IN PARADISE.
Who is responsible for the naming of places?
Paradises and Edens are plentiful in London, if there is anything in
names: but some of them have surely received their cognomens in bitter
irony. Near Mr. Knight’s premises was a court which was called
Nightingale Lane, and another known as Wild Rose Court, the houses in
which were, most of them, a disgrace to civilisation. But there was
another, containing about seventy dwellings, which rejoiced in the name
of Paradise Grove. Away at the church, the sound of whose bells came in
a sort of muffled music, they used sometimes to sing about Paradise in
the anthem—
O Paradise! O Paradise!
Who doth not crave for rest?
Who would not seek the happy land
Where they that love are blest?
But this Paradise was hot and close and dreadfully dirty. At the open
windows of the little houses men sat in ragged shirts and trousers, and
worked off and on every day but Monday. There was a smell of dirt
everywhere, and the children, escaping from the vigilance of the School
Board officer, lay about in the dusty road until they looked like heaps
of dust themselves. As for the language heard in Paradise, it was
astonishingly bad. The men could scarcely utter a sentence without
bringing in some oaths. The children, even when they meant to say
good-natured things to each other, used the foulest of our language;
and, worst of all, the girls raised yells of laughter by their filthy
conversation. There was not a tree in Paradise Grove, nor a flower of
any kind, but weeds grew there, and ill thoughts and utter misery.
Were there no churches or chapels or missions near?
Oh, yes! But the Grove people did not believe in Christianity, and
declared themselves against humbugs. They were fond of that word, and
applied it to every one who was in any way better than themselves.
No one had succeeded in effecting an entrance into the hearts of the
inhabitants of Paradise Grove until a young woman, plainly dressed in
grey cloak and hat, and having a sweet, sad face, had called at the
doors with a basket of articles which she was anxious to sell. The
people looked at her a little suspiciously at first. If she had brought
tracts and magazines, she might go where she came from; they had had
such visitors before. But she assured them, with a smile, that tracts
and magazines were not in her line. She had large pieces of beautiful
soap, exceedingly cheap, and would sell for a halfpenny a piece big
enough for the whole family. And she had good scrubbing-brushes and
hairbrushes, for which she would take a few pence only; and little white
table cloths; no one knew what a difference it made to a room if a white
cloth were put on a table before the loaf was placed upon it. The Grove
men and women thought it perfect nonsense. Where was the good of wasting
money over such extravagances as table-cloths? There was some sense in
getting more to eat. When the people had their way, and right was done,
chickens and hares and pheasants would be within the reach of the poor.
If one of them could be placed beside the loaf, _that_ would be
something worth talking about. But in the meantime the woman’s things
were certainly cheap, and she appeared very anxious to sell them; so now
and then a purchase was made—especially when the women found that they
could pawn the articles for as much as, or more than, they had given for
them.
By degrees the woman and her basket had come to be familiar objects in
Paradise Grove, and the people had grown to like her a little. She never
attempted to meddle with them or lecture them. They tried once or twice
to shock and frighten her; but she did not seem afraid; only, at first,
it was noticed that if two men or women happened to be quarrelling and
fighting when she came, she turned faint, and had to leave the
neighbourhood. She never could be got to take sides in a quarrel; and
now and then, very gently and unassumingly, she tried to put in a
peacemaking or quieting word, but generally she was content to sell the
articles she had brought, and explain their use.
The best of all was that the woman seemed to know about ailments, and
what could cure them. There was always some one ill in Paradise Grove,
and “the Basket Woman,” as they called her, carried medicine which
generally did the sick ones good. Also, she made a very pleasant drink.
It was not ale, for you could drink a gallon of it, and it would not get
into your head; but it tasted something like ale, and was almost as
nice.
But whether it was crockery, or medicine, or drink, the woman never
would give it away or sell it on trust. Her wares were both cheap and
good, but she would be paid for them; and so when she came they had to
find their money. And this very fact caused them to respect her and
themselves. Some of the women got quite an air of independence as they
talked to her, and some of the men, respectable in whole shirts which
she had sold them, held up their heads with an expression of superiority
which was altogether new.
Certainly the most popular person in Paradise was the “Basket Woman.”
But one day a Paradise girl, who rejoiced in the name of Fan Burton,
spread through the Grove the news that their “Basket Woman” was not a
basket woman at all, but a lady, who only pretended to sell things that
she might “get round them.” Fanny had seen her dressed and talking to a
gentleman. Why this should make any difference it would be difficult to
tell; but after Fan had cleverly and maliciously circulated this news,
the women chose to feel themselves “sold,” and a strange reaction set
in. “She has had us nicely!” said Fan. “Let’s pay her out for it. I
shouldn’t wonder if she turns out one of them female detectives, or,
perhaps, she’s worse; how do we know as that drink and medicine ain’t
poison? I don’t trust her one bit. Well, I ain’t had none of her
rubbish, except a scrubbing-brush, and that can’t hurt me much.”
