail

under them. Prove to us that our fears are unfounded, and then, when

we are satisfied as to your honesty and integrity, we will give a more

careful attention to the temptations you hold out, and shall be the

better able to judge of their value."'

Robert Truefit paused, and from the hearty cheers that were given as

he retreated a step and laid his hand on Jimmy Virtue's shoulder, it

was evident that his sentiments were indorsed by the better class of

men in the meeting, and that they would not allow him or his friend to

be put down. Mark Mallard saw that there was no escape for him, and

without the slightest suspicion of the shot Jimmy Virtue was about to

fire, said, in a blustering tone,

'Now, then, say what you've got to say, and be done with it.'

'I will,' replied Jimmy Virtue; 'and as you don't seem willin' to say

what's your trade, I won't press you there. I'll just be satisfied

with an answer to two questions, and I'll put 'em both in one breath.'

The "two" men were standing in front of the platform in a line by

themselves, and the eyes of all were upon them. Crooking the

forefinger of his right hand, extending his arm, and bending forward

towards Mark Mallard with an earnestness there was no withstanding,

Jimmy Virtue said, 'Tell this meetin' if you ever lived in a place

they calls Stoney-alley, and then tell 'em what's become of the wife

you left there to starve!'

Mark Mallard staggered as if shot, and a deathly paleness came into

his face.

'I knowed it!' cried Jimmy Virtue. 'Look at 'im, mates, look at 'im! I

never set my eyes on a man but what I'd swear to 'im ag'in if there

was fifty year atween! Look 'ere, mates'--(Jimmy's excitement was

wonderful to witness)--'Look 'ere, mates. This man 'as come 'ere and

starts a Temple o' Liberty 'as got no more right to the name of Mark

Mallard than I've got to the name of Tippitiwitchet. Twenty-two year

ago he lived four doors from where my shop is now in Stoney-alley. All

the while he lives there he never does a stroke o' work, but passes

his time in pot-'ouses, drinkin' the beer as is given to 'im freely

because he's got the gift o' the gab, as we've 'eerd to-night. Don't

think, mates, I'm agin a poor man 'avin 'is beer; I ain't one as 'd

rob 'im of it. I'm _for_ it! though I do believe at the same time

that the poor man makes a sight too much of it--a blessed sight too

much--as if 'is liberty and the whole blessed constitootion depended

on it! Well, this man goes about pot-'ouses talkin' o' the Rights o'

Man and leavin' 'is wife to starve. He pawns every blessed thing of

'er'n he can lay 'is 'ands on--she's 'eavy in the family-way, mind

you!--he pawns 'er weddin' ring, and 'ere it is. I lent 'im money on

it myself. And a week afore 'is wife's confined; he carries out the

Rights o' Man, and makes a end of 'em, so to speak, by cuttin' away,

and leavin' 'er without a loaf o' bread, or as much as 'd buy one!

Nothin' more 's 'eerd of _'im_; 'is wife she's confined with twins,

and dies a week arterwards from sorrer and starvation. And I put it to

you, mates,--I put it to you, whether a mean thief like 'im is the

proper sort o' man to set up a Temple o' Liberty and to come preachin'

to us about the Rights o' Man!'

It is impossible to describe the storm of agitation that ensued; I

know that the men present, stirred to honest indignation, would have

dealt violently with Mark Mallard if they could have laid hand on him;

but by strenuous means we saved him from their anger, and he escaped

safely through a door at the back of the platform. When he was gone,

Robert Truefit said in an agitated tone, 'For heaven's sake, Jimmy,

tell us who that man is.'

[Illustration]

'That man, Bob,' replied Jimmy Virtue, dabbing his face with his

handkerchief, 'is Blade-o'-Grass's father. I knowed 'im agin, the

thief, directly I set eyes on 'im!'

The meeting broke up in confusion; but not before the placard with the

Temple of Liberty written on it had been torn into a thousand pieces.

XII.

IN THE DIM TWILIGHT OF THAT HOLY DAY.

It was but a little past nine o'clock when the meeting was over, and

the night, though cold, was fine. When we were clear of the Temple of

Liberty, Robert Truefit suggested that we should stroll as far as

London-bridge, and talk over what had occurred. The principal question

that arose in our conversation was what Mark Mallard would do. I was

inclined to believe that he would make inquiries after his children,

but Jimmy Virtue shook his head.

'You'll never 'eer of him agin,' Jimmy said. 'He's got no feelin' and

no 'eart, and it ain't likely as he'd show his face in Stoney-alley.

Sich fellers as 'im ain't got the pluck of a mouse. No, no; we sha'n't

'eer nothin' more o' Mr. Mark Mallard, and a good job too. What'd be

the good of sich a father as 'im to Blade-o'-Grass?'

We agreed not to mention what had occurred to Blade-o'-Grass, as it

could serve no good purpose. Jimmy Virtue and I united in praising

Robert Truefit for the admirable part he had played at the meeting.

'Bob ought to do more o' that sort o' thing,' said Jimmy; 'that's what

I've told 'im over and over agin.'

'And grow into an agitator!' exclaimed Robert Truefit. 'No, Jimmy; I

haven't time for the business. When it comes into my way naturally, as

it has come tonight, well and good. But I have my own little

commonwealth at home to look after; it takes all my time to administer

to that properly.'

We retraced our steps towards Stoney-alley, and found the

neighbourhood in a state of great excitement. In answer to our

inquiries we learned that there had been a fire in Stoney-alley. As we

hurried thither, we were greeted by exclamations of

'Ah, there he is! There's the old un! Wonder bow he'll take it!'

We soon ascertained the meaning of these remarks. Jimmy Virtue's

leaving-shop was a heap of ashes. A house on each side was partially

burnt; but the only building completely destroyed was his shop. How

long ago did it occur? A hundred tongues volunteered information. Not

an hour ago; but, bless your heart! it was all over in twenty minutes.

