YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
FROM THE ESTATE OF
MISS MARY B. BRISTOL
1936
f\ Priticecs
J of the >
Gutter
iy LfT^venDe
SSM81
i-lf- „,-
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
New York and London
Copyright, i8g6
liY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Ube Htnlcfeerbocfeer iptess, "fflew 1ftocbelle, m. 13.
PREFACE
The language of East London cannot, for obvious
reasons, be altogether reproduced in these pages ;
otherwise I have endeavoured to make this picture
of life amongst our great unclassed as faithful as
possible. Martha Mace, " the Princess," is sketched
from a living original
L. T. MEADE.
Dulwich, October 18S5,
pack
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21
29
35
54
66
77
97
102
"5
136
i47
159
168
180
193
205
220
23J
CONTENTS
THE HOUSE IN DORSET GATE
AN UNFAITHFUL STEWARD .
THE TEMPLE OF THE DEAD.
THE HEIRESS
MY PROPERTY . ...
JASPER COURT . . .
THE SOFT HAND .
THE CAPTAIN OF THE FORLORN HOPE
A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR
ANNE'S TRIUMPHANT MARCH
MY FIRST TEA PARTY .
BLUE AND PINK BLOUSES
MY SISTERS OF EAST LONDON
MAMMON ....
A DROP OF WATER
MATES ....
A DARE-DEVIL
ANNE ....
THE MATCH-BOX MAKERS
JOAN MANSIONS .
vi
Contents
CHAP. PAGE
XXI. FORSAKEN 247
XXII. THE DEVIL AND HIS ANGELS . - • 259
XXIII. THE SCREAM IN THE DARK .... 269
XXIV. THE SENTENCE ...... 285
XXV. THE LAST DAY ...... 292
XXVI, LUCY ....... 300
A Princess of the Gutter
" Though permitted evils should not avenge themselves by
any political retribution, yet avenge themselves, if unredressed,
they surely will. . . . We may choose to look on the masses in
the gross as objects for statistics—and of course, where possible,
for profits. There is One above who knows every thirst, and
ache, and sorrow, and temptation of each slattern, and gin-
drinker, and street-boy. The day will come when He will
require an account of these neglects of ours—not in the gross."
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
A
PRINCESS OF THE GUTTER
CHAPTER I
THE HOUSE IN DORSET GATE
WAS twenty-two when my life began to assume
intensity and purpose. The change began in
the following manner. I had just left Girton ;
I had passed the History Tripos with a fair
amount of credit, and considered myself as well educated
as any other up-to-date girl of my age. I was an orphan,
and had spent most of my life with my mother's sister, Mrs.
Bannerman; but my father's brother, Uncle Ralph, had
really undertaken all the expenses of my maintenance
and education. It was he who insisted first on my going
to an excellent school as a weekly boarder, and after¬
wards, when I was eighteen, sending me to Girton. He
said it was his intention to have me well educated, and
he trusted to my common-sense not to take up any
absurd fads, and never to forget the fact that I was born
a woman and not a man. For the rest, he would give me
every chance. He was certain that I should do nothing
in life if I were not up to date. Up to date, therefore,
▲
2
TLhc t>ouse in Dorset (Bate
lie tried to make me, and I think at two and twenty I
fairly fulfilled his expectations. My tripos examination
was over; my college career was at an end. I had said
good-bye" to my many friends, and had really shed
some tears in secret when parting with my dear little
three-cornered room at Girton. The tea-fights, the cocoa-
parties, the debates, the delightful fire brigade drill—all
the thousand and one interests which had made life so
fresh and fascinating were now over. I went back
(o my relations, the Bannermans, with whom I had
not a single idea in common, and wondered, now that
my life had really begun, what I was going to make
of it.
I was in my room at the top of the big house—the
house was in Gordon Square, Bloomsbury. It was large,
well built, and comfortable. Neither my aunt nor my
cousins liked it—they wished to move West, but my uncle
preferred Bloomsbury. My bedroom was on the third
floor, and looked out on the back yard. It was by no
means a pretty room : the paper was drab and dusty, the
furniture might be described in the same terms; but as
the room was all my own, I liked to retire there when
I found my aunt's and cousins' somewhat commonplace
chatter unendurable. The afternoon was a hot one, early
in July. I heard steps rushing up the stairs ; they paused
c 11 my landing; there came a sharp imperative knock on
my door.
" Come in," I said, with some impatience.
The door was opened, and Francesca, my eldest cousin,
a pretty girl, with curling dark hair and bright eyes,
peeped first her head in, and then quickly entered and
shut the door behind her.
Ufoe ibouse in Dorset Gate
3
" 1 have brought news, Joan," she said, half panting as
she spoke. " Mother will be up in a minute, but I should
like to tell you first."
"What is it?" I asked, rather crossly.
" Your uncle, Mr. Prinsep, is very ill."
" Uncle Ealph ? " I said, with a start. " Who told you?"
" Father—he has just been in. Father met Dr. Phillips
this morning, and Dr. Phillips is attending Mr. Prinsep.
Dr. Phillips thinks badly of him. He says he won't last
a fortnight. Your uncle has had some bad internal com¬
plaint for years, and now it is going to kill him. Why,
-fchat is the matter, Joan ; you look white. I didn't sup¬
pose you really cared."
"Don't keep me," I said. "If Uncle Ralph is ill, I
must go to see him at once."
"Well, I didn't know you cared—you are white—I
wouldn't have told you so abruptly. Oh, here's mother;
now don't let on that I have said anything."
" Joan, my dear, may I come in ? " called Aunt Fanny's
voice at the door.
I crossed the room and flung it open. Aunt Fanny
was panting for breath, and looked rather red in the face.
" How steep these stairs are," she said. " Oh, thanks,
Joan."
