THE FRIEND IN NEED.
Desperately resolved as she was to carry her fatal design into
execution she had not reckoned with nature. Weakened by the life of
privation she had led for so many months, and also by the birth of her
child, her physical forces had reached the limit of human endurance.
She faltered and staggered, the ground slipped from beneath her weary
feet. Vain was the struggle, her vital power was spent. From her
overcharged heart a voiceless and terrible prayer went up to heaven.
"Give me strength, O God, give me but a little strength! I have not
far to go!" She fought the air with her disengaged hand, and tossed
her head this way and that; but her ruthless prayer was not answered,
and though she struggled fiercely she managed to crawl only a few more
steps. She had yet hundreds of yards to go to reach the sea when some
chord within her seemed to snap; her farther progress was instantly
arrested, and she found herself incapable of moving backward or
forward. Swaying to and fro, the earth, the sky the whirling snow, and
the dim light of the stars swam in her sight and faded from before
her. In that supreme moment she saw a spiritual vision of her
dishonoured life. Deprived early of a mother's counsel and
companionship, she had passed her days with a spendthrift father,
whose love for her was so tainted with selfishness that it was not
only valueless, but mischievous. When she grew to woman's estate she
was worse than alone; she had no guide, no teacher, to point out the
rocks and shoals of maidenhood, to inculcate in her the principles of
virtue which would act as a safeguard against the specious wiles of
men whose eyes were charmed by her beauty, and whose only aim was to
lure her to ruin. Then her father died, and a friend came forward who
offered her a home and an honourable position in the world. Friendless
and penniless, she accepted him, and gave him her promise, and
accepted his money. Love had not touched her heart; she thought it had
when a wilier man wooed her in another and more alluring fashion, and
by this man she had been beguiled and betrayed. Then she knew what she
had lost, but it was too late; her good name was gone, and she fled to
a strange part of the country and lived among strangers, a
heartbroken, despairing woman. All the salient features in her career
flashed before her. She saw the man who had trusted her, she saw the
man in whom she put her trust, she saw herself, an abandoned creature,
with a child of shame in her arms. These ghostly figures stood clearly
limned in that one last moment of swiftly fading light, as in the
moment of sunrise on a frosty morning every distant object stands
sharply outlined against the sky; then darkness fell upon her, and
with an inarticulate, despairing cry, she sank to the ground in a
deathlike swoon. The wind sobbed and shrieked and wailed around her
and her child; the falling snow, with treacherous tenderness, fell
softly upon them; herself insensible, she had no power to shake it
off; her babe was conscious, but its feeble movements were of small
avail against the white pall which was descending upon it and its
outcast mother. Thicker and thicker it grew, and in the wild outcry of
this bitter night Fate seemed to have pronounced its inexorable
sentence of death against these unfortunate beings.
Ignorant of the fact that chance or a spiritual messenger was guiding
him aright, Dr. Spenlove plodded through the streets. He had no clue,
and received none from the half-dozen persons or so he encountered as
he walked towards the sea. He was scarcely fit for the task he had
undertaken, but so intent was he upon his merciful mission that he
bestowed no thought upon himself. The nipping air aggravating the
cough from which he was suffering, he kept his mouth closed as a
protection, and peered anxiously before him for some signs of the
woman he was pursuing. A man walked briskly and cheerily towards him,
puffing at a large and fragrant cigar, and stamping his feet sturdily
into the snow. This man wore a demonstratively furred overcoat; his
hands were gloved in fur; his boots were thick and substantial; and in
the independent assertion that he was at peace with the world, and on
exceedingly good terms with himself, he hummed the words, in Italian,
of the Jewel Song in "Faust" every time he removed the cigar from his
lips. Although it was but a humming reminiscence of the famous and
beautiful number, his faint rendering of it was absolutely faultless,
and proved him to be a man of refined musicianly taste, quite out of
keeping with his demonstratively furred overcoat. Music, however, was
not his profession; the instincts of his race and a youthful ambition
had welded the divine art into his soul, and the instincts of his race
had made him--a pawnbroker. Singular conjunction of qualities--the
music of the celestial spheres and fourpence in the pound a month! A
vulgar occupation, that of a pawnbroker, which high-toned gentlemen
and mortals of aristocratic birth regard with scorn and contempt. But
the last vulgar and debasing music-hall ditty which was carolled with
delight by the majority of these gilded beings of a higher social
grade never found lodgment in the soul of Mr. Moss, which, despite
that he devoted his business hours to the lending of insignificant
sums of money upon any small articles which were submitted to his
judgment across the dark counter of his pawnbroking establishment, was
attuned to a far loftier height than theirs in the divine realms of
song. Puff, puff, puff at his cigar, the curling wreaths from which
were whirled into threads of fantastic confusion by the gusts of wind,
or hung in faint grey curls of beauty during a lull. The starry gleam
was transferred from the lips to the fur-covered hand:--
"E' strano poter il viso suo veder;
Ah! mi posso guardar mi pospo rimirar.