The place burnt like a piece of tinder; it was nearly all wood, you

see, sir. The old man must have left a candle burning. To the

questions which elicited these and other answers, Jimmy Virtue

listened quietly, taking no part in them. The alley was strewn with

rickety furniture and beds which, in the first alarm, the occupants of

the adjoining houses had brought into the streets for safety; now that

the danger was over, they were carrying their furniture back to their

rooms. When it became buzzed about that Jimmy Virtue had arrived on

the scene of action, there came surging around him a number of girls

and women clamorously demanding their little bits of things, valueless

perhaps in themselves, but a great loss doubtless to the poor people

who had pledged them.

'Where's my Sunday 'at?' demanded one. 'Where's my gal's boots?'

another. 'Where's my flannin-peddicoat?' another. 'Where's my

crinoline?' 'Where's my chignon?' 'Where's my old man's waistcoat?'

These and a hundred other inquiries were literally hurled at Jimmy

Virtue. He simply glared at the women, and told them to look for their

things among the ashes.

'Are you insured, Jimmy?' asked Robert Truefit.

No; he was not insured for a shilling. His clients still continuing to

badger him, he turned savagely upon them, and said he couldn't help

the fire occurring; they were a parcel of fools; and they were welcome

to any odds and ends of rags they could find. Suddenly he darted

forward into the midst of the smouldering ruins, and fished-out an old

greasy pack of cards burnt round the edges.

'Saved them!' he muttered triumphantly. 'I might 'ave lost every game

with a new pack. There's one good thing--Jack's safe. When I'm out,

he's never at 'ome.'

I really think that the saving of that pack of cards with which he

played for great sums with his shadowy victim, Jack, was a perfect

consolation to him for the burning of all the rest; but indeed he did

not seem to be in any way depressed by the misfortune which had

overtaken him.

'Well,' he said, 'it's no good starin' at it any longer. Bob, you'd

better go 'ome. Good-night, Mr. Meadow.'

Robert Truefit and I looked at each other.

'Mr. Virtue,' I said, 'you've no bed to sleep in to-night; and you'll

feel lonely by yourself after what has occurred. Will you come home

with me? I can make you up a rough bed in my room.'

'Thank you, sir,' he replied, with a set expression on his face; 'I

was afraid you or Bob 'd say somethink o' that sort to me. I shouldn't

be surprised, now, if you'd orfer to 'elp me in other ways. How long

'ave you and me known each other. Bob?'

'For more than ten years, old fellow.'

'I'll trouble you, Bob, not to "old-feller" me; it sounds special, and

it don't suit me jist now. More than ten year, eh? So it is, Bob; so

it is. You've found me a pretty obstinate old chap--pig'eaded you

might say, eh?'

'Well, Jimmy, you are rather--'

'Pig-'eaded--that's the word. Now, look 'ere, you two! Pig'eaded I am,

and pig-'eaded I'm goin' to be, to the last. If either o' you--you,

Bob, or you, sir--ever orfers me anythink agin--bed, money, grub, I

don't care what!--you can say good-bye from that blessed minute to

Jimmy Virtue. I must be nigh on seventy year old--I can't speak for

two or three year one way or another, but I must be nigh on seventy if

I'm a day--and I've never took charity yet; and I don't mean to begin

now. I've never pocketed no money as I didn't work for--except Jack's,

and that's a matter 'twixt 'im and me--and I ain't a-going to begin

that game at my time o' life. So I'll thank you to say good-night, and

leave Jimmy Virtue to 'isself.'

'You might as well talk to the Monument,' said Robert Truefit, as we

walked home, 'as talk to Jimmy after what he has said. He'll die

before he'll take a penny-piece. We must humour the old fellow, and

hope for the best.'

The following day I learned that Tom Beadle was undergoing another

term of six months' imprisonment for pickpocketing. I went to him to

tell him of the death of his child, and I took a piece of black crape

with me for his cap. I had never spoken to him before, and I was

wishful to know something of his nature, so that I might judge in what

way I could best impress him to act for the good of the girl who clung

to him with so much devotion. He received me with cunning civility;

his lynx eyes watched every word from my lips, as if in every word

might be concealed a trap. In his mind he classed me with those who

wished Blade-o'-Grass to desert him, and therefore I was his enemy. I

knew, also, that the fact of my being a minister was an additional

argument against me in his eyes. But he must be civil to me, because

Blade-o'-Grass had told him I had been kind to her. His eyes moistened

when he heard of the death of his child, and his grief grew stronger

in the brief pause that ensued. But after a time he said it was the

best thing that could have happened to the little thing. I told him,

also, of the kindness of Mr. Merrywhistle, and that it was he who had

borne the expenses of the funeral.

'Yes,' was Tom Beadle's careless comment, 'the old chap's 'elped

Blade-o'-Grass a good many times, on and off. He's knowed 'er since

she was a kid.'

There was not a trace of gratitude in his voice.

'She has made other friends as well,' I said.

A jealous gleam shot into his eyes.

'What friends? Swells?'

'Friends,' I answered, 'who sympathise deeply with her, and who would

help her if they could.'

'What's to 'inder 'em?'

I did not answer him. I left it to him to gather from my silence that

it was he who barred the way to a better kind of life for the poor

girl; that it was her entire devotion to him that kept her down.

'I know what you're drivin' at; it's me as 'inders 'em,' he said, with

a sneer. 'Well, that's nothink new. Blade-o'-Grass and me's 'eerd that

often enough. The way they'd 'elp 'er is by tellin' 'er to cut away

from me. I don't think the old gal 'd do that. I'd bet a penny

_you've_ been tryin' to persuade 'er.'

'On the contrary; I have begged her to ask you to do something that

will bring her closer to you.'

'Gammon!' he sneered. 'What is it you wanted 'er to ask me?

'That you should marry her.'

He looked at me in blank wonder. 'Marry 'er!' he exclaimed. He was

evidently puzzled, and he ransacked his mind for motives and reasons;

but all his cunning wit could not assist him.

'It's me as 'inders people from 'elpin' Blade-o'-Grass, and yet the

parson wants me to many 'er!'

I saw this expressed in his face, and I saw also a deep suspicion that

some treachery to himself lay behind the proposition.