She sank into the chair which I had offered her.
" Francesca love, run away," she said. " I wish to
speak to Joan by herself. Go, Francesca, at once.
What are you lingering for ? "
Francesca approached the door, opened it unwillingly,
went out, and shut it'after her.
"Joan my dear," said Aunt Fanny, "your uncle has
just brought sad news of Mr. Prinsep."
4
Ube Ibouse tit Dorset Date
" Francesca lias told me," I answered. " I—I slionld
like to go and see him at once, Aunt Fanny, please."
" If yon think it wise, dear. The doctor says Mr.
Priusep is very ill. He may not be able to see you, still
it might be right for you to go and inquire. Of course
he is your guardian. He is a very rich man, Joan, and—
and your nearest relation. Yes, it might be well for you
to go and ask after him."
" I mean to go," I replied.
I moved across the room as I spoke, and sitting down
on a chair, hastily put on my out-door shoes. Aunt
Fanny sat opposite to me; her face was still red, and her
eyes had an eager look in them.
" Mr. Prinsep is a very rich man," she repeated. " It is
certainly wise to pay attention. Joan, dear, be sure you
see that the servant takes up the message to your uncle.
He ought to know that you have called, and servants are
so forgetful. You had better go there in a hansom.
Would you like me to accompany you ? "
" No, thank you, Aunt Fanny; I would rather go by my¬
self, and I won't have a hansom, thanks—I prefer taking
the omnibus as usual. The Bayswater omnibus puts me
down at Uncle Ralph's door."
"Well, my dear, just as you please. You won't forget
to see that the message is taken up, Joan ? "
" Oh no, Aunt Fanny, it will be all right."
My shoes were already tied. I jumped up hastily,
pinned on my sailor hat, tied a lace scarf round my neck,
took up my gloves, and said—
" I am ready to go now—I can't exactly say when I
shall be back."
Aunt Fanny favoured me with a piercing glance.
tTfoe Ibouse fit Borset (Bate 5
" I don't suppose you will be able to have an interview,"
she said, in a considering tone. " Oh no, he .is too ill—
but he will naturally like to get your message. I'd make
it affectionate, if I were you. Poor fellow, the doctor
says there is no hope of him—a worldly man—yes, no
doubt of that—but very rich. Go, my love, go at once,
and make your inquiries for him."
I almost rushed out of the room; Aunt Fanny as usual
had rubbed me the wrong way. At that time of my life
I had very little power of controlling my true feelings.
It was with difficulty I could avoid saying something
rude—in short, I was a very undisciplined character in
every way.
" I wish Uncle Ralph would let me live with him," I
said to myself as I stepped into the omnibus in Oxford
Street, and prepared for my long drive to the handsome,
gloomy house in Bayswater, which he occupied all alone.
I was fond of Uncle Ralph after a fashion; I was not
fond of any of the Bannermans—they were antagonistic
to me at every point; not that there was anything really
objectionable about them—they were every-day sort of
people. Aunt Fanny would not hurt a fly if she could
help it, but in tastes, interests, outlook of life; in short,
from every point of view, my relations and I were as
the poles asunder. Uncle Ralph was a complete con¬
trast to the Bannermans. He was a very grave, re¬
served, handsome man. When he spoke, he spoke
slowly and with extreme courtesy. Looking back on
his character now, I think he must have been one of
the laziest people that ever lived; he was not really
old, but for years he had lived the life of an old man.
He seemed, as far as I could tell, to do nothing for him-
6
tTbe Ifoouse in Dorset (Bate
self. He had a valet to dress him, and a secretary to
write for him, and somebody else, I can't quite remember
whether it was a man or a woman, to read aloud to him;
and he had servants to wait primarily on himself, and
secondarily on each other. The whole of the gloomy
house was always in the most apple-pie order, and Uncle
Kalph seemed to me to do nothing at all. He was, in
short, a kind of neutral person, but all the same he was
pleasant to look at and pleasant to talk to—a perfectly
courteous gentleman of the old school. To look at him
one would suppose that he ought to last for ever—he was
so well preserved, so almost young in his appearance;
his figure was as slender and upright as if he were still in
his twenties ; his hair was scarcely at all mixed with grey;
his blue eyes had a bright genial gleam in them. No
one had ever seen him in a passion or even impatient, but
when he was really annoyed he could say such frightfully
cutting and sarcastic things that people dreadi d his sar¬
casm far more than the most furious passion of any one
else; he was obeyed therefore implicitly by all those who
had anything to do with him. As a rule I paid him six
visits in the year; each visit lasted from one to two hours
in length. I went to see him at the beginning of every
holiday and again at the end. I usually went in time for
lunch. I sat opposite to him at the long, splendidly
appointed table, and ate what was put before me, and
listened to his melodious voice as he talked in a gentle,
intelligent way of the ordinary events of the time, or
criticised a book which had recently attracted his atten¬
tion, or animadverted against the weather. When lunch
was over he usually asked me to accompany him into his
study; he then asked me two or three questions about my
Ube ibouse lit Dorset (Bate
7
school; he insisted on calling Girton, school, and nothing
I could ever do would make him change the habit. He
wished to know if I were getting on with my masters, if
I obeyed my teachers, and if, in short, I conducted my¬
self as an intelligent young woman with a well balanced
mind in a healthy body should. When I was leaving the
room he invariably slipped a bank note for ten pounds
into my hand. As I paid him six visits in the year, I
could thus comfortably reckon on a private income of
sixty pounds per annum. From the moment I began to
go to Girton this money never failed me. When he put
the note into my hand he used to close my fingers over
it, and half shut his eyes ; and if I attempted to thank him
he always shook his head, and said—
" Don't, I beg of you, Joan—I particularly dislike this
subject discussed."
