Little Prue.
Who Roxy was, what was his occupation, and whether he lived in a
bygone age or was living at the present day, are matters which are not
pertinent to our story, the course of which brings us, in a remote and
indirect manner, to the knowledge that such a being once existed, or
exists now. That he was responsible for the miserable dozen tenements
known as "Roxy's Rents" may be accepted, as may be also the undoubted
reason for his giving them the eccentric name they bore; the rents of
the hovels he erected being lawfully his, if he could find tenants to
occupy them.
A stranger to the wretched ways of life of thousands upon thousands of
poor people in such a city as London might reasonably have doubted the
wisdom of spending money in the erection of such hovels; but Roxy knew
what he was about when he went into the speculation. A comprehensive
knowledge of humanity's outcasts had taught him that the more dismal
and wretched the habitations, the more likely it was that there would
be numerous applicants for the shelter they afforded; and his wisdom
was proved by the result, not a room in Roxy's Rents ever being empty
longer than a day or two. The narrow blind alley lined by the hovels,
half a dozen on each side, may be found to-day in all its desolation
or wretchedness in the south of London, by any person with a leaning
to such explorations. It is well known to the police, who seldom have
occasion to go there, because, strangely enough, it is chiefly
tenanted by people who work hard for a living, often without obtaining
it.
Roxy himself, or his agent, who collects the rents regularly every
Saturday night from eight o'clock till past midnight, is very
particular in his choice of tenants, which he is able to be by reason
of the delectable tenements being in demand. There are numbers of
landlords in more favored localities who would like to stand in Roxy's
shoes in this respect. The alley is some eight feet wide, and its one
architectural embellishment is a kind of hood at its entrance, the
only use of which is to deepen its darkness by day and night. There is
no public lamp in Roxy's Rents, nor near it in the street, very little
wider than the alley, in which it forms a slit; therefore the darkness
is very decided in its character on foggy days and moonless nights.
This has never been a subject of complaint on the part of the
residents or the parish authorities--officers who, as a rule, have an
objection to stir up muddy waters: by which inaction they show their
respect for an ancient proverb, the vulgar version of which is, "Let
sleeping dogs lie." To one of the hovels in Roxy's Rents the course of
our story takes us.
The room is on the ground floor, the time is night, the persons
in it are a woman and her child. The woman's name is Flower; the name
of her child, a girl of eight or nine, is Prue, generally called
"Little Prue." The apartment is used for every kind of living
purpose--working, cooking, eating, and sleeping, It is furnished with
an ordinary stove, one bed on the floor in a corner (a bedstead being
a luxury beyond the means of the family), two wooden chairs, a child's
low chair, the seat of which once was cane but now is hollow, a deal
table, a few kitchen utensils, and very little else. On the
mantelshelf are two or three cracked cups and saucers, a penny, and a
much-faded photograph of two young women, with, their arms round each
other's waists. There is a family likeness in their faces, and one
bears a faint resemblance to Mrs. Flower. The paper on the walls hangs
loose, and the walls themselves reek with moisture; the plaster on the
ceiling has dropped in places, and bare rafters are visible. Not a
palatial abode, but the Flowers have lived there for years, and it
forms their Home--a mocking parody on a time-honored song. Mrs. Flower
is standing at the table, ironing clothes. She takes in washing when
she can get it to do, having but few garments of her own to wash.
Mrs. Flower was working with a will, putting her whole soul into the
iron. The apartment was chiefly in shadow, the only light being that
from one tallow dip, twelve to the pound. The candle was on the table,
being necessary for the woman's work, and its rays did not reach
Little Prue, who sat in the low hollow-seated chair by the bed. Mrs.
Flower enlivened her toil by singing, or rather humming with bated
breath, a most lugubrious air for which she was famous in her maiden
days, but then it used to be given forth with more spirit than she put
into it now. Occasionally she turned to her child, who was sitting
quite still with her eyes closed. There was a faint sickly smell of
scorching in the room, proceeding from a wisp of carpet on the floor
before the fire, upon which Mrs. Flower tested her hot irons. It had
served this purpose so long that it was scorched almost to tinder.
Presently the woman broke off in her melancholy singing, and called
softly:
"Prue!" No answer coming, she called again, "Prue!"
"Yes, mother," said the child, opening her eyes. Her voice was weak,
as might have been expected from a child with a face so pale and limbs
so thin.
"I thought you were asleep, Prue."
"So I was, mother. Why didn't you let me be?"
"Dreaming of things?"