'I'll think on it,' he said aloud. 'Will you take 'er a letter from

me?'

'Yes; I will write it for you if you like.'

'Thank you for nothink!' he replied with a leer. 'I'll get it done

through the governor. He'll 'ave to read it, you know, before it goes.

Will you take your solemn oath you won't open it?'

'I promise you not to open it.'

'And you won't read it to 'er? You'll give it to the old gal 'erself,

and tell 'er she's got to git some one else to read it?

I made this promise as well; and when I left with the letter, I think

he was half inclined to believe that my words and sympathy were

genuine. I gave an account of this interview to Mrs. Silver.

'I have been thinking all the morning of the poor girl,' she

said. 'My servant is going to leave me to get married. I will take

Blade-o'-Grass in her place, if she will come. It will be a home for

her, and I may be able to do her some good.'

The proposal delighted me, and I went at once to Blade-o'-Grass to

acquaint her with it. She thanked me and Mrs. Silver most gratefully,

but said she could not accept the offer. 'No, sir, not to save my

life.'

'But why?' I asked in grief and annoyance. 'Your refusal is

unreasonable.'

'You don't understand, sir. Read Tom's letter. You'll see what part of

it I mean.'

She gave me the letter I had brought her from Tom Beadle. The words

she referred to were these:

'When I come out, we'll get married. And mind! So long as you are true

to me, I will be true to you. But if you run away from Stoney-alley,

and go with them friends of yours, I shall know what that means.'

'It means, sir,' said Blade-o'-Grass, 'as Tom'll think I've deserted

'im. So you see, sir, I can't go to Mrs. Silver's. Don't you fear for

me, sir; Mr. Wirtue is a real good friend to me now; he's took the

next room to this, and he's always bringin' things to me.'

Since the night of the fire I had not seen Jimmy Virtue; and I went at

once to his room. He did not reply to my knock; and when I opened the

door, I found him playing cribbage with his shadow-companion. He was

so intent upon the game that he did not know I was in the room until I

was close to him.

'Ah, Mr. Meadow, sir, I didn't 'eer yer. Take a chair.'

I noticed that his face was pinched and careworn; and I asked him if

he was not well.

'Well enough,' he replied. 'I can't expect to be too well. My time's

comin'. Yes, I'm near the end on it. I dreamt last night they was

diggin' my grave.' He pushed the cards from him impatiently. 'Look

'ere, Mr. Meadow, take an old man's advice. Don't lead a lonely life;

git somethin' about you to love, and as'll love you; if ever you git a

chance, snap at it, or you'll rue the day! A nice thing for a man to

play a game--it's life as I'm talkin' of--and when he comes to the end

of it, to find out that he's played it all wrong! Do you think it's

worth 'avin'?'

'What?'

'Life. Is it worth 'avin'?'

'Surely, surely. It would be sinful to think otherwise.'

'O, I don't put myself up for anythink good! And don't you think I'm

different to what I was because I've been dropped upon by bad luck.

But what's it worth 'avin' for?'

'For itself; for the good that there is in it; for the good that one

can do; for that it is a preparation for the better life to come.'

'Yes, yes; Blade-o'-Grass 'as been tellin' me. She says 'er baby's

there. Well, it's a good thing for her to look forward to. There's

nobody there for me, though; a good job then for me that I don't

believe. No,' he said, holding up a warning finger; 'don't preach to

me! I won't stand it! I've made my bed, and I've got to lay on it.'

As I wished to divert his mind from gloomy thought, I did not pursue

the subject, but related what had passed concerning Tom Beadle and

Blade-o'-Grass, and asked if he had anything to advise.

'Why not marry 'em at once,' he said, 'if you think sich a lot o' good

is comin' out of it? _I_ think it's about the worst thing as could

'appen to 'er.'

'I have my plan already settled,' I replied, 'and if I can carry it

out, it will be the redemption of both of them. Marry them at once,

you say. But Tom is in prison!'

'Is there any law agin marryin' 'em there? I daresay you could manage

it if you tried.'

I had not thought of that, and I resolved to act at once upon the

suggestion. There were serious difficulties in the way, but I was

fortunate enough to gain the sympathy of the governor and the chaplain

of the prison, who, when they heard the story of Blade-o'-Grass, were

most eager to aid me in carrying out my design. With their assistance,

then, all obstacles were overcome, and the day was fixed for the

ceremony. I decided that the marriage should be consecrated early in

the morning of Christmas-day.

''Ow about the weddin'-ring?' asked Jimmy Virtue.

I said that I would have it ready on the morning of the ceremony.

'You'll 'ave to measure 'er finger,' he said; 'let's do it now.'

We were conversing in his room. He called Blade-o'-Grass, and she

entered.

'We're a-goin' to measure your finger for the weddin'-ring. Hold on,

Mr. Meadow, don't you say a word! Give us your 'and, Blade-o'-Grass.'

The blood mounted to her face as she held out her hand. Jimmy Virtue

took a wedding-ring from his pocket, looked at it curiously, and

placed it on her finger.

'See, Mr. Meadow,' he said, 'it just fits. This is my present,

Blade-o'-Grass.'

She thanked him tearfully, and kissed the ring, and held it to her

lips.

'It's 'er mother's,' whispered Jimmy Virtue to me.

The sun rose bright and clear on Christmas-day. How well I remember

the morning! It is three years since that time, and every incident is

as clear to my mind as if it had occurred but yesterday. Punctually at

half-past eight o'clock Blade-o'-Grass was at my lodgings; she was

nervous and very pale, and had evidently had but little sleep during

the night. I had never seen her so neatly dressed, and I expressed my

pleasure at her appearance.

'Mrs. Silver and Miss Rachel brought the things to me yesterday, sir,'

she said. 'They are too good to me, sir--too good.'

'It gives them pleasure.'

'I don't deserve it, sir.'

'You can deserve it. If you could do something for them in return for

their kindness, you would?'

'That I would, sir, and grateful to be able to.'

'Come, we are going to walk to their house now. It is a bright

Christmas morning, is it not?'