Then other women took the same tone; one especially told how she had
been impudent enough to interfere when Mrs. Broggins beat her Sammy, as
if a woman mightn’t do what she liked with her own brat. And what
business was it of that Basket Woman’s, so long as Sammy wasn’t killed?
She talked about fetching the police, she did—ah! she forgot herself
then; she was mostly a meek-faced thing enough, but everybody had seen
how she flared up about that boy—“a himperant, hinterferen ’ussy” as she
was!
Things looked rather black for the Basket Woman; and it would have been
well if some one could have warned her. But there was no one to do it,
and she came into the Grove as usual, with a smile upon her face.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, pleasantly, “I dare say you know as well
as anybody how to knit?”
“It ain’t no business of yours whether I do or not,” said the woman, in
tones that became louder with every word. Then a shout came down the
road. “Basket Woman! come here! I want a talk with you.”
A loud guffaw from all the women at all the doors showed that something
had happened to make the dwellers in the Grove angry. The Basket Woman
was not very courageous, and her first impulse was to fly; but she went
toward the person who had called her.
“Will you have some wool?” she asked. But the person addressed turned
angrily upon her.
“Wool, indeed? No; nor anything else that you have. I’ll tell you what
you are! You are a sneaking hypocrite.”
A flush shot over the refined face, the basket was put down, and she
faced the woman and the group that had gathered curiously around her.
“Now, what is the matter? And what does all this mean?”
A torrent of abuse was poured upon her. She stood perfectly still, and
her face was now white but firm. Presently, when there was a lull, she
said, in a quiet, penetrating voice, “How hard and unkind you women can
be!”
“Clear out! We don’t want none of your tongue!”
“I shall not go until you have let me say one thing,” she said, becoming
suddenly brave. “I have as much right as anybody to come here and try to
sell things. Why are you angry with me? Have I ever done you any harm?”
There were more shouts of scorn and anger, and nobody was courageous
enough to say a word in favour of the stranger. In the crowd was a woman
whose child she had nursed through two nights of croup, and another
whose house she had cleaned because the mistress’s hand had been hurt.
The Basket Woman looked into the faces of these women with pathetic
wonder and disappointment, while all sorts of things were shouted at her
and of her. Then she turned sorrowfully, and, taking up her basket,
walked slowly out of the court.
“I hope you will let me come again, when you are not quite so angry with
me, because I like you, and I thought some of you were my friends.”
As she said the words her eyes fell on the face of Fanny Burton, who
looked sorry for her part in the matter, and who felt more than a little
doubtful as to whether she had not made a mistake. But the woman herself
was so sorely disappointed that the tears sprang to her eyes, and her
lips quivered, as she slowly, and with gentle dignity, made her way
along the court to the street at the end of it.
“Drive her out!” somebody hissed presently, and then there was sound of
hurrying feet behind her. She quickened her steps a little, but before
she reached the entrance to the court a big boy of eighteen came hastily
behind her and gave her a push of so violent a character that she was
propelled suddenly into the street and fell. With a wild yell the women
took to their heels, and, running up Paradise Grove, disappeared in
their houses.
The Basket Woman lay stunned in the street, her head having come in
contact with the kerb-stone, and she remained for several moments
insensible.
A lady who was passing in her carriage had seen the sudden rush in the
street, and immediately went to the aid of the prostrate woman. Some
water was brought, and presently the white eyelids opened.
“My carriage is here,” said the lady, who had been intently regarding
her. “Let me take you home with me for some tea.”
“Oh, no, thank you! My home is quite near. I can reach it, I am all
right now.”
“You belong to the Helpful Ministry, I can see,” said the lady, “by
whatever name you may call yourself; and you have received quite the
customary thanks and pay. My name is Wentworth, and I love girls, and am
glad to find any who need mothering; and just now you need not only a
mother’s love, but a mother’s skill also. Come with me.”
The Basket Woman sighed, and glanced at the kind face beside her. But
the next moment she grew frightened, and answered hastily, “Oh, no, I
cannot do that. Thank you so much, but I would rather go to my lodging.”
“Very well, I will help you,” said Miss Wentworth, for it was she. “No?
I must not do that? Ah! I quite understand. But you may trust me. Here
is my card. Will you promise to come and see me? If not, I shall not
leave until I know where to find you.”