These ten-pound notes were a great help to me, and I
am afraid I was not particularly generous about them..
Francesca and Anne, my two cousins, were always in
debt, but I only very occasionally helped them out of my
own very liberal income. I did now and then, for I was
not quite heartless, but only under extreme pressure.
Well, now I was going to see Uncle Ralph, and perhaps
for the last time. I had an extraordinary feeling as I
sat in the omnibus. I had a pain which I suppose was
really pain of mind, which I suppose was really caused
by sorrow, but which seemed to me quite physical—it
ached and ached in my chest. I pressed my hand against
it to drive it away, but it would not go. I was not accus¬
tomed to pain, for I was a wonderfully strong, robust girl,
and I had never hitherto known a sorrow in my life—not
a real sorrow, that is. I could not imagine why the pain
8
Ube Ibouse in Dorset (Bate
should come just because Uncle Ralph-was dying, for of
course I did not really know him—to meet a man six
times in the year, and on each of these occasions to spend
two hours with him and no more, could not be supposed
to be a great acquaintance, particularly when the man
was so reserved that you never even for a moment got
below the surface with him. Never to my knowledge
had I kissed Uncle' Ralph; perhaps I had when I was a
tiny child, but if so I had forgotten about it.
Uncle Ralph's house was one of a terrace—Dorset
Gate. As everybody knows, Dorset Gate stands back
from the high road; it has gates at each end, and a belt
of trees in front of the houses, and a nice private road¬
way, which gives it quite an aristocratic and elegant
appearance. From the upper windows of the houses in
Dorset Gate you can look into the lovely Kensington
Gardens. I have often done so on the occasions of my
visits to Uncle Ralph, and have admired the view
immensely. I gave no thought to it now, however.
The omnibus had been as hot as a furnace. As a rule,
when no one was there to see me, I travelled outside
when I went by omnibus, but I had no heart to mount
the staircase to this lofty eminence to-day. The driver
drew up the green omnibus with a jerk, and a moment
later I found myself standing outside No. 10, Uncle
Ralph's house. Uncle Ralph's butler had been with
him as long as I could remember; his name was
Williams, he was a great deal older than his master,
and was a very solemn individual indeed. There was a
footman as well, for the house was perfectly appointed;
but the footmen never stayed long; they were under
Williams's rule, and I fancy Williams was a stern task-
Ufce Ifoouse in Dorset (Bate
9
master. I never went to the house without seeing a new
footman, but Williams was as stationary as Uncle Ralph
himself. He was really a very proper servant, and I had
never on any occasion seen the ghost of a smile on his
face. I did not much like him, and was sorry now when
he opened the door for me. His face was several degrees
more solemn than usual when he did so.
" Miss Joan," he said, with a little start of surprise.
"Yes," I answered brusquely; "I have come to see
my uncle. Will you have the goodness to tell him that I
am here ? "
I tried to enter the house as I spoke. Williams was
stout, and his large person filled the doorway.
"You don't know, perhaps, Miss Joan," he said, "that
Mr. Prinsep is unwell—not serious, oh! no, I trust not
serious—but he is confined to his room, Miss Joan,
and "
"That does not matter," I interrupted. "I have come
to see him. Will you have the goodness to go and tell
him at once that I am here ? "
Williams paused to consider the question. He did not
want me to see Uncle Ralph—that was very evident; at
the same time he knew perfectly well that he had to do
with a determined character. After a period of pro¬
found deliberation, he slowly made way for me to enter
the hall.
" I don't suppose my master will see you, miss," he
said, " but I'll hinform 'im of your arrival. Will you step
in 'ere, miss ? "
He threw open the dining-room door as he spoke, and
motioned to me to enter. I stood close to the door and
listened with impatience. By right, Williams ought to
8
IO
Uhc ibouse In H>orset (Bate
go straight upstairs. Uncle Ralph's bedroom was on the
first floor ; I had passed it once or twice when the house¬
keeper had taken me to the spare room to wash my hands
before lunch; I knew the door. Of course Williams
ought to have gone to deliver my message immediately :
instead of that I heard him going slowly and deliberately
in the direction of the downstairs regions. Immediately
I knew why. Everything was done by clockwork in that
house. No one ever dreamed of performing any one
else's duties; it was not Williams's duty to go upstairs.
As Uncle Ralph was ill, he would probably depute this
delicate task to the housekeeper.
'• I will forestall her," I said to myself. " After all, the
sick man in this house is my uncle, my father's brother,
and I am the nearest relation he has in the world. I've
a far greater right to be with him now than that stupid
Williams. Oh, the awful propriety of this house is
enough to madden any one, but I'll soon alter the com¬
plexion of affairs."
No sooner had the thought come into my head than I
acted upon it. I left the big, dreary dining-room, and
lan quickly and lightly up the soft, richly carpeted stairs.
I knocked at the door of the large front bedroom, and not
waitiug for a reply, turned the handle, pushed the door
ajar, and entered the room.
CHAPTER II
AN UNFAITHFUL STEWARD
Y uncle was seated with his back to me. I had
expected to find him in bed, and was surprised
to see him dressed in his ordinary manner, and
seated by a little table which was drawn up
in front of the window. From this window he had a
cheerful view of Kensington Gardens.
"Is that you, Williams ? " he said.
His back looked quite well, his attitude was not at all
that of a man in ill health, but the weak thin quality of
his voice startled me. I had felt quite hopeful about him
until he spoke. The lump in my throat got bigger then ;
I shut the door softly but firmly, and crossed the room
with a determined step.
"It is not Williams, it's me," I said.
