THE PINE GROVES OF LEEHAM.
Below London Bridge, and just at the end of the Pool, the Thames makes
a sharp bend north, and keeps this course for close on a mile. Then it
sweeps in a gentle curve eastward for half a mile; after this it
suddenly turns south, and keeps on in a straight line for upwards of a
mile. The part of London bounded on three sides by these sections of
the river is not very densely populated if the acreage is considered.
Much of it is taken up with the vast system of the Mercantile Docks;
large spaces are wholly unbuilt on; the South London Canal, its
tow-path, and double row of wharves and yards, cover a large area; and
one of the most extensive gasworks in the metropolis and a convergence
of railway lines take up space to the exclusion of people. There are
stretches of this district as lonely by night as the top of Snowdon.
Little life stirs by day on the canal; after dark the waters and the
tow-path are as deserted as a village graveyard. Along the railroad by
day no human foot travels but the milesman's, and at night the traffic
falls off to a mere echo of its incessant mighty roar by day. The
gasworks are busy, and glowing and flaming and throbbing all through
the hours of gloom and darkness, but people cannot get near them. They
are enclosed by high walls on all sides except one, and on that side
lies the South London Canal, which crawls and crawls unhastened and
unrefreshed by the waters of any lock. The solitude of the tow-path
after dark is enhanced at the point where it passes opposite the
gasworks by the appearance of life across the water, and the
impossibility of reaching that life, touching the human hands that
labour there, receiving aid from kindly men if aid were needed. The
tow-path at this point is narrow and full of fathomless shadows, in
which outcasts, thieves, and murderers might lurk; deep doorways,
pilasters, and ruined warehouses, where misery or crime could hide or
crouch.
But of all the loneliness by night in this region which is vaguely
styled the Mercantile Docks, the deepest, the most affecting, the most
chilling is that which dwells in the tortuous uninhabited approaches
leading from the docks to the river north and south, and east and west
from Deptford to Rotherhithe.
Out of the same spirit of mocking humour which gave the name of
Boland's Ait to the little island in the canal, these solitary ways
are called the Pine Groves. The pine-wood which gives them their name
has ceased to be a landscape ornament many years, and now stands
upright about ten feet high on either side of the roads, in the form
of tarred planks.
There are miles of this monotonous black fencing, with no house or
gate to break the depressing sameness. By day the Pine Groves are busy
with the rumble of heavy traffic from the docks and wharves; by night
they are as deserted as the crypt of St. Paul's.
Between the great gasworks and the docks, and at a point upon which
the canal, the main railway, and three of these Pine Groves converge,
there is an oasis of houses, a colony of men, a village, as it were,
in this desert made by man in the interest of trade and commerce.
This patch of inhabited ground supports at most two hundred houses.
The houses are humble, but not squalid. The inhabitants are not
longshore-men, nor are they mostly connected with the sea or things
maritime. They seem to be apart and distinct from the people found
within a rifle-shot of the place. Although they are no farther than a
thousand yards from Welford Bridge, to judge by their manners and
speech, they are so much better mannered, civilised, and refined, that
a thousand years and a thousand miles might lie between them and the
longshore-men and loafers from whom William Crawford had been supplied
with a guide in Red Jim. This oasis in the desert of unbuilt space,
this refuge from the odious solitude by night of the Pine Groves, this
haunt of Arcadian respectability in the midst of squalid and vicious
surroundings, is honoured in the neighbourhood by the name of Leeham,
and is almost wholly unknown in any other part of London. It will not
do to say it has been forgotten, for it has never been borne in
memory. The taxman and the gasman and the waterman, and the people who
own houses there, know Leeham; but no other general outsiders. It is
almost as much isolated from the rest of London as the Channel
Islands.
It has not grown or diminished since the railway was built. No one
ever thinks of pulling down an old house or building up a new one.
Time-worn brass knockers are still to be found on the doors, and
old-fashioned brass fenders and fireirons on the hearths within.
Families never seem to move out of the district, and it never recruits
its population from the outer world. Now and then, indeed, a young man
of Leeham may bring home a bride from one of the neighbouring tribes;
but this is not often. A whole family is imported never. It is the
most unprogressive spot in all Her Majesty's dominions.
At first it seems impossible to account for so respectable a
settlement in so squalid and savage a district. Who are the people of
Leeham? And how do they live? When first put, the question staggers
one. Most of the houses are not used for trade. Indeed, except at the
point where the three Pine Groves meet, there is hardly a shop in the
place. Where the East and West and River Pine Groves meet, there
stands a cluster of shops, not more than a dozen, and the one
public-house, the Neptune. But the name of this house is the only
thing in the business district telling of the sea. Here is no maker of
nautical instruments, no marine-store dealer, no curiosity shop for
the purchase of the spoil of other climes brought home by Jack Tar, no
music-hall or singing-saloon, no slop-shop, no cheap photographer.