It was very tiresome, the Basket Woman thought; but she took the card,
and gave the promise, and then crept back to her lodging, and went at
once to her bed, where she remained for some days, with ample time and
opportunity for testing the efficacy of her own medicines. Truth to
tell, while enduring considerable pain and weakness, she much wished
that she could have accepted the kind invitation of Miss Wentworth; but
afterwards she was glad she had not. As soon as she was able she called
on that lady, but was relieved to find that she was out. And then she
gave herself afresh to her work. Paradise Grove was her own “happy
hunting-ground,” and, therefore, she had taken two rooms, and thoroughly
whitewashed and cleaned them, and lived among the people. She was glad
to find that the ill-feeling which had been roused against her seemed
all to have died out, and, as there never had been any in her heart, she
went on with her work as if nothing had happened. She was needed just
then for a bad case of sickness, and before that duty was through an
incident occurred in connection with Fanny Burton that gave the Basket
Woman great joy.
It was Sunday, and Paradise Grove was less savoury than usual. It was
also more active, for most of the cleaning and washing were done on that
day. Sunday, too, was the grand cooking-day of the week; everybody in
the Grove tried to get a little hot meat on the Sunday. Often it was not
possible, for in the Grove were many of the victims of London’s cruel
sweating system, and many a woman worked fourteen hours a day for less
than a shilling. Considering this terrible fight for life, and the
environments of these people, the wonder was that they were not worse
than they were. Happily, however, the system was doomed, for England was
determined not to endure it, and public opinion was so severe on the
sweaters themselves that their number became less every month. There was
in process of formation a new Volunteer Corps, which already numbered
thousands of employers of labour, who were sworn to abolish slavery in
London, and set every man, woman, and child free. The Basket Woman, like
many others, was preparing the way for this consummation.
Fanny Burton was busy on Sunday morning. First she helped her mother
scrub the floor of the living room, and then she washed and ironed a
pair of cuffs and a pocket handkerchief; next she brushed her Sunday
dress, putting a stitch here and there to make it tidy. The fact was
that Fanny was going out. George Green had invited her, and she had
consented, to take a walk to Harleigh Furze; and, as she herself would
have said, she was “counting on it,” not altogether for George’s sake,
but still more for the sake of the flowers and the ferns; for this poor,
uneducated girl, who spent the greater part of her life in a close
factory, had the love of flowers born with her.
“Hurry on the dinner, mother,” she said; “I want to go out.”
“Very well; you must get it ready yourself, then,” was the curt reply.
“Nobody else can please you.”
After dinner Fanny hastened from the Grove to the appointed rendezvous
to meet George. He was not there, and the girl waited nearly half an
hour before he appeared. When he came there was a sheepish look on his
face. “How are you, Fan? You won’t mind, will you, if Drom Jones goes
with us? She asked me to take her, and I couldn’t say we wouldn’t have
her. And we won’t go to the Furze. Drom wants to go to Addington Park
instead, because it’s nearer.”
A look of scorn came into Fanny’s eyes. Andromeda Jones (the Paradise
Grove people were fond of fine names) was no favourite of hers, and
George knew that.
“I have been counting on Harleigh Furze all the week,” she said, “and I
shall go there. You can take Drom Jones to the Park if you like. It will
not be the first shabby trick you have played me, George Green, but it
will be the last.”
“Don’t be stupid, Fan. What is a fellow to do?”
“What he likes.”
At this moment Andromeda herself appeared on the scene, and, without
another word, Fanny walked away.
But it was not until she had quite got away from the houses, and had
walked some distance from the tram terminus, that she succeeded in
overcoming the ill-humour that possessed her; and when she entered a
field where no one was in sight, the first thing she did was to sit down
upon a green bank and shed a few hot tears—not many, for Fanny was a
girl of spirit, and did not indulge in such weaknesses as a rule. It was
not jealousy in regard to George Green that troubled her, for after the
first feeling of annoyance had passed away she did not give him a
thought, but a restlessness that had taken possession of her, and that
caused her to feel her own life to be altogether unsatisfactory. Not
that it had ever occurred to her to think about her life until lately;
but a subtle change had been going on within the girl which could
scarcely be explained or accounted for. Fanny was active and curious,
and had the desire to know which characterises some young folk. She had
been sent to school long enough to learn to read, and she devoured
everything that came in her way. Her knowledge, therefore, was of a very
miscellaneous kind. Such periodicals as Paradise Grove affected were
always read by her, for she borrowed every scrap that she saw, and until
lately no girl more loved to shock the sensibilities of the Christian
girls working beside her with impudent and blasphemous assertions than
Fanny Burton. But, thanks to the Basket Woman, Fanny had certainly been
growing more quiet and less confident lately. Instead of glorying in her
surroundings she was sickened by them, and there had sprung up within
her a great scorn of herself and her own people, and an awakening desire
after better things.