When he heard my voice Uncle Ralph turned very
slowly, and leant one of his thin hands firmly on the arm of
his chair, he raised himself a trifle as if he meant to stand
up but could not, and looked me full in the face. He
used to have the most serene blue eyes I ever saw in any
one—they were as blue as a baby's. I used to think such
lovely eyes were thrown away on an old face. They were
as blue as ever now, but some of the serenity had gone
II
i2 tin tUnfaltbful Stewarb
out of them. A perplexed sort of question had got into
them instead; when they were raised to me they gave a
distinct gleam of pleasure.
"Joan," said Uncle Ralph.
"Yes, uncle," I answered, " I heard you were ill, and I
came to see you."
I knelt down as I spoke by his chair—instinct told me
the right thing to do, and I did it. I found out at that
moment that I loved him as I loved no one else in the
world; I put one of my firm healthy young arms round
his neck and laid my cheek to his cheek.
" I'm so sorry you're ill," I said ; " I should love beyond
anjUnng to come and nurse you—may I ? May I bring
my things and stay here until you're better ? "
He was so much surprised at my request that he did not
speak for a minute.
"You can't stay, Joan," he said then, in a weak flutter-
ing kind of voice. He did not push me away nor repulse
me in any manner, but my words evidently filled him with
astonishment.
" It is very kind of you," he said, " but it is impossible
—the ways of this house don't permit it; there has not
been a lady staying here since—since your mother died
in this room, Joan."
"My mother ? " I said in astonishment.
" Yes, she died in this room. Ho lady has ever slept in
the house since. I don't care to discuss the subject."
" Well," I continued eagerly, " if I may not sleep, may I
come every morning and stay until night ? " Then I added,
not waiting for him to speak, " I'll come whether you wish
it or not; I'm as determined as you are, Uncle Ralph; I'm
your own flesh and blood, and have got your character."
13
" God forbid," said my uncle.
"Why do you say that? You're the best man I
know."
" You must have met a poor lot then, Joan," he replied,
with the faintest glimmer of a smile.
I noticed the smile and was quite content: I had won
the victory I needed. I could come now and stay all day
long, and after a time I made no doubt he would get
better, and I should overcome that objection he had to
allowing a lady to live in the house. I thought at that
moment as I knelt by him that I should like to live with
Uncle Balph. I thought that to tend him, to humour
his fads, to bring sunshine into his old age would satisfy
my own full, rich, young life. I rose from my position on
the floor by his side, and sat down on a chair near him.
I had scarcely done so before Mrs. Parkins, the house¬
keeper, opened the door and came in.
"I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Prinsep," she began,
" but I've come up to say that Miss "
Here she caught sight of me, coloured all over her face,
and dropped a startled curtsey.
" Good afternoon, Miss Prinsep," she said.
" You can go, Parkins," said my uncle. " Miss Joan will
look after me. Yes, go, my good woman—go at once."
His voice became imperative. Mrs. Parkins made for
the door and disappeared.
I laughed gleefully when she did so.
"Haven't I startled her ? " I said. " She and Williams
did not wish me to see you. Williams looked so cross
when he saw me standing on the door steps. He said
you would not see me, he was sure, and pottered off to
the kitchen to discuss the matter with Mrs. Parkins.
i4 Bn TUnfaitbful Stewart
I ran upstairs tlien. I'm so glad I did. You're delighted
to see me, aren't you, Uncle Ralph ? "
" I'm glad to see you, Joan. You have altered a good
bit. I don't wish to make you conceited, but you're rather
a handsome girl."
" Am I ? " I said. " If you say so, I am sure it is true.
Is it my eyes or my mouth ? "
" Come," he replied, smiling again, " I'm not going
to discuss you. You're rather handsome, but you're not
beautiful. You're nothiug more than an unopened bud
at present—not a rose-bud by any means, but a good, ser¬
viceable, practical flower."
" Oh, what flower, Uncle Ralph—do tell me? "
He shaded his eyes with his hand; I saw that he was
watching me from under this protection.
" You might be a pansy if ever you are likely to be
womanly enough," he said; " but I fear, I greatly fear
you have got too much of the masculine element in you."
" I'm not too masculine to make you some tea," I said.
" I see that there are preparations for tea in the room."
" You really mustn't do it, Joan," said Uncle Ralph.
He looked alarmed, really alarmed, although he was
such a determined sort of man.
" I am afflicted with a trained nurse," he went on.
" She is taking exercise at the present moment, whch is
the reason you find me alone. She will be very angry
if you interfere with my meals. What, child, you're not
going to defy a trained nurse ? "
"I don't care if you have fifty trained nurses," I
answered ; " I am going to make you some tea."
I danced off into the dressing-room. I had really not
felt in such a pleasant humour with myself and all the
Hn Tflnfaftbful Steward
15
world since I left Girton. If we are nothing else at
Girton we are tea makers. I found the necessary apparatus
in the dressing-room, and soon brought a fragrant cup to
my uncle's side. .He smiled at me, and sipped his tea.
I fetched another cup for myself, and sitting down oppo¬
site to him, sipped it also. When he laid down his empty
cup I said abruptly—
" I don't believe you're very ill."
" It does not matter, does it, whether you believe it or
not, Joan," was his very gentle reply.
" But you don't believe it, do you, uncle ? "
" I'm afraid I do."
I did not like to question him further. I was enjoying
myself, and did not want gloomy topics to be introduced.
I felt persuaded that I was doing him a great deal of
good, and resolved more firmly than ever to give him a
good deal of my society in future.
I turned the conversation therefore from the subject
of his health, and began to tell him some of the incidents
of my Girton life.
" It must be a good school," he said, when I paused.
" It isn't school—it's college," I answered. " When
can I get you to understand that girls of nineteen and
twenty don't go to school ? "
"They ought to," said Uncle Ralph; "if they don't,
they ought. Girls of nineteen and twenty are mere
infants as far as practical knowledge of life is con¬
cerned."
"But girls of nineteen and twenty are often married,"
I answered.