"Oh, of sech things, mother! I was 'aving a feast of sheep's
trotters." Mrs. Flower sighed. "There was a 'ole pile of 'em, and the
'ot pie man was giving pies away. I was just reaching out my 'and for
one."
"Never mind, never mind," said Mrs. Flower, rather fretfully. "You
talk as if I could get blood out of a stone."
"Do I, mother? I didn't know. I _am_ 'ungry!"
"What's the use of worriting? Didn't I promise you should have some
supper? I'm going to ask Mrs. Fry to pay me for the washing when I
take it home. I do hope she won't say there's anything missing. She
always does; and when I ask her to look over the things again, she
sends word she can't till the morning. That's how she puts me off time
after time; but I'll be extra particular to-night. Three dozen at one
and nine--that's five and three. She don't often give out so much;
that's luck for us, Prue."
"I say, mother?"
"Well?"
"D'yer think father'll come 'ome? I 'ope he won't."
"He won't come home while he's got a copper in his pocket, that you
may depend on. Go to sleep again, child, till I've finished."
But Little Prue, now wide awake, made no attempt to obey. Rising to
her feet, she stealthily drew one of the large wooden chairs to the
mantelshelf, and, mounting, craned her neck. The shelf was high, and
Prue was a very small child. It was only by tiptoeing, and running the
danger of tumbling into the fire, that she ascertained what she wished
to know. Stepping down like a cat, she crept to her mother's side.
"There's a penny on the mantelpiece, mother."
"Don't worry; how can I get on with my work if you do? It's father's
penny, for his supper beer; he put it there before he went out, so
that he couldn't spend it till he came home." Aside she said, with a
sidelong look of pity at Prue, "I daren't touch it!"
"I'm so 'ungry, mother!" pleaded Prue, plucking her mother's gown. "My
inside's grinding away like one o'clock."
Mrs. Flower was seized with a fit of irresolution, and she muttered,
"If I look sharp, I shall be back with the washing money before he
comes in." Stepping quickly to the fireplace, she took the penny from
the mantel, and thrust it into Prue's hand. "There; go and get a
penn'orth of peas-pudding."
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Little Prue joyfully, and was running out,
when the door was blocked by the form of her father, who had returned
sooner than he was expected.
Mr. Flower was slightly intoxicated--his normal state. However much he
drank, he never got beyond a certain stage of drunkenness; by reason,
probably, of his being so thoroughly seasoned.
"Hallo, hallo!" he cried, grasping his little girl by the shoulder.
"Is the house on fire? Where are _you_ off to in such a hurry?"
"Nowhere, father," replied Prue, slipping her hand with the penny in
it behind her back.
"Nowhere, eh? You're in a precious pelt to get there. What have you
got in your hand?"
"Nothink, father!"
"Nothink, father!" he mocked, eyeing Prue with something more than
suspicion.
"No, father. Wish I may die if I 'ave!"
Without more ado, Mr. Flower seized the little hand and, wresting the
tightly-clenched fingers open, extracted the penny. Looking toward the
mantelshelf, he said:
"Stealing my money, eh, you young rat? Who learnt you to tell lies?"
"You did!" replied Mrs. Flower, stepping between them. She had
finished her washing, and was putting it together while this scene was
proceeding. "You did, you drunken vagabond!"
"You shut up! As for you," he said, throwing Prue violently on the
bed; "you stop where you are, or I'll break every bone in your body!"
"Lay a finger on her," cried Mrs. Flower fiercely, "and I'll throw the
iron at your head! Don't mind him, Prue; I'll soon be back."
"Ah, you'd better!" said Mr. Flower, with a brutal laugh at his wife,
who was looking at him in anger. "What are you staring at?"
"At you."
"Well, and what do you make of me?"
"What I've made of you ever since the day I married you."
"For better or worse, eh?"
"For worse, every minute of my life," she retorted. "I wonder why the
Lord allows some people to live."
"Here, that's enough of your mag, with your Lord and your Lord! What's
your Lord done for me? Off you go, now!"
But Mrs. Flower was not so easily disposed of.
"Have you brought home any money?" she asked.
"Money! How should I get money?"
"Why work for it, like other men, you----" She repressed herself, and,
with a flaming face, arranged the clothes she had washed.
"Work for it!" he cried, with a laugh, and immediately afterward
turned savage. "Well, ain't I willing?"
"Yes, you show yourself willing," said Mrs. Flower, bitterly; "hanging
round public-houses, and loafing from morning to night!"
"Think I'm going to work for a tanner an hour?" demanded Mr. Flower.
"Not me! I'll have my rights, I will!"
"While we starve!"