And here was the girl on a beautiful Sunday afternoon away from the dirt
and the heat of Paradise Grove, and face to face with Nature. Every step
that she took drew her farther from the town and closer to the heart of
the green forest. The flowers grew in the hedge, the daisies kissed her
feet, the soft air fanned her face, and the tall grasses thrust
themselves caressingly into her ungloved hands. It seemed that a great
hush settled down upon her, and a new refinement of feeling, and then a
strange hunger after God. The unbelievers’ words and works, the clamour
of the court where she lived, the riotous behaviour and noisy talk of
companions, seemed to be like things she had known in a bad dream; and
now she was living in a new life. Was it earth or heaven? And would the
great God—in whom, after all, she did hope—take notice of poor Fan
Burton? I do not think that the feelings which so moved this girl would
have been called into existence had she gone to the woods in company
with her associates, or had the occasion been the annual picnic of the
factory where she worked, or even a Sunday-school treat, where she was
one of several hundreds. But she was alone with Nature and with God; and
perhaps if we could make this possible to those for whom we build
mission-halls, and provide crowded meetings, others would be similarly
affected.
The girl walked or rested, with some new beauty to arrest her at every
step, and with peaceful, purifying thoughts floating in her mind, until
presently there came through the trees the sweet sound of church bells
chiming their invitation to prayer. For a few moments, with clasped
hands, and eyes that dared to look earnestly up to the blue skies, she
stood and listened; and then, impelled by she knew not what, she knelt
on the grass and offered her first prayer—a prayer odd enough to raise a
smile if there had been any one to hear it, but sincere enough to win
its way to heaven.
“Our Father which art in heaven, if You can hear me, and if You can help
me, please do. I am so hard and so wrong, and such a fool, that I don’t
know nothing, but I want to know, and I want to be better; please make
me want it more. If You will help me I’ll try to be good, for Thine is
the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen. There,
now, I’ve prayed; I really have prayed; and if there is Anything to
hear, something will come of it. Anyway, it has done me good to pray,
and I will go back home and see what is to be done next.”
Sweeter than ever seemed the flowers, and greener the trees, as the girl
walked quietly and reluctantly away from the wood, feeling almost as if
something new was going to happen. Nothing did happen until she had
nearly reached Paradise Grove, and then she saw a crowd.
“What is it, Bet?” she asked of one of the girls who was standing near.
“Only the Salvation Army, as usual, come to convert us all,” was the
reply.
Fanny did not laugh, as her custom was, but she went toward the crowd,
and pushed her way in and listened. A man was talking of the love of God
and somehow Fanny understood it, for her mind was full of the beautiful
sights and sounds of the wood, which seemed to make the fact of God’s
love not only possible, but most likely to her. She had heard it all
before, but did not understand the whole of the address. The words which
the speaker, in common with all evangelists, used bewildered her. “Come
to Jesus! Will you not come now and be saved?”
After the address a hymn was sung, “How Sweet the Name of Jesus Sounds!”
and then there was a prayer, and the meeting was over.
Fanny had been watching her opportunity, and as the speaker moved away
she laid a hand on his arm. “Tell me,” she said, “tell me quietly what
you mean. How am I to come to Jesus?”
“In prayer,” said the man. “Jesus can hear every word you say just as
well as when He was on earth; and He says, ‘Come unto Me.’ You ask Him
to save and forgive you, and He will.”
A girl with a Salvation Army bonnet on came up, and was about to take
possession of Fanny, but she, looking up, saw the Basket Woman, who had
no basket, as it was Sunday, and who was regarding the scene with
interest. She saw something in Fanny’s eyes as they met hers; and this
friend of the people understood, and was at the girl’s side in a moment.
“What is it?” she asked, gently. “Can I do anything for you? Your name
is Fanny Burton, isn’t it? Will you come into my room, and have a talk
with me?”
Fanny looked rather frightened, but she turned her face toward the home
of the Basket Woman, who shook hands with the Salvation Army girl as if
she were her friend.
“I know Miss Burton—she lives near me, and I should like to help her if
I may,” she said courteously; and the other, with equal good feeling,
quitted the court and joined her friends.
“You have never been to my home, have you, Fanny? I am glad you are
coming now.”
The room into which Fanny went was plainly furnished and was
scrupulously clean. On the table were a snowy cloth and shining glasses,
and two or three knives and forks, which Fanny thought looked like
silver. There was a delicious scent of coffee, too, in the place, and,
as the girl looked around, she thought, “This is too good for me.”