Uncle Ralph's blue eyes fixed themselves firmly on my
face when I said this.
i6 Bit Unfaithful Steward
" Then they are child-wives," he replied. " I atn tired,
Joan ; do you mind leaving me for to-day ? "
" But I will come again to-morrow," I answered.
" You must please yourself about that."
" I shall—I am coming," I answered in a very firm
tone. "Good-bye, Uncle Ralph."
I stooped down and kissed him again. As I did so
he suddenly took one of my hands in his. He had quite
a little colour in his cheeks at the moment, and his
blue eyes were wonderfully bright. He really looked a
young, handsome man—not a scrap ill. I had never seen
him look better, but the grip of his hand was queerly
nerveless and flabby. It was a very gentlemanly thin
hand, with long taper fingers. I had often admired it.
I used to think that it was a literary sort of hand, even
slightly artistic. Its powerlessness now gave me a sudden
pang. Although liis face looked so bright and well, his
hand had no strength in it whatever. He looked at me
as if he meant me to come nearer to him, and I dropped
on my knees close to his chair.
" You have a good face," he said—"a capable face. It
is in you, Joan, to turn out a good woman. I wonder if
you will."
" How can I say? " I answered, almost pettishly. " A
good woman—I don't know that I want to be one."
" Don't say that, child ; don't joke on the subject."
" I don't wish to be a philanthropist or anything of
that sort," I continued. " Of course I shall be good to
those I care for."
"To me, for instance," said Uncle Ralph. "You seem
to have conceived an affection for me, who have done
nothing for you."
Un TUnfaftbful Stewaro 17
" Nothing ! uncle," I cried. " Why, you have done
everything. You have educated me, you have made my
life tolerable. Think for a moment what it would have
been if I had been cast on the tender mercies of Aunt
Fanny."
" I have given you money, it is true, Joan," he replied
gravely. "After all, when a man is rich, to part with
a little money for the purpose of educating his nearest
relation is not a weighty matter. You don't love me
because I have given you money ? "
" No; I love you for yourself," I said.
" I have a great mind to tell you a story," he said after
a pause, during which he was evidently thinking hard.
" It is a story about myself. I have never breathed it to
human being before."
" I am so glad you are going to tell it to me," I
answered, when he suddenly stopped talking.
"Yes, I will tell you," he continued; "in fact, you
ought to know. I can put the whole thing into a very
few words. Once, Joan, long ago, there were two brothers.
The elder inherited some entailed property, which was the
nucleus of his making a great fortune; the younger had
no inheritance, and consequently was poor. The brothers
loved each other, and all went well until something hap¬
pened. They both, unfortunately, aspired to the hand of
the same lady."
" Yes," I said. He had stopped abruptly, and was
looking me full in the face. His eyes were as blue as
ever, but they no longer looked serene. They were full
of a memory which filled them with pain.
"The lady was your mother, Joan," he continued;
" the brothers were your father and myself. I was the
0
i8
Hit tlitfaitbful Stewarb
elder brother. We both loved Joan Lincoln, and Joan
cared only for your father. On the very day I meant to
tell her of my love, 011 the day I meant to offer her a life¬
long devotion, my younger brother forestalled me. I am
not quite certain he knew that I cared for her—at any
rate, he spoke. She loved him, and accepted his love,
and promised to devote her life to him. I did not say a
word. My youth was crushed suddenly, and my own life-
spoiled, but I firmly made up my mind never to allow
the smallest expression of my true feeling to escape me.
I don't think your mother ever suspected that my love
for her was even greater than that which your father
bore her. They became engaged. I was perfectly
friendly, and did not stand in their way, but neither
would I help them. If I had chosen, they could have
been married years before they were. I stood aside and
pretended to enjoy my own wealth, and your father
struggled on, and there was a long wearisome engage¬
ment. At last they were married. They took a small
house, and set up housekeeping in a very circumscribed
way. I did not go near them from the date of their
marriage until your father's death, three months after¬
wards : he died suddenly of diphtheria. Then I brought
your mother to this house. I watched over her, and
rejoiced to feel that she was at last under my roof, and
that it was possible for me to give her what care she
needed ; but I was not to have her long—she died in this
room after your birth. I could not bear to look at you
after that, so I sent you away. Your aunt, Mrs. Banner-
man, brought you up. I lived a hermit's life from that
time forward. I could have lived quite differently. I
have been an unfaithful steward. A great deal was
Hn Unfaithful Stewarb
19
given to me, and when I am called to render up my
account it will be a poor affair—I shall be weighed in
the balance and found wanting. There, don't question
me any more; your eyes are asking a thousand questions,
but I am not going to answer one of them. The doctor
says it is bad for me to be excited."
" But you are not really ill. The doctor! The doctor
is an old fogey, who doesn't know what he is talking
about."
"The doctor is a young scientific man who knowfr
exactly what he says; he never speaks a word without
weighing it well. The doctor says, after careful delibera
tion, that my days are numbered. I repeat to you, Joan,
for I want you to remember it afterwards, that I hav«
been an unfaithful steward, and that my account, when
I render it up, will be found wanting. Weighed in the
balance and found wanting is not a pleasant deathbed
thought."
" What can I do for you, Uncle Ralph ? You have not
told me all this for nothing."
"I have not. You have got your mother's eyes, Joan, .
although you will never be a patch upon your mother as
regards personal beauty; but you have got her eyes, and
something of my obstinacy about your face. It lies with
yourself to become a very good woman. I should like
to tell your mother, if I have the luck to see her in the
other world, that you intend to be a good woman."
" But I don't wish to make rash promises," I answered.
"Don't promise anything, child—look at me."
I raised my eyes steadily to my uncle's.