'Yes, sir, I never remember sich a Christmas as this.'

'May it prove the commencement of a happy life for you, my dear!'

She turned from me and sobbed quietly. When she recovered we walked

together to Buttercup-square. Then Blade-o'-Grass told me how one

Christmas night, very soon after her baby was born, she had stood for

more than an hour at the door of Mrs. Silver's house, in the midst of

a heavy fall of snow, with her dear in her arms, waiting for Mr.

Merrywhistle.

'If it 'adn't been for 'im, sir, we should 'ave been found dead in the

snow, baby and me!'

'He is a good man, my dear. He is coming with us this morning. Do not

cry. This is a bright day for all of us. Rachel, also, is coming.'

'O, sir!' she said, with quivering lips. 'What 'ave I done that you

should all be so good to me?'

'It will be in your power to repay us all, my dear.'

'Will you tell me 'ow, sir?'

'By and by, my dear. The time will come.'

We found Rachel with her hat and shawl on, ready to accompany us. She

gave Blade-o'-Grass a little present--a silk neckguard which she had

worked, with a jet cross hanging to it. Mr. Merrywhistle came in

almost at our heels, rubbing his hands, and saying what a fine morning

it was. By a quarter to ten o'clock we four were at the prison gates,

where Jimmy Virtue was waiting for us; he had smartened himself up for

the occasion, but his face looked worn and aged. Time was telling fast

upon him.

The governor of the prison had kindly set apart a private room for us,

and there the ceremony was performed. Tom Beadle, when he first

entered, looked half shamefaced and half defiant; but the solemnity of

the prayers had its effect upon him, and after a time he drew his

breath in short gasps, and the words he had to repeat after me came

tremblingly from his lips. Jimmy Virtue gave Blade-o'-Grass away. So

these two human waifs were joined together according to God's holy

ordinance, and were made man and wife.

The last words were said, and I prepared to go to my church. Tom

Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass were standing a little apart from us; there

was a dazed expression in his face, as if he could not fully realise

what had occurred, but it softened as he gazed into Blade-o'-Grass's

eyes, and saw the look of full-hearted love with which she was

regarding him.

'Are you glad, old woman?' he asked.

'I am very, very 'appy, Tom!' she said.

Then Rachel, as had been arranged between us, asked Tom whether his

wife might spend the day with her. He hesitated a moment or two, but

the better part of his nature had been awakened, and he could not

resist Blade-o'-Grass's pleading look.

'Tom told me,' said Blade-o'-Grass, as we walked to church, 'that he

feels as if he was just born like.'

We wanted Jimmy Virtue to spend the day with the Silvers, but he

refused, saying that he could pass the time well enough with Jack.

'I'm pig-'eaded, you know,' he added; 'that's what I am; and you ain't

goin' to redemption _me!_' And so left us abruptly.

That happy Christmas day was an era indeed in Blade-o'-Grass's life.

It was spent very peacefully; and every one strove in a quiet way to

make Blade-o'-Grass feel that she was in the midst of friends. I

watched her closely during the day, and I saw that new thoughts were

stirring in her mind. In the evening we were sitting together in the

parlour; the candles were not lighted, and the conversation was

carried on in low tones. Blade-o'-Grass had removed to the window,

where she sat, watching the birth of night. I drew a chair close to

her.

'Mr. Meadow,' she whispered, 'I've been thinkin'----'

'Yes, my dear.'

'That if me and Tom 'ad 'ad a 'ome like this we might 'ave been

different to what we are.' She paused, and I did not speak, for I saw

that she was struggling to say something more. 'I'm almost sorry I

came 'ere, sir.'

'Why, my dear?'

'It's ungrateful of me to say it; but seein' what I've seen 'ere

today'll make me miserable to-morrer in Stoney-alley.'

I made no attempt to console her. I strove to prepare her for the end

I had in view.

'This is a happy home, indeed, Blade-o'-Grass, and other homes as

happy have sprung from it.'

I recalled to her mind the circumstance, which Rachel had narrated to

me, of Ruth assisting her one day when she was beseeching Tom Beadle

to bring home some money as there was no bread in the cupboard.

'I remember the young lady well, sir,' said Blade-o'-Grass; 'and I

thought of 'er orfen, though I never set eyes on 'er since then.'

'She will be here presently. She is married, and has a baby.'

Blade-o'-Grass turned from me, trembling, and hid her face in her

hands.

'She and her husband have a very happy home, not far from where we are

sitting. If you had a home like theirs----'

'O, sir! for pity's sake, don't mock me!'

'Listen, my dear. Do you believe that we have your happiness and

well-doing very close to our hearts?'

'If I didn't believe it, sir, I wouldn't be fit to live.'

'Then believe this as well. Such a happy home as Ruth's and this may

be yours, if you have the courage to make a sacrifice. No, not yet!

nor will I tell you what it is until the time comes. But think of it,

and believe in it. Even if you doubted me, and Rachel told you it

would be a good thing to do----'

She looked lovingly at Rachel.

'I think, sir, that whatever she told me to do I would do, though I

was sure to die the next minute.'

'You would be right, Blade-o'-Grass. All that she says and does is

sweet and good.'

* * * * *

Ah, Rachel, my wife, how my heart yearned to you then! How tenderly,

in the dim twilight of that Holy Day, did my thoughts dwell upon you

in purest love! In the solemn pause that ensued I endeavoured to

strengthen my heart by inward prayer. If the priceless gift of your

love were denied to me, I might still hope that your friendship would

sweeten my life.

* * * * *

Blade-o'-Grass laid her hand timidly upon mine, and whispered to me

that the prospect I had held out was like heaven to her.

Soon after this, Charley, and Ruth with her baby, came in quietly, and

I brought Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass together.

* * * * *

I see them standing side by side at the window. I see Ruth showing her

baby to Blade-o'-Grass. I see Blade-o'-Grass's hands tremble and

wander. I see her stretch forth her arms convulsively, and presently I

see her sitting on a low stool, with the baby in her lap, sobbing

quietly over the child, whose fingers caress her face, pityingly as it

seems. Ruth sinks upon her knees by the side of the bereaved mother,

and their arms are round each other's neck. Night's shadows steal upon

them, and wrap them in a peaceful embrace.