"Starve! When you can get washing to do, and live on the fat of the
land! If I was a woman, I'd rejoice in such clean work."
"And don't I do it? Haven't I sat up night after night, wearing my
fingers to the bone for you?"
"For me? Oh, oh! I like that!"
"Yes, for you," repeated Mrs. Flower, thoroughly roused. "And what's
the good of it all? You drink away every penny I earn, you sot; and
you call yourself a man!"
"I'll call you something, if you don't cut your stick! I wonder what I
married you for?"
"I'll tell you. You married me to make me work for you; and you're not
the only one that speaks soft to a woman till he's got her in his
clutches. There ought to be a law for such as you."
"Law! Talk of what you understand. There was your sister Martha. Ah,
she was a girl! Such eyes--such skin--such lips!" He smacked his own,
in his desire to further aggravate her. "I was real nuts on her; and
I'd have had her instead of you, if she hadn't took up with a swell. I
hope she's found out her mistake by this time."
"I dare say she has. We all do, whether we're married or not." She
turned to Little Prue, who sat dumb during the scene, which presented
no features of novelty to her; from her earliest remembrance she had
been a witness of such. "I shan't be gone long," she whispered,
kissing the child, "and then you shall have some supper."
"Mind you get the money for the washing, and bring it straight
home!"--called Mr. Flower after her as she left the room. "Selfish
cat!" He slammed the door to. "Never thinks of anyone but
herself--never thinks of me! What are you sniveling at?" Prue, now
that her mother had gone, began to cry. "Come here; I've got something
to say to you. Ain't I your father?"
"Yes, father."
"And a good father?"
"Yes, father."
"And a kind father?"
"Yes, father."
"Very well, then. How old are you?"
"I don't know, father."
"You don't know, father! You're old enough to get your own living, and
here you are passing your days in idleness and plenty. D'you see
these!" He pulled some boxes of matches from his pocket.
"Yes, father."
"What are they?"
"Matches, father."
"Count 'em. D'you hear me? Count 'em." The child was reeling, and he
shook her straight. "Count 'em."
"One--two--three--four--five--six."
"Six it is. Now, you've got to go out with these six boxes of matches,
and bring home tenpence for 'em. How are you going to do it, eh?"
"I don't know, father."
"Don't give me any more of your don't knows. You've got no more sense
than your mother; but I'm not going to let you grow up as idle and
selfish as she is--not if I know it, I ain't. Stop your blubbering,
and listen to me. You go to Charing Cross Station, you do, where all
the lights are, and where everybody's happy. What are you shaking your
head for?"
"I don't know--I mean, I can't find my way, father."
"I shall have to take you there; I'm only fit to be a slave. There
you'll stand, with the lights shining on you. That'll be nice, won't
it?"
"Yes, father."
"Nice and warm; and you get it for nothing, all for nothing. There's a
treat I'm giving you! You stand in the gutter, mind that; and you
ain't to look happy and bright. You're to try all you know to look
miserable and hungry. Do you hear?"
"I'll try to, father."
"Ah, you'd better, or it'll be the worse for you! When an old gent or
an old lady gives you a penny, don't you offer 'em a box; there's a
lot of mean beasts that'd take it. You hold the boxes tight, and you
bring me back not less than a bob for the six--not less than a bob,
mind!"
"Yes, father."
"Here, I'll give you a lesson. Blest if we don't have a rehearsal!
Stand there, in the gutter, and look miserable. I'm a gent. Hold out
your hand. 'Here's a penny for you, little girl.' Take it--quick! and
hold on tight to the matches. The gent goes away. I'm an old lady. 'My
poor child, what brings you out at such an hour?' What do you say to
the kind old lady?"
"Father sent me out, please; and told me to stand in the gutter----"
"Shut up! You're a born fool! What you say is this. Just you repeat
after me. 'Kind lady----'"
"'Kind lady!'"
"'Father's dead----'"
"'Father's dead!'"
"'And mother's laying ill of a fever----'"
"'And mother's laying ill of a fever!'"
"'And baby's dying----'"
"'And baby's dying!'"
"''Cause we ain't had nothing to eat since yesterday----'"
"''Cause we ain't 'ad nothink to eat since yesterday!'"
"That's more like it. And then you can begin to cry. Have you got that
in your head?"
"Yes, father."
"Come along, then, and step out. I'll keep my eye on you to see how
you do it."
Taking Little Prue by the hand, he led her out of Roxy's Rents into
the wider thoroughfares, to play her part in the sad drama of poverty
that runs its everlasting course from year's end to year's end in this
City of Unrest.