Di, sei tu? Margherita!
Di, sei tu? Dimmi su;
Dimmi su, di su, di su, di su presto!"
From hand to lips the starry gleam, and the soul of Mr. Moss followed
the air as he puffed his weed....
"E la figlia d'un re!...
Proseguiam l'adornamento.
Vo provare ancor se mi stan
Lo smaniglia ed il monil!"
The pawnbroker broke into ecstasy. From lips to hand again the starry
light, and his voice grew rapturous:--
"Ciel! E come una man
Che sul baaccio mi posa!
Ah! Io rido in poter
Me stessa qui veder!"
The last trill brought him close to Dr. Spenlove.
"Friend, friend!" cried the doctor. "A word with you, for charity's
sake!"
Mr. Moss did not disregard the appeal. Slipping off his right glove,
and thereby displaying two fingers decorated with massive rings
studded with diamonds, he fished a couple of coppers from a capacious
pocket, and thrust them into Dr. Spenlove's outstretched palm. He
thought it was a homeless beggar who had besought charity. Dr.
Spenlove caught his hand, and said,--
"No, no, it is not for that. Will you kindly tell me----
"Why," interrupted Mr. Moss, "it is Dr. Spenlove!"
"Mr. Moss," said Dr. Spenlove, with a sigh of relief, "I am glad it
is you, I am glad it is you."
"Not gladder than I am," responded Mr. Moss, jovially. "Even in
weather like this I shouldn't care to be anybody else but myself."
This feeble attempt at humour was lost upon Dr. Spenlove.
"You have come from the direction I am taking, and you may have seen a
person I am looking for--a woman with a baby in her arms, a poor
woman, Mr. Moss, whom I am most anxious to find."
"I've come from the Hard, but I took no account of the people I
passed. A man has enough to do to look after himself, with the snow
making icicles in his hair, and the wind trying to bite his nose off
his face. The first law of nature, you know, doctor, is----"
"Humanity," interrupted Dr. Spenlove.
"No, no, doctor," corrected Mr. Moss; "number one's the first
law--number one, number one."
"You did not meet the woman, then?"
"Not to notice her. You've a bad cough, doctor; you'll have to take
some of your own medicine." He laughed. "Standing here is enough to
freeze one."
"I am sorry I troubled you," said Dr. Spenlove, hurt by the tone in
which Mr. Moss spoke. "Good-night."
He was moving away, when Mr. Moss detained him.
"But look here, doctor, you're not fit to be tramping the streets in
this storm; you ought to be snuggled up between the blankets. Come
home with me, and Mrs. Moss shall make you a hot grog."
Dr. Spenlove shook his head, and passed on. Mr. Moss gazed at the
retreating figure, his thoughts commingling.
"A charitable man, the good doctor, a large-hearted gentleman....
'Tardi si fa ahdio!
Ah! ti scongiuro invan.'
And poor as a church mouse. What woman is he running after? Mrs. Moss
would give her a piece of her mind for taking out a baby on such a
night.
'Notte d'amor, tutta splendor,
Begli astra d'oro.
O celeste voluttà!
Udir si, t'amo, t'adoro!'
Too bad to let him go alone, such a good fellow as he is; but Mrs.
Moss will be waiting up for me.... She won't mind when I tell
her.... I've a good mind to--yes, I will."
And after the doctor went Mr. Moss, and caught up to him.
"Doctor, can I be of any assistance to you?"
"I shall be glad of your help," said Dr. Spenlove, eagerly. "I'm
rather worn out; I have had a hard day."
"It's a trying life, the' life of a doctor," said Mr. Moss,
sympathetically, as they walked slowly on, side by side. "We were
talking of it at home only a month ago, when we were discussing what
we should put Michael to, our eldest boy, doctor."
"You have a large family," observed Dr. Spenlove.
"Not too large," said Mr. Moss, cheerfully. "Only eleven. My mother
had twenty-five, and I've a sister with eighteen. Our youngest--what a
rogue he is, doctor!--is eight months; our eldest, Michael, is
seventeen next birthday. School days over, he buckles to for work. We
had a family council to decide what he should be. We discussed all the
professions, and reduced them to two--doctor, stockbroker. Michael had
a leaning to be a doctor--that's why we kept it in for discussion--but
we succeeded in arguing him out of it. Your time's not your own, you
see. Called up at all hours of the night, and in all weathers; go
to a dinner-party, and dragged away before it's half over, obliged to
leave the best behind you; can't enjoy a game of cards or billiards.