XIII.

HIS SOUL IS IN YOUR HANDS TO SAVE AND PURIFY!

I had many opportunities of seeing Tom Beadle during his term of

imprisonment, and I soon became engaged in the contemplation of a

subject which has been studied and pondered over by thousands of

earnest minds, but never, I believe, with greater seriousness than at

the present time. Here was a man, with a man's strength, not unwilling

to do his work in the world, if he knew the way to do it. Of a low

type he certainly was, but he had grown into his condition through no

fault of his own. I penetrated the crust of his character, and I found

behind it much material which could be worked to a good end. Gradually

I won his confidence, and, in answer to certain remarks of mine

affecting his career and character, he answered me in plain terms and

with a rough shrewdness which greatly impressed me in his favour, I

saw that he was helpless; that, in this country, society could do

nothing for him, and that he would be utterly lost if he were left to

himself and his own resources. If he were lost, Blade-o'-Grass would

be lost also.

[Illustration]

'It will be a happy task accomplished,' I thought, 'if I can save

these two from the certain degradation which lies before them--if I

can make their after-life happy in an honourable way, and worthy of

the respect of men.'

Tom Beadle gave me a great proof of his confidence. I asked him to

allow Blade-o'-Grass to visit the Silvers and Ruth, and he consented

with but little pressure. I took care that she was frequently in one

or other of the houses. She liked best to be with Ruth and Ruth's

baby, whom she often begged to be allowed to nurse. I said to her one

day when she was in Ruth's house, having spent a few happy hours

there,

'If you and Tom had such a home as this----'

'It'd be like 'eaven, sir,' she answered. 'Don't speak of it, sir. It

breaks my 'eart to think of it!'

But I knew that the plan I had in view would give them such a home,

after a time, if they were willing to endure a present sacrifice. I

knew it from a letter which I had received from Canada a week after

Christmas. The letter was from Richard. I give it in its entirety:

'My dear Mr. Meadow,--I can now, I think, send you a letter which will

give you satisfaction. My dear mother, and Ruth, and Mary, write so

much about you, that I feel, although I have never seen you, as if I

was talking to an old friend; and I feel very proud, I assure you,

that you should write to me as you have written, and should place so

much confidence in me. I cannot express to you how much I have thought

of the story you have told me. I can see Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass

as plainly as if they stood before me. I can see what they were when

they were children (I saw it often, my dear Mr. Meadow, when I was in

London), and what they are likely to become, if a helping hand is not

stretched forth to save them. You say you place your hopes in me, and

that if it is out of my power to help you, you will not know which way

to turn to accomplish what you desire. My dearly-beloved mother has

written to me also, urging me to try and do something, and I need not

say what an incentive that has been to me.

'Now let me tell you. It has been my good fortune to make the

acquaintance of a farmer, at whose house I spend my day of rest

every week. His name is Gibson. Is it letting you into a secret, when

I tell you that he has a daughter, and that I hope some day, please

God!----Well, dear Mr. Meadow, you must finish the uncompleted

sentence yourself. And yet I must tell you that I do love her, with

all my heart! You are not the first I have told. My dear mother knows

all about it.

'Mr. Gibson has a large farm, and employs eighteen hands, who all

receive fair wages, and have made comfortable homes for themselves.

The Sabbath before last, Mr. Gibson was telling me the history of some

of the men he has employed, and it suddenly flashed upon me that it

was in his power to do what you desire with respect to Tom Beadle.

'Well, dear Mr. Meadow, I told him the story, and I gave him your

letters and my dear mother's letters to read. Annie--that is his

daughter--was present, and I spoke with all my earnestness. When I had

finished, Annie was crying, and I myself was very nearly crying too.

It would take too long for me to tell all that passed, but Mr. Gibson

said he would keep the letters for a week, and that he would consider

whether he could do anything. When I wished Annie good-night, I asked

her if she would help me with her father, and she said she would--and

said, too, how she wished that she knew you and my dear mother and

sisters! You have no idea, Mr. Meadow, what a dear good girl she is.

'I didn't have one good night's rest all the week for thinking of what

Mr. Gibson would say, and last Sabbath I went to his house with a

trembling heart. We go to the same church, and after church we took a

walk. It was a fine cold morning--you should have seen how Annie

looked! Well, but I must not wander from the subject. Then Mr. Gibson

told me he had read all your letters, more than once he said, and that

he had made up his mind. This is what he says. If Tom Beadle will come

out to us, Mr. Gibson will take him into his service, and will give

him fair wages. He will work and live on the farm, and Mr. Gibson will

do all he can for him. But Mr. Gibson made conditions. Tom Beadle must

come out by himself, and must bind himself to work for Mr. Gibson for

five years. "At the end of that time," Mr. Gibson said, "he will, if

he is industrious, have a home of his own and money in his pocket.

Then he can send for his wife, and they will have a good future before

them." Mr. Gibson put it this way. "Tom Beadle," he says, "must do

something to show that he is worthy of the confidence that is to be

placed in him; he has to grow out of old bad ways into new good ones.

Give him something to work for," said Mr. Gibson, "something to look

forward to, and the chances of his turning out right are more in his

favour." Well, dear Mr. Meadow, that is how it stands. If Tom Beadle

will come over, there is a home for him at once, and there is honest

good work, with fair wages, for him to commence at, right away.

'I hope you will be satisfied and pleased with this. I am sure it will

turn out right. _I_ will make a friend of Tom Beadle, and he shall not

go wrong, if we can help it. Annie will help too, I am sure. I do not

write any news about myself; dear mother will tell you all about me. I

am getting along famously. With affectionate esteem, my dear Mr.

Meadow, believe me to be most faithfully yours,

'RICHARD SILVER.'