Here are a couple of eating-houses, noticeable for low prices and
wholesome food; a butcher's, and two beef-and-ham shops, two grocers',
and a greengrocer's, two bakers', and an oil-and-colour man's. These,
with the Neptune, or nucleus, form by night the brightly lighted
business region of the settlement. This point is called the Cross.
Leeham repudiated the sea, and would have nothing to do with it at any
price. Down by the docks the sea may be profitable, but it has not a
good reputation. It is inclined to be rowdy, disreputable. Jack Tar
ashore may not be worse than other men, but he is more noisy and less
observant of convention. He is too much given to frolic. He is not
what any solid man would call respectable.
No one ever thought of impugning the respectability, as a class, of
gasmen or railway officials. In fact, both are bound to be
respectable. Leeham had, no doubt, some mysterious internal resources,
but its chief external dependence was on the enormous gasworks and the
railway hard by. Hundreds of men were employed in the gashouse and on
the railway, and Leeham found a roof and food for three-fourths of the
number. There were quiet houses for those whose means enabled them to
keep up a separate establishment, and cheap lodgings for those who
could afford only a single room. No man living in a dwelling-house of
Leeham was of good repute unless he had private means, or was employed
at either the railway-yard or the gasworks--called, for the sake of
brevity, the yard and the works. But it was a place in which many
widows and spinsters had their homes, and sought to eke out an income
from the savings of their dead husbands, fathers, or brothers, by some
of the obscure forms of industry open to women of small needs and very
small means.
The greengrocer's shop at Leeham Cross, opposite the Neptune, was
owned by Mrs. Pemberton, an enormously fat, very florid widow of
fifty. She almost invariably wore a smile on her expansive
countenance, and was well known in the neighbourhood for her good
nature and good temper. In fact, she was generally spoken of as "Mrs.
Pemberton, that good-natured soul." The children all idolised her; for
when they came of errands to buy, or for exercise and safety and a
sight of the world with their mothers, Mrs. Pemberton never let them
go away empty-handed as long as there was a small apple, or a bunch of
currants, or a couple of nuts in the shop.
On that evening late in May when Red Jim showed Crawford the way to
Crawford's House, Mrs. Pemberton stood at her shop door. She held her
arms a-kimbo, and looked up and down the Cross with the expression of
one who does not notice what she sees, and who is not expecting
anything from the direction in which she is looking. The stout florid
woman standing at the door of the greengrocer's was as unlike the
ordinary Mrs. Pemberton as it was in the power of a troubled mind to
make her. At this hour very few people passed Leeham Cross, and for a
good five minutes no one had gone by her door.
Mrs. Pemberton had not remained constantly at the door. Once or twice
she stepped back for a moment, and threw her head on one side, and
held her ear up as if listening intently; then, with a sigh, she came
back to her post at the threshold. There must have been something very
unusual in the conditions of her life to agitate this placid
sympathetic widow so much.
Presently a woman of fine presence came in view, hastening towards the
greengrocery. This was Mrs. Pearse, a widow like Mrs. Pemberton, and
that good lady's very good friend.
"I needn't ask you; I can see by your face," said Mrs. Pearse, as she
came up. "She is no better."
"She is much worse," said Mrs. Pemberton in a half-frightened,
half-tearful way; "she is dying."
"Dying!" said the other woman. "I didn't think it would come to that."
"Well, it hurts me sore to say it, but I don't think she'll live to
see the morning."
"So bad as that? Well, Mrs. Pemberton, I am sorry. Along with
everything else, I am sorry for the trouble it will give you."
"O! don't say anything about that; I am only thinking of the poor lady
herself. She's going fast, as far as I am a judge. And then, what's to
become of the child? Poor innocent little fellow! he has no notion of
what is happening. How could he? he's little more than a baby of three
or four."
"Poor little fellow! I do pity him. Has she said anything to you?"
"Not a word."
"Not even told you her name?
"No."
"Does she know, Mrs. Pemberton, how bad she is? Surely, if she knew
the truth of her state of health, she'd say a word to you, if it was
only for the child's sake. She would not die, if she knew she was
dying, and say nothing that could be of use to her little boy."
"You see, when the doctor was here this morning, he told her she was
dangerously ill, but he did not tell her there was no hope. So I did
my best to put a good face on the matter, and tried to persuade the
poor thing that she'd be on the mending hand before nightfall. But she
has got worse and worse all day, and I am sure when the doctor comes
(I'm expecting him every minute) he'll tell her she's not long for
this world. It's my opinion she won't last the night."
"Dear, dear, dear!--but I'm sorry."
"Here he is. Here's the doctor!"
"I'll run home now, Mrs. Pemberton, and give the children their
supper. I'll come back in an hour to hear what the doctor says, and to
do anything for you I can."
"Thank you! Thank you, Mrs. Pearse! I shall be very glad to see you,
for I am grieved and half-terrified."
"I'll be sure to come. Try to bear up, Mrs. Pemberton," said
kind-hearted Mrs. Pearse, hurrying off just as the doctor came up to
the door.