“I will not stay now, thank you,” she said aloud. “Perhaps I will come
again another time, when you have had your supper, or whatever it is.”
“Oh, don’t say so. I do not like to eat alone. You do not know how dull
it is to be quite lonely, especially on Sunday,” said the Basket Woman,
and Fanny saw that there were tears in her eyes. Fanny yielded
instantly; and while they had the simple meal together the Basket Woman
talked to her on all sorts of things. When the meal was over, and the
coffee drunk, they sat together in the pleasant room, and Fanny told her
friend where she had been, and some of the things she had seen.
“Oh, Fanny, I wish I had been with you! I love the country so much. You
went by tram, I suppose?”
“Yes; and then I walked a long way. I think it was the beautiful fields
that made me feel queer.”
“Queer? How do you mean, Fanny?”
“They made me sorry I am so bad, and they made me feel as if I want to
be better.”
“Yes; that is just how they make me feel. Some day, Fanny, not on Sunday
though—perhaps next Saturday afternoon, if you can spare the time—I
should like so much to go into the country with you. Would you be
willing?”
“Yes; I should like it ever so much.”
“Then we will go together, if nothing happens to prevent. I was glad to
see you listening to the Salvation Army. Did you ever go to
Sunday-school?”
“Yes; when I was a little thing I used to go sometimes. There is a
Mission-school, you know, just round the corner, where me and the others
went.”
“And why did you leave?”
“Oh, we didn’t like the teacher for one thing; and, for another, it was
hot and close; and I like to walk about the streets much better. I wish
I hadn’t left, though, now.”
“You can go back again; I am sure they would be glad to see you. Why do
you wish you had not left?”
“Because, perhaps, if I had stayed I should have known more. I want to
know things. I know nothing. I could not even understand what the
Salvation man said.” She paused a moment, and then her eyes suddenly
flashed into the grave, kind face before her, and she said impetuously,
“Oh, do tell me if it is all real—religion, I mean, and God, and Jesus
Christ, and heaven, and all that they talk so much about!”
“Oh, yes, Fanny! It is quite real. I am more sure of that than ever.”
“Then please will you tell me all about it?”
The lady thus appealed to had surprised herself by the dogmatic manner
in which she had asserted the reality of the Christian faith. The truth
was that she had often doubted, and sometimes been inclined to believe
nothing; yet now that a soul looked to her for light all the doubts
seemed strangely to vanish, and all the old lessons came back to her, as
she told the story of the Christ, and His beautiful life, and the great
kingdom which He came to set up. It was longer than a sermon, but Fanny
listened, with her eyes on the face that kindled with joyous
earnestness, and it never occurred to her to yawn or feel tired.
“And I am sure,” she said at last, “that if only we do what He wants us
to do, and are not selfish and wicked, but are true and kind, that is
the best way to be happy. And He will show us all the rest.”
And then a warm impulse moved her, and she put her arm suddenly around
Fan’s waist and drew her to her knees, and spoke softly to the Father in
heaven for both of them, and asked the living, loving Saviour to reveal
His grace to the girl by her side. It was done in the most natural
manner, and only occupied one or two minutes; but when they arose, Fan
was secured as a loyal disciple for ever.
“And I will never forget it,” she said, through her tears. “I love you;
I know you are a lady, and not used to this sort of thing, and only come
to do us good; and it was my fault that you were set on that time; but
you don’t know how I will love you!”
“And you will really be my friend, Fanny, and help me? Ah, then we will
make our Grove more like Paradise than it has ever been before! Do you
think you could persuade the boys of the Grove to come and spend their
evenings with me, and will you help me entertain them, and see that they
have a real good time? I want to get them out of the streets, and teach
them how to enjoy better things than pitch-and-toss, and swearing and
cheating. But, of course, they will not come if my evenings are dull. I
mean them to be very lively; and as you know what sort of things they
like, your aid will be invaluable.”
“Yes, I will come with pleasure. I know all the boys in the court, and
believe I could persuade them, one and all, to spend their evenings with
us; that is, if we make it worth their while. I won’t quite exactly
promise every evening until I have talked it over with my mother. I
didn’t use to think so much of my mother as I do now; but I’ve thought a
deal about her lately, and I’m going to make things better for mother.
There ain’t no sense in trying to do other people good, and neglecting
your own mother, is there?”
What made the Basket Woman blush and look conscience-smitten and
uncomfortable? She did not speak for a moment or two, and then, in a
faltering voice, she said: “You are quite right, Fanny; ask your mother,
and I will ask mine.”