I deemed it wise not to disclose the contents of this letter to

Blade-o'-Grass until the day before Tom Beadle was to come out of

prison. I had persuaded her to spend a few hours of that day with

Ruth, and when I went to Ruth's house in the evening, I found that

Blade-o'-Grass had gone to her home in Stoney-alley. About nine

o'clock in the night I went to her room, to play the great stake upon

which her future rested, and as I walked through the labyrinth of

narrow thoroughfares which led to Stoney-alley, I prayed fervently

that my mission would be successful. Blade-o'-Grass's room was very

clean and tidy; she had been busy making preparations for the return

of Tom Beadle. When I entered, her work was done, and she was sitting

with her head resting on her hand.

'Don't disturb yourself, my dear,' I said; 'I have come to have a long

chat with you. You have been busy, I see.'

'Yes,' she said; 'Tom's comin' 'ome to-morrer.'

I noticed that there was sadness in her tone.

'You are glad?' I said.

'Yes, sir, of course I'm glad. But I've been thinkin' of a good many

things. I've been thinkin' of baby, and--and----'

She bit her lips, as if that effort were necessary to restrain the

expression of what was in her mind.

'Don't hide anything from me, my dear; tell me what you've been

thinking of.'

'I 'ardly know 'ow to tell it, sir. My thoughts seem as if they was

turnin' agin myself. I see that I must ha' been goin' on wrong all my

life, and that Tom 's been doin' the same. And my 'eart's fit to

break, when I think it can't be altered now!'

'It can be altered, my child.'

She looked at me imploringly.

'You've said somethin' like that afore, sir; but it's all dark to me.

Tom'll come 'ome to-morrer, and things'll go on in the old way, and

per'aps he'll be took up agin before long----'

She could not proceed for her tears.

'You see, my dear, that the life he is leading is wrong.'

'I see it, sir--I see it. It'd be better, arter what you've told me,

if Tom and me was to die to-morrer!'

'Our lives are not in our own hands, my dear. What has been done in

the past has been done in ignorance, and the shame of it can be wiped

away. It _is_ shame, my dear. Place yourself and Tom by the side of

Ruth and _her_ husband.'

She uttered a cry, as if a knife had struck her. But I continued:

'Place your home by the side of theirs. See the happy future that lies

before them, and think of what lies before you, if, as you have said,

things go on with you in the same old way.'

She covered her face with her hands. I was striking her hard, but I

knew it was necessary for the sacrifice I was about to call upon her

to make. I drew a picture of the two homes. I placed children in them,

and contrasted their appearance, their lives, their chances of

happiness. I did not spare her; I spoke with all my strength and

earnestness. Suddenly she interrupted me with wild looks and in a wild

tone.

'What are you tellin' me all this for?'

'Because it is in your power to choose between them,' I replied. 'Not

only for yourself, but for Tom. His future is in your hands to shape

to a good end, if you have the courage to make a sacrifice. Nay, not

only his future in this world--his soul is in your hands to save and

purify!'

She parted the hair from her eyes, and gazed at me as if she were in a

dream.

'Will you do this? Will you save your husband from the net of crime

and shame in which he is entangled?'

'Will I do it?' she cried, in a tone of wonder. 'Can you arks me? Show

me the way!'

I did. I told her the end I had been working for. I read Richard's

letter to her, and dilated upon the prospect it held out.

'There is no chance for Tom here,' I said; 'there is in that new land,

and with such friends as he will have about him. I believe it is in

your power to persuade him to go. He loves you, and would do much for

you. The separation will not be a very long one. Five years will soon

pass, and then you will both be young. While he is working out the

commencement of a good and better life there, you can stop with Mrs.

Silver; she bids me offer you a home. Will you make the sacrifice?--a

sacrifice that in all your after-life you will bless us for persuading

you to make. My dear sister,'--she bowed her head to her breast

convulsively as I thus addressed her--'it will be your salvation, and

his. All our hearts are set upon it for your good and his. I know how

you will suffer in parting from him, but the love's sacrifice that you

will make for him will be a truer test of love than all you have

hitherto done.'

She was silent for a long, long time before she spoke.

'When will he 'ave to go, sir?'

'A ship sails from Liverpool the day after to-morrow.'

'So soon!' she cried, clasping her hands.

'It is best so. Every hour that he passes here after he is out of

prison is an hour of peril to you both. I will myself accompany him to

Liverpool to-morrow. Let him commence his baptism at once, and in the

new land work out his regeneration. He will thank you for it by and

bye. Shall I tell you what I see in a few years from this present

moment, my dear?'

'If you please, sir,' she said, tears streaming down her face.

'I see you and Tom in the new land living happily in your own little

home. I see you standing at the door in the morning looking after him,

as he goes to his work, and he turning round to smile upon you. I see

him, when he is out of your sight, exchanging friendly greetings with

men whose respect he has earned; no longer ashamed to look men in the

face, my dear, but walking with head erect, without fear, as one can

do who earns his bread honestly. I see him coming home at night, when

his day's work is done, and you, perhaps, reading to him----'

'Reading, sir!'

'Yes, my dear, reading. Reading a letter, perhaps, that Mrs. Silver,

or Ruth, or Mr. Merrywhistle has written to you and Tom. It will

come--you will learn while he is away. I see your cupboard well

stocked, your house prettily furnished, yourselves comfortably

clothed. Perhaps Richard--Ruth's brother--and his wife come in to see

you, and you talk together of the dear ones at home, bound to you as

to him, my dear, by links of love. I hear you thank God before you

sleep for all His goodness to you. I see you helping some poor child

who has been left orphaned and helpless as you were left----'

'O, sir!'

'It will come, my dear, if you live, as surely as we are speaking

together at this minute. I see you, perhaps, with a baby in your arms,

like the dear one who has passed away from you----'

She caught my hand hysterically, and I paused. I saw that my work was

done. I will not set down here what she said when she was calmer. When

I left her she was animated by a high resolve, and I knew that she

would not falter.

'What time will you be 'ere in the mornin', sir?' she asked, as she

stood with me at the street-door in Stoney-alley.

'At twelve o'clock, my dear.'

'Tom'll be ready to go with you then, sir. It'll 'urt 'im to leave

me, sir, but he'll do it for my sake. I know 'im, sir!'