You've got a little bet on, perhaps; or you're playing for points and
have got a winning hand, when it's 'Doctor, you must come at once;
so-and-so's dying.' What's the consequence? You make a miscue, or you
revoke, and you lose your money. If you're married, you're worse off
than if you're single; you haven't any comfort of your life. 'No, no,
Michael,' says I, 'no doctoring. Stockbroking--that's what you'll go
for.' And that's what he _is_ going for. Most of our people, doctor,
are lucky in their children. They don't forget to honour their father
and their mother, that their days may be long in the land, and so on.
There's big fish on the Stock Exchange, and they're worth trying for.
What's the use of sprats? It takes a hundred to fill a dish. Catch one
salmon, and your dish is filled. A grand fish, doctor, a grand fish!
What to do with your sons? Why, put them where they can make money;
don't make scavengers or coal-heavers of them. _We_ know what we're
about. There's no brain in the world to compare with ours, and that's
no boast, let me tell you. Take your strikes, now. A strike of
bricklayers for a rise of twopence a day in their wages. How many of
our race among the strikers? Not one. Did you ever see a Jewish
bricklayer carrying a hod up a hundred-foot ladder, and risking his
neck for bread, cheese, and beer? No, and you never will. We did our
share of that kind of work in old Egypt; we made all the bricks we
wanted to, and now we're taking a rest. A strike of bootmakers. How
many of our race among the cobblers? One in a thousand, and he's an
addlepate. We deal in boots wholesale; but we don't make them
ourselves. Not likely. We send consignments of them to the colonies,
and open a dozen shops in every large city, with fine plate-glass
windows. We build houses with _our_ money and _your_ bricks and
mortar. When we're after birds we don't care for sparrows: we aim at
eagles, and we bring them down; we bring them down." He beat his
gloved hands together, and chuckled. "What's your opinion, doctor?"
"You are right, quite right," said Dr. Spenlove, upon whose ears his
companion's words had fallen like the buzzing of insects.
"Should say I was," said Mr. Moss. "I ought to have gone on the Stock
Exchange myself; but when I was a young man I fancied I had a voice;
so I went in for music, studied Italian and all the famous operas till
I knew them by heart almost, and found out in the end that my voice
wasn't good enough. It was a great disappointment, because I had
dreamt of making a fortune as a tenor. Signor Mossini--that was to be
my name. My money being all spent, I had to take what was offered to
me, a situation with a pawnbroker. That is how I became one, and I've
no reason to regret it. Eh? Why are you running away?"
For Dr. Spenlove suddenly left his companion, and hurried forward.
During the time that Mr. Moss was unbosoming himself they had not met
a soul, and Dr. Spenlove had seen nothing to sustain his hope of
finding Mrs. Turner. But now his observant eyes detected a movement in
the snow-laden road which thrilled him with apprehension, and caused
him to hasten to the spot. It was as if some living creature were
striving feebly to release itself from the fatal white shroud. Mr.
Moss hurried after him, and they reached the spot at the same moment.
In a fever of anxiety Dr. Spenlove knelt and pushed the snow aside,
and then there came into view a baby's hand and arm.
"Good God!" he murmured, and gently lifted the babe from the cold bed.
"Is it alive? is it alive?" cried Mr. Moss, all his nerves tingling
with excitement. "Give it to me--quick! there's some one else there."
He saw portions of female clothing in the snow which Dr. Spenlove was
pushing frantically away. He snatched up the babe, and, opening his
fur coat, clasped the little one to his breast, and enveloped it in
its warm folds. Meanwhile Dr. Spenlove was working at fever-heat. To
release Mrs. Turner from her perilous position, to raise her to her
feet, to put his mouth to her mouth, his ear to her heart, to assure
himself there was a faint pulsation in her body--all this was the work
of a few moments.
"Does she breathe, doctor?" asked Mr. Moss.
"She does," replied Dr. Spenlove; and added, in deep distress, "but
she may die in my arms."
"Not if we can save her. Here, help me off with this thick coat. Easy,
easy; I have only one arm free. Now let us get her into it. That's
capitally done. Put the baby inside as well; it will hold them both
comfortably. Button it over them. There, that will keep them nice and
warm. Do you know her? Does she live far from here? Is she the woman
you are looking for?"
"Yes, and her lodging is a mile away. How can we get her home?"