True to her promise, Mrs. Pearse was back at the Cross. By this time
the shutters of Mrs. Pemberton's shop were up; but the door stood
ajar. Mrs. Pearse pushed it open and entered.
Mrs. Pemberton was sitting on a chair, surrounded by hampers and
baskets of fruit and vegetables, in the middle of the shop. She was
weeping silently, unconsciously, the large tears rolling down her
round florid face. Her hands were crossed in her lap. Her eyes were
wide open, and her whole appearance that of one in helpless despair.
When she saw her visitor come in, she rose with a start, brushed the
tears out of her eyes, and cried, seizing the hand of the other woman
and pressing her down on a chair:
"I am so glad to see you, Mrs. Pearse! It is so good of you to come! I
am in sore distress and trouble!"
"There, dear!" said the visitor in soothing tones. "Don't take on like
that. All may yet be well. What does the doctor say about the poor
soul?"
"All will never be well again for her. The doctor says she is not
likely to see another day, short as these nights are. O my--O my
heart! but it grieves me to think of her going, and she so young. And
to think of what a pretty girl she must have been; to think of how
handsome she must have been before the trouble, whatever it is, came
upon her and wore her to a shadow."
"And I suppose she has not opened her mind to you even yet about this
trouble?"
The question was not asked out of idle curiosity, but from deep-seated
interest in the subject of the conversation. For this was not the
first or the tenth talk these two kindly friends had about the sick
woman upstairs.
"She has said no more to me than the dead. My reading of it is, that
she made a bad match against the will of her people, and that her
husband deserted her and her child."
"And what about the boy? Does the poor sufferer know how bad she is?"
"Yes; she knows that there's not any hope, and the doctor told me to
be prepared for the worst, and that she might die in a couple of
hours. Poor soul! I shall be sorry!"
Mrs. Pemberton threw her apron over her head and wept and sobbed; Mrs.
Pearse weeping the while, for company.
When Mrs. Pemberton was able to control herself she drew down her
apron and said:
"I never took to any other lodger I had so much as I took to this poor
woman. Her loneliness and her sorrow made me feel to her as if she had
been my own child. Then I know she must be very poor, although she
always paid me to the minute. But bit by bit I have missed whatever
little jewellery she had, and now I think all is gone. But she is not
without money; for, when I was talking to her just now, she told me
that she had enough in her work-box to pay all expenses. O, Mrs.
Pearse, it is hard to hear the poor young thing talking in that way of
going, and I, who must be twice her age, well and hearty!"
Again the good woman broke down and had to pause in her story.
"She told me no one should be at any expense on her account; and as
for the boy, she said she knew a gentleman, one who had been a friend
of hers years ago, and that he would surely take charge of the child,
and that she had sent word to a trusty messenger to come and fetch the
boy to this friend, and that she would not see or hear from any one
who knew her in her better days. I can't make it out at all. There is
something hidden, some mystery in the matter."
"Mystery, Mrs. Pemberton? Of course there is. But, as you say, most
likely she made a bad match, and is afraid to meet her people, and has
been left to loneliness and sorrow and poverty by a villain of a
husband. She hasn't made away with her wedding-ring, has she?"
"No; nor with the keeper. But I think all else is gone in the way of
jewellery. I left Susan, the servant, with her just now. She said she
wished to be quiet for a while, as she wanted to write a letter. Now
that the shop is shut I can't bear to be away from her, and when I am
in the room I can't bear to see her with her poor swollen red face,
and I don't think she is always quite right in her mind, for the
disease has spread, and the doctor says she can hardly last the night.
Poor, poor young creature!"
Here for the third time, kind sympathetic Mrs. Pemberton broke down,
and for some minutes neither of the women spoke.
At length Mrs. Pemberton started and rose from her chair, saying
hastily:
"She must have finished the letter. I hear Susan coming down the
stairs."
The girl entered the shop quickly and with an alarmed face.
"The lady wants to see you at once, ma'am. She seems in a terrible
hurry, and looks much worse."
Mrs. Pemberton hastened out of the shop, asking Mrs. Pearse to wait.
In a few minutes she returned, carrying a letter in her hand, and
wearing a look of intense trouble and perplexity on her honest face.
"I am sure," she said, throwing herself on a chair, "I do not know
whether I am asleep or awake, or whether I am to believe my eyes and
my ears. Do you know where she told me she is sending the child
now--to-night--for she cannot die easy until 'tis done."
"I cannot tell. Where?"
"I heard her say the words quite plainly, but I could not believe my
ears. The words are quite plain on this letter, though they are
written in pencil, but I cannot believe my eyes. Read what is on this
envelope, and I shall know whether I have lost my reason or not.
That's where she says the child is to go. This is the old friend she
says will look after the little boy!"
She handed the letter she held in her hand to her friend. Mrs. Pearse
read:
"Francis Bramwell, Esq.,
Boland's Ait,
South London Canal."