'Good-night, my dear; God bless you!'

'And you, sir,' she said, kissing my hand.

I was punctual to my appointment on the following day. Blade-o'-Grass

heard my step on the stairs, and came into the passage to meet me.

'Tom's inside, sir.'

I looked into her face, and saw in the anguish expressed there the

marks of the conflict she had passed through.

'He's ready to go with you, sir.'

Tom Beadle's face bore marks of trouble also, and he evidently had not

made up his mind whether he should receive me as a friend or an enemy.

'I feel as if I was bein' transported,' he said in a dogged manner.

'You will live to thank us, Tom,' I said, as I held out my hand to

him. He hesitated a moment or two before he took it, and then he

gripped it fiercely.

'Look 'ere!' he exclaimed hoarsely. 'Is it all goin' to turn out as

you've told 'er? Take your oath on it! Say, May I drop down dead if it

won't all come right!'

'As surely as I believe in a better life than this, so surely do I

believe that this is your only chance of bestowing happiness upon the

woman who loves you with her whole heart and soul.'

'I wouldn't do it but for 'er!' he said, and turned to Blade-o'-Grass.

She crept into his arms, and clasped him to her faithful heart, and

kissed him again and again. I went into the passage, and I heard her

tell him, in a voice broken by sobs, how she loved him, and would love

him, and him only, till death, and after death, and how she would

count the minutes while he was away, till the blessed time came when

they would be together again. Powerful as was her influence over him,

it would not have been perfect if he had not had some good and tender

qualities in his nature. I felt that the words that were passing

between them in this crisis of their lives were sacred, and I went

downstairs to the street-door. I found Mr. Merrywhistle there.

'I have a cab waiting for you,' he said, 'and a box.'

'A box!'

'With some clothes in it for Tom Beadle, my dear sir. It will make a

good impression upon him. And here are two sovereigns for him.'

'Give them to him yourself, Mr. Merrywhistle,' I said; 'he will be

down presently.'

Tom Beadle joined us in a few minutes.

'Mr. Merrywhistle has brought a box of clothes for you, Tom,' I said;

'and he has something else for you also.'

'It's only a matter of a couple of sovereigns, Tom,' said Mr.

Merrywhistle, stammering as if he were committing an act of meanness

instead of an act of kindness. 'They may come useful to you when you

land in Canada.'

Tom took the money and thanked him; then said that he had forgotten to

say something to Blade-o'-Grass, and ran up-stairs. I learnt

afterwards that he had given her the money, and had insisted, despite

her entreaties, that she should take it.

I did not leave Tom Beadle until the ship sailed. He related to me the

whole story of his life, and asked me once,

'Won't the old devil break out in me when I'm on the other side o' the

water?'

'Not if you are strong, Tom--not if you keep your thoughts on

Blade-o'-Grass, and think of the perfect happiness you can bestow upon

her by keeping in the right path.'

'I'll try to, sir. No man's ever tried 'arder than I mean to.'

When I thought of the friends that were waiting on the other side of

the Atlantic to help him, and encourage him, and keep him straight, I

was satisfied that all would turn out well.

I returned to London with a light heart. It was nearly nine o'clock at

night when I reached home. I lit my lamp, and saw upon my table a

large envelope, addressed to me in a lawyer's handwriting. I opened

the letter, and found that it contained a sealed packet, and the

following note, dated from Chancery-lane:

'Sir,--In accordance with instructions received from our late client,

Mr. James Fairhaven, we forward to you the enclosed packet, seven days

after his death.--We are, sir, your obedient servants,

'WILSON, SON, & BAXTER.

'To Andrew Meadow, Esq.'

The news of the death of my benefactor and old friend, Mr. Fairhaven,

shocked and grieved me. It was a sorrowful thought that he had parted

from me in anger. If I had known of his illness, I am sure I should

have gone to him, despite his prohibition. But I did not know; and

even the consolation of following to the grave the last remains of the

man who had so generously befriended me had been denied to me. I

passed a few minutes in sorrowful reflection, and then took up the

sealed packet. It was addressed, in his own handwriting, to Andrew

Meadow, and was very bulky. The manuscript it contained was headed,

'_James Fairhaven's last words to

Andrew Meadow_.'

It was with a beating heart I prepared to read what he had written.

XIV.

IT IS SUNRISE. A GOLDEN MIST IS RISING FROM THE WATERS.

On two occasions you have expressed to me your wish to know what it

was that induced me to take an interest in you when you were left an

orphan, friendless, as you might have supposed. As the answer to your

inquiry would have disclosed one of the secrets of my life, I refused

to answer. But tonight, sitting, as I am sitting, alone in this

desolate house, I am impelled to write an answer in my own

way--impelled by the resurrection of certain memories which have

arisen about me during the last hour, and which cling to me now with

terrible tenacity. For the only time in my life that I can remember I

will indulge myself by a free outpouring of what is in my mind,

setting no restraint upon myself, as has hitherto invariably been my

rule. I do this the more readily, as these words will certainly not be

read by you until I am dead, and may never be read by you at all, for

the whim may seize me to destroy them. To this extent I may therefore

think that I am speaking to myself only--making confession to myself

only. I strip myself of all reserve; the mere expression of this

resolution gives me relief.

I am not writing in my study; it was my first intention to do so, but

the room was close and warm, and when the door was shut a stifling

feeling came upon me, as if other forms besides my own were there,

although I was the only living presence in it. Directly the fancy

seized me, it grew to such monstrous proportions that, with a vague

fear, I brought my papers away, and felt when I left the room as if I

had escaped from a prison. I am writing now in the large drawing-room,

by the window which looks out upon the garden and the river, where you

and I have sometimes sat and conversed. The night is dark; the river

and the banks beyond are dark; the garden is filled with shadows. The

only light to be seen is where I am sitting writing by the light of a

reading-lamp. The other portions of the room, and the garden, and the

river, and the river's banks are wrapped in gloom. I open the window;

I can breathe more freely now.