"We'll manage it. Ah, we're in luck. Here's a cab coming towards us.
Hold on to them while I speak to the driver."
He was off and back again with the cab--with the driver of which he
had made a rapid bargain--in a wonderfully short space of time. The
mother and her babe were lifted tenderly in, the address was given to
the driver, the two kind-hearted men took their seats, the windows
were pulled up, and the cab crawled slowly on towards Mrs. Turner's
lodging. Dr. Spenlove's skilful hands were busy over the woman,
restoring animation to her frozen limbs, and Mr. Moss was doing the
same to the child.
"How are you getting along, doctor? I am progressing famously,
famously. The child is warming up, and is beginning to breathe quite
nicely."
He was handling the babe as tenderly as if it were a child of his own.
"She will recover, I trust," said Dr. Spenlove; "but we were only just
in time. It is fortunate that I met you, Mr. Moss; you have been the
means of saving two helpless, unfortunate beings."
"Nonsense, nonsense," answered Mr. Moss. "I have only done what any
man would do. It is you who have saved them, doctor, not I. I am proud
to know you, and I shall be glad to hear of your getting along in the
world. You haven't done very well up to now, I fear. Go for the big
fish and the big birds, doctor."
"If that were the universal law of life," asked Dr. Spenlove, in a
tone of exquisite compassion, with a motion of his hands towards Mrs.
Turner and her child, "what would become of these?"
"Ah, yes, yes," responded Mr. Moss, gravely; "but I mean in a general
way, you know. To be sure, there are millions more little fish and
birds than there are big ones, but it's a selfish world, doctor."
"You are not an exemplification of it," said Dr. Spenlove, his eyes
brightening. "The milk of human kindness will never be frozen, even on
such bitter nights as this, while men like you are in it."
"You make me ashamed of myself," cried Mr. Moss, violently, but
instantly sobered down. "And now, as I see we are close to the poor
woman's house, perhaps you will tell me what more I can do."
Dr. Spenlove took from his pocket the money with which he had intended
to pay his fare to London, and held it out to Mr. Moss. "Pay the
cabman for me, and assist me to carry the woman up to her room."
Mr. Moss thrust the money back. "I will pay him myself; it is my cab,
not yours. I don't allow any one to get the better of me if I can help
it."
When the cab stopped he jumped out and settled with the driver, and
then he and Dr. Spenlove carried Mrs. Turner and her babe to the top
of the house. The room was dark and cold, and Mr. Moss shivered. He
struck a match, and held it while Dr. Spenlove laid the mother and
child upon their wretched bed.
"Kindly stop here a moment," said the doctor.
He went into the passage, and called to the lodger on the same floor
of whom he had made inquiries earlier in the night. She soon appeared,
and after they had exchanged a few words, accompanied him, but
partially dressed, to Mrs. Turner's room. She brought a lighted candle
with her, and upon Mr. Moss taking it from her, devoted herself, with
Dr. Spenlove, to her fellow-lodger and the babe.
"Dear, dear, dear!" she said, piteously. "Poor soul, poor soul!"
Mr. Moss was not idle. All the finer qualities of his nature were
stirred to action by the adventures of the night. He knelt before the
grate; it was empty; not a cinder had been left; some grey ashes on
the hearth--that was all. He looked into the broken coal scuttle; it
had been scraped bare. Rising to his feet he stepped to the cupboard;
a cracked cup and saucer were there, a chipped plate or two, a
mouthless jug, but not a vestige of food. Without a word he left the
room, and sped downstairs.
He was absent fifteen or twenty minutes, and when he returned it was
in the company of a man who carried a hundredweight of coals upon his
shoulders. Mr. Moss himself was loaded: under his armpits two bundles
of wood and a loaf of bread; in one hand tea and butter; in his other
hand a can of milk.
"God bless you, sir!" said the woman, who was assisting Dr. Spenlove.
Mr. Moss knelt again before the grate, and made a fire. Kettle in hand
he searched for water.
"You will find some in my room, sir," said the woman.
Mrs. Turner and her babe were now in bed, the child still craving for
food, the mother still unconscious, but breathing heavily. The fire
lit, and the kettle on, Mr. Moss put on his fur overcoat, whispered a
good-night to Dr. Spenlove, received a grateful pressure of the hand
in reply, slipped out of the house, and took his way home, humming--
"O del ciel angeli immortal,
Deh mi guidate con voi lassù!
Dio giusto, a te m'abbandono,
Buon Dio, m'accorda il tuo perdono!"
He looked at his hands, which were black from contact with the coals.
"What will Mrs. Moss say?" he murmured.