" I am leaving you when you are young, ' he said, " and
your position will be one of difficulty. I have been un-
2o Hit mnfattbful Stewart)
faithful in my stewardship. Suppose you rectify my
mistakes."
" What do you mean ? "
"You will know when the will is read."
" The will," I cried.
"Don't look so puzzled, child. Of course you are my
heiress: the work which I never did I leave to you.
You are young and strong and modern. You have been
educated up to date. You must attack the problems
which I have never had the courage to grapple with.
Now I can't say any more. Good-bye—good night."
" But it isn't night ? " I said.
"No more it is—but I am tired—good-bye."
Nurse Clara entered the room at that moment; she
was a stern-looking nurse, tall and severe; she came
hastily forward when she saw me kneeling by my uncle's
chair.
"You have tired yourself, Mr. Prinsep," she said.
She poured something out of a bottle which stood on
the table, and gave it to my uncle.
" Please go away at once, miss," she said, looking at me.
I slipped softly out of the room. I was not a scrap
afraid of Uncle Ralph, but Nurse Clara routed me com¬
pletely.
CHAPTER III
THE TEMPLE OF THE DEAD
HE next day the news was brought to me that
Uncle Ralph was dead. I was just preparing to
go to him when Francesca rushed up to my
room to inform me of what had occurred.
" You'll be awfully sorry, I know," she said.
I did not utter a syllable, but I took off my hat and
laid it on a chair.
" Why don't you ask me some questions ?" said
Francesca.
" I don't want to," I replied. " Go away now like a
good girl; I'll come downstairs presently."
" Mother is going to send for a dressmaker immediately
about your mourning, Joan."
" I don't wish her to," I answered. " I'm not going to
thiuk of the subject of dress at all to-day. Go away,
please, Francesca."
Francesca backed out of my room very unwillingly.
She was evidently full of curiosity, and would have liked
to probe me to the depths, had I submitted to the opera¬
tion. When she was gone I locked my door and sat
down near the window. I was a practical girl, and I
knew what had happened. The person I loved best in
21
** v Ube TEemple of tbe 2)eat>
the world was dead, and I was an heiress. I did not know
of what my uncle's property consisted, but I believed
that he was rich. He had left all his worldly goods to
me, with a proviso that I should be a faithful steward—
that I should make up for his omissions. I did not par¬
ticularly like the task—I felt slightly afraid. There were
one or two heiresses amongst the girls at Girton—only
one or two, for we were most of us a hard-working lot,
and I had never envied these girls. They talked of lovers,
and ball dresses, and London society, and amused them¬
selves with the thought of a life which had no charms
whatever for me. I wondered if their wealth had been
given to them with a proviso to use it well. Sitting there
by the window, I disliked my new position. Then it sud¬
denly occurred to me that I had made no promise to Uncle
Ralph. He had scarcely asked me for a promise. He
had asked me to undertake a certain duty. I might of
course refuse to comply, but I knew in my own heart that
I would not refuse. I could not take the property with¬
out accepting the responsibility. Suddenly a strong wish
came into my head to look at Uncle Ralph's well remem¬
bered features once more. I would go and view the
body—that was the horrid phrase. Uncle Ralph was
now converted from a living, breathing man into a body,
a mere senseless piece of cold flesh—the features, however
would still wear the familiar aspect. It would be easier
for me to make up my mind whether I would follow his
wishes or not when I stood face to face with what was
left of him. I rose from my seat by the window and
listened—the house was quiet—the hour was between
eleven and twelve. At that hour Francesca was generally
away at her Art School, Anne was practising music in
Ube Uemple of tbe 2Dcab
23
the drawing-room, and Aunt Fanny was shopping. I
thought it highly probable that I could slip downstairs
without any one noticing me. Aunt Fanny was the soul
of conventionalism, and it would hurt her very much if
I went out to-day. The uncle whom I had seen two or
three dozen times in the course of my life being dead, it
was my duty, according to Aunt Fanny's ideas, to keep
strictly in doors, and devote all my time and thoughts to
the heavy mourning in which I was presently to wrap
myself. I had no intention of wearing heavy mourning.
I had no idea of remaining in doors. I dressed myself in
the identical hat and scarf which I had worn yesterday,
ran swiftly downstairs, and shut the hall door behind me.
Not a soul had noticed my exit. I breathed a sigh of
relief when I found myself in the sunshiny street. Soon
I was in the omnibus, jolting away in the direction of
Bayswater. By-and-by I reached the house in Dorset
Gate. I rang the bell; it was opened after a consider¬
able delay, not by Williams, but by the kitchen maid.
She opened the door about two inches and peeped round
it at me.
"Yes, miss," she said,
" Will you let me in, please ? " I asked. " I am Miss
Prinsep; I wish to come in immediately."
" Lor', miss, don't you know ? " said the girl.
"I do," I said. " Would you let me in, please."
"Perhaps I'd better go and ask Willums," she said, in
a dubious tone. "It was larst night it 'appened, miss—
awful sudden, close on midnight. The nurse is upstairs,
miss; perhaps you'd like me to fetch her down."
"No, just step aside," I said, "and don't talk any
more,"
24
Ube Uemple of tbe H>eab
I pushed her hand from the hall door with a quick
movement, and entered the house. It was really too
absurd to think that servants could keep me from Uncle
Ralph. I, his nearest of kin, must at least do him the
respect of standing for a moment beside his cold body
before it was laid in the grave.
" Listen, Jane," I said—I happened to know the girl's
name. "You can tell Williams, if you like, that I have
gone up to your master's room, and that I don't wish to
be disturbed. Now go downstairs and attend to your
own duties."
She opened her lips as if to speak ; her face grew white
with a mixture of fear and astonishment; but without
another word she turned and went back to the kitchen
premises. I ran upstairs as quickly as I had done the
day before, opened the door of Uncle Ralph's bedroom
boldly, and went in. My fear was that the door might be
locked, and that I might have some difficulty in getting
the key. But evidently no one had expected my visit. I
entered the room, found that the nurse was not present,
saw with relief that the key was on the inside of the lock,
locked the door, and slipped the key into my pocket. I
was now alone with the dead—the object of my visit was
accomplished. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had no fear
in me. Young girls who have never seen death are not
afraid of it. The bed had been drawn out into the centre
of the room. The room was bare and in perfect order,
the blinds were down, but both the high windows were
open at the top. A cool and pleasant breeze blew through
the chamber of death. The medicine bottles and the
little table and easy-chair had been pushed out of sight;
the bed hangings had been removed; all unnecessary
Ube Uemple of tbe H>eab 25
decoration had been taken from the room—it had a bare,
sad look. On the whole I approved of it. I took in full
particulars with a certain air of proprietorship. If I were,
indeed, Uncle Ralph's heiress, this room now belonged
to me. In its solemnity and plainness I considered it a
fitting temple for the dead. For a time my eyes avoided
the central object of the room, then making an effort I
approached the bedside. The careful nurse had thrown a
sheet over the body of the dead man. I saw the outline
of his figure very distinctly under the sheet, even the
sharpened features of the thin face were plainly discer¬
nible. I hesitated for a brief half moment before I removed
the sheet; then with a quick movement I flung it aside.
When I did this I started—a pleased exclamation fell
from my lips; I clasped my hands together, my eyes
filled with tears, and a soft sensation of pure love and
pity, pity mixed with admiration, swept up in my heart.
" How beautiful you look," I said aloud. " Why do you
smile like that ? Are you satisfied ? "
I dropped on my knees by the bedside. The expression
on the face was full of that marvellous serenity which
comes with death. The aloofness, the cold remoteness
did not strike me in this first glance ; I only saw the smile
and the look of satisfaction. I took the hand of the
dead man in mine, and bending forward, pressed my lips
on the icy brow. I felt a sense of shock at the terrible
cold, but was not at all afraid. After a time I covered
up the face again, and walked to one of the windows.
I sat down by it, and drawing aside the blind, looked
out. Sitting there I began to think carefully over the
problem which I had come to this room to work out.
Uncle Ralph was dead, but the temple of his body which
n
i6
Xlbe temple of tbe 2Deab
he had left behind him wore a satisfied expression. His
eyes had been restless yesterday. Ilad he found satis¬
faction, as he went to meet his Maker, at the thought
that I would complete the work which he had neglected ?
This idea, which presented itself quite forcibly to me, gave
me such pain that I started up again, and, going back to
the bed, studied the face of the dead man with fresh
attention. The more I thought of it, the more sure I was
that this was the case. Had I promised him anything
yesterday ? I was a girl of my word; I respected my
word very much ; I never gave it hastily. When I did, it
became a sort of bond. Had I given Uncle Ralph this
bond ? Perhaps I had—if not with my lips, with my eyes.
Was that why he looked contented lying there ? I was
puzzled. A sudden strong rebellious feeling took posses¬
sion of me. Why should a dead man claim my life ? I was
too young to appreciate wealth as older people would have
done. I had never known the want of money. My edu¬
cation had always been provided by Uncle Ralph. I had
never gone into society, and therefore regarded dress and
gaiety from a very indifferent point of view. The Banner-
mans were rather poor—at least they struggled to keep
up a better position than their means entitled them to;
but I had never joined in the struggle. I had stood
apart from it, living my own life in its midst. At Girton
my sixty pounds a year gave me abundant pocket money.
In thinking of my future, money had never played a large
part. Of course I had my castles in Spain like other
girls, but they were somewhat ill defined. They were
beautiful, of course, with rainbow tints about them; but
they had nothing to do with wealth, and very little to do
with lovers, I did not want money, and I did not want
XCbe XTemple of tbe 2>eab
2 /
marriage. I had an aspiration for a perfect friendship,
either with a man or a woman—I did not much care
which. I had a vague uneasy wish to rise to a height
where I could breathe a sort of spiritual air, but I did
not want goodness in the abstract. I was not a scrap
religious, although I believed, after a fashion, in eternity.
Now something had happened. I was a free woman
yesterday; to-day I was bound—bound by a promise
looking out of my eyes into the eyes of a dying man.
Not a word had passed my lips, but my eyes must have
satisfied him. He had gone away contented; perhaps he
had already come face to face with the Divine Presence,
and had said something to his Maker, and his Maker was
satisfied that I should throw my young life, my unbur¬
dened days, into that scale of the balance which Uncle
Ralph had left incomplete. I hated the thought.
" If I ^repudiate the wealth, I surely need not keep
the promise," I said to myself. "I have not the faintest
idea what I am to do, but if I take the wealth I see I
must keep the promise. Suppose I hand over all Uncle
Ralph's money to a hospital; suppose I split it up and
give large sums to different charities; suppose I start all
the poor relations of my house in certain professions."
I looked down at the face of the dead as these thoughts
crowded into my mind. I cast them all aside presently
as worthless.
" Uncle Ralph went away thinking that I would put
things straight," I said to myself. " I cannot shift the
responsibility."
Then I knelt down by the side of the dead man, and
pressed my face against the cold, smooth sheet, and
remained in that position quite motionless for some
28 TEbe TTemple of tbe 2Deab
moments. I was not praying, but I was thinking with
great intensity. I did not wish to sacrifice myself in any
way. I was really not a bit good nor high minded. As
I knelt there I was not praying, but I was looking at
myself. It is horrid to look at one's self when one is
essentially commonplace. I summed up my character and
my different abilities in a very candid fashion.
"Medium," I said to everything; "medium character,
medium appearance, medium abilities. Is it worth keep¬
ing back anything so utterly commonplace? On the
other hand, is it worth offering it up ?—and to whom am
I to offer it up ? Not to God, for I don't know Him; to
a dead man, then."
I jumped up hastily, took out my handkerchief, and
rubbed my face. I had not been crying, but the very
muscles of my face irritated me at that moment. Then
I stooped down and kissed the dead man on his lips.
" You have been very cruel to me," I said to him, " but
I'll do it. I did not want your wealth; I never expected
it; I never once thought about it. Your wealth, saddled
with the sort of thing you want me to do, is intensely
repugnant to me, but I'll do it. You loved my mother,
and I'll do it for her sake. Good-bye. Sleep long—
and well."
I laid the sheet over the calm face, and hurriedly left
the room.
CHAPTER IV
THE HEIRESS
HERE was a great commotion amongst all the
relations. I was quite amazed to find that
I Uncle Ralph had some distant cousins. Letters
arrived from them almost every day, letters of
condolence and sympathy. Uncle Ralph's lawyer came
two or three times to the Bannermans' house. It was
decided that I must attend the funeral, and that I must
be dressed in very deep mourning for the occasion. A
dressmaker came to fit me; a milliner came to suit me
with hats and bonnets. Some hideous mantles and capes
were sent from Jay's for my approval. Aunt Fanny was
in her element, as she sorted and pulled about the ugly
arrangements of jet and crape.
" I will wear anything you like for the funeral," I said
to her, " but afterwards, I don't intend to have any crape
nor any jet. I'll wear a black skirt because it is dark and
convenient; it must be made of light material, for the
weather is hot; and I'll wear white blouses."
" White, Joan! won't it be thought strange ? "
" Perhaps so, Aunt Fanny, but strange or not I intend
to wear it. I'll have a white sailor hat with a band of
black ribbon round it, and I suppose I must wear black
29
3°
Ube ibetress
gloves. Oil, anything you like for the funeral, but after¬
wards—afterwards, I shall do as I like, don't forget."
'"My dear child, how wonderfully original and eccentric
you are," said Aunt Fanny.
She would have called me a heartless wretch a week
ago; but perhaps the lawyer had given her some inti¬
mation of the wording of the will, for she was horridly
obsequious to me just then.
"Francesca, for goodness' sake, don't fawn," I said to
my eldest cousin; " you don't know how I loathe it; no,
I won't take your favourite chair, and I hate footstools."
I kicked the offending footstool aside, and sat on a hard
chair with my face to the light. I took up Wilkie Collins'
"Moonstone," which happened to be on the table, and
pretended to absorb myself in it. I certainly did not feel
my character improving during the few days between the
death and the funeral, but the thought of the sacrifice
which was before me was making me so thoroughly miser¬
able that I scarcely knew myself. At last the day came
when Uncle Ralph was to be laid in the big old family
vault at Highgate. Aunt Fanny and I drove in one of
the mourning coaches to the cemetery. It was a very
warm, lovely summer's day, and I felt so stuffy and rest¬
less in my hot mourning in the funeral carriage that my
temper got worse and worse, and I could scarcely give any
thought to the solemn and pathetic occasion. Of course
all funerals are pathetic, but I really could not cry at this
one. The person I loved best was going to be put out of
sight for ever ; but I could not feel any becoming gravity,
nothing but a sore sense of overpowering crossness. If I
had been allowed to go by omnibus and tramcar to High-
gate, just in my ordinary clothes, and if I could have knelt
Ube Ibefress
31
by the grave all alone, and put a few flowers which I had
bought and chosen for myself on it, my feelings would
have been very different. Now it was all show and
pageant, and I kept thinking all the time how Uncle
Ralph would have detested it if he knew, and wondering
if he still wore that pleasant still smile on his lips, and if
the body inside that coffin could think, and if its thoughts
were about me and my sacrifice. I kept thinking like
that, while Aunt Fanny kept on a constant rattling stream
of commonplaces. She did not talk of the will, but she kept
edging nearer and nearer to the subject which was doubiless
exercising all her thoughts. She was like a moth dipping
her wings every minute in the flame. She kept alluding
to the golden future which lav before me, and to the
duties which girls in my posiiio owed to those who had
had the trouble of bringing them up. I scarcely listened
to her, but I knew her conversation never ceased for a
minute. At last we reached the cemetery. Aunt Fanny
and I were the chief mourners. We walked immediately
behind the coffin. I might have felt a little sad then if
Aunt Fanny were not with me ; but as I knew that Uncle
Ralph could not bear her in life, and as I knew also that
she had invariably quarrelled with him whenever they had
met, it seemed so incongruous to have her in this position
at the funeral, that I could really think of nothing melan¬
choly or suitable to the occasion. The service was read
in the chapel, and afterwards we all approached the open
vault, and then at the last moment I laid the cross of white
flowers, which I had carried all the way from Bloomsbury,
on the lid of the coffin, and then it was borne out of sight
down the steps into the vault, and Aunt Fanny heaved a
profound sigh, and two great big tears rolled down her
3*
TTbe Ibelress
fat cheeks. After that I would rather have been dragged
through a pond than shed one myself. The service over,
we turned away. Some of the distant cousins had come
to the funeral, and we all got into the mourning coaches,
and drove as fast as we could back to Dorset Gate.
There was to be a big lunch there, and then we were to go
upstairs to the huge drawing-room, which Uncle Ralph
had scarcely ever used, and the lawyer, Mr. Pritchard, was
to read the will aloud. I knew beforehand what the will
would contain ; I would be proclaimed heiress, and all the
cousins and distant relations would stare at me. They
none of them would guess what a weight would lie around
my heart, with the consciousness of the wealth which
would be mine. I thought a little of the scene which lay
before me as we rattled back to