Certain words you spoke to me, during our last interview, have

recurred to me many times, against my wish, for I have endeavoured

vainly to forget them. According to your thinking, you said, money,

was only sweet when it was well-earned and well-spent. Well-earned? I

have worked hard for the money which I have gained. I have toiled and

laboured and schemed for it, and it is mine. Has it not been well

earned? I ask this question of myself, not of you; for I believe your

answer, if you could give it to me, would not please me. Well spent? I

do not know--I never considered. I have gone on accumulating. 'Money

makes money,' I used to hear over and over again. Money _has_ made

money for me. Well, it is mine. The thought intrudes itself, For how

long? This thought hurts me; I am an old man. For how many years

longer will my money be mine? But I go on accumulating and adding; it

is the purpose of my life.

It has been the purpose of my life since I was a young man. Then I was

clerk to a great broker. I became learned in money; I knew all its

values and fractions; it took possession of my mind, and I determined

to become rich. It seemed to me that money was the only thing in life

worth living for; I resolved to live for it, and for it only, and to

obtain it. I have lived for it--I have obtained it--and I sit now in

my grand house, a desolate man, with a weight upon my heart which no

words can express.

How still and quiet everything is around me! I might be in a deserted

land, alone with my wealth, and the end of my life is near! 'Money is

only sweet when it is well-earned and well-spent?' Are you right, or

am I? Has my life been a mistake?

The great broker in whose employ I was, noticed my assiduity and

my earnestness. There were other clerks of the same age as myself

in the office, but I was the most able among them, and I rose above

them. Little by little I became acquainted with the mysteries of

money-making, and it was not long before I commenced to take advantage

of the knowledge I gained. I began to trade upon the plots and schemes

of the money men. Others lost; I gained. Others were ruined; I was

prospering. In time to come, I said, I shall ride in my brougham--like

my master. In time to come, I shall own a fine house--like my master.

I never paused to consider whether he was happy. I knew that he was

rich; I knew that he had a fine wife and a fine daughter, a fine

house and a fine carriage. His wife was a fine lady--a fashionable

lady--who, when I saw her in her carriage, looked as if life were a

weariness to her; her daughter was growing into the likeness of her

mother. I know now that he was an unhappy man, and that his pleasures

were not derived through home associations.

A clerk--Sydney by name--over whose head I had risen, had often

invited me to visit him; I spent one Sunday with him. He lived

half-a-dozen miles from the City, and his salary at the time I visited

him was a hundred and seventy-five pounds a year. I was then making,

with my salary and speculations, at least a thousand. He was a married

man, with a pretty wife and a baby. The house in which they lived was

small, and there was a garden attached to it. After dinner we sat in

the garden and talked; he told his wife what a clever fellow I was,

and how I had risen over all of them. I told him that he could do as

well as I if he chose, although I was inwardly sure he could not, for

his qualities were different from mine. 'You have only to speculate,'

I said. He returned a foolish answer. 'This is my speculation,' he

said, pinching his wife's cheek. 'Is it a good one?' his wife asked

merrily. I do not know what there was in the look he gave her which

caused her to bend towards him and kiss him; I think there were tears

in her eyes too. 'Well,' I said, 'every one to his taste.' 'Just so,'

he replied, with his arm round his wife's waist In the evening, your

mother, then a single girl, came in with her father. They and the

Sydneys were friends.

[Illustration]

Now, to whom am I speaking? To myself or to you? Shall I go on with my

confession, and go on without moral trickery, or shall I tear up these

sheets, and deaden my memory with excess of some kind? It is rather

late in life for me to commence this latter course. I have often been

drunk with excitement, but never with wine. My life has been a steady

one, and it has been my study to keep a guard over myself. Indeed, it

has been necessary for success, and I _have_ succeeded. 'When the wine

is in, the wit is out'--a true proverb. Why am I debating about my

course? I have already decided that I will speak plainly, and will

strip myself of all reserve. When I have finished, I can destroy. I

will not waver; I will go on to the end.

Even if you do read what I write, it will not matter to me. I shall

have gone, and shall not know. Stop, though. You, as a clergyman,

would tell me otherwise, and would doubtless, if you had the

opportunity, enlighten my darkness, to use a common phrase. I have

never considered it before; but I suppose I am a Christian. Is that a

phrase also? To speak without reserve, as I have resolved to do, it is

to me nothing more than a name. If the question, What has been your

religion? were put to me, and I were compelled to answer (again

without moral trickery), I should answer, Money. These reflections

have come to me without foreshadowing, and I set them down. If they

cause you to be sad, think for a moment. How many Christians do you

know? I could argue with you now, if you were here. Christianity, as I

have heard (not as I have seen), cannot mean a set belief in certain

narrow doctrines; it cannot include trickery and false-dealing in

worldly matters. It means, as I have heard and not seen, the practical

adoption of a larger view of humanity than now obtains. Certain

self-sacrifices, certain tolerations, which are not seen except in the

quixotic, are included in this larger view. I repeat my question: How

many Christians do you know?

A bitter mood is upon me; it may divert me from my purpose. I will lay

down my pen, and look into the shadows.

What have I seen after an interval of I do not know how many minutes?

Shadows in the future. Shadows from the past. Shadows all around me as

I sit--in the room, in the garden, in the river. Stay. I see a light

coming into the sky. The waters of the river are trembling. The moon

is rising.

Andrew, I loved your mother. I never told her this, in words; but she

knew it. There was a time, I have sometimes thought, when I might have

won her. But I held back until, so far as she herself was concerned,

it was too late. If she had not met your father--(she had not seen him

when I first knew her)--and if she had not loved him, I should still

have held back. For my design then was to many money, if I married at

all. My master had married money. Other rich men, to whose height I

had hoped to rise, had married money. I would do the same. Love was a

dream to be blotted out. It stopped advancement. I strove to blot out

my love for your mother, but I could not. I did the next best thing; I

strove to conceal it. Even in that attempt, however, I was not

successful. The Sidneys whose house I frequently visited in the hope

of meeting her, saw it, and threw us much together. Mrs. Sydney said

to me once, out of her ignorance, 'See how happy we are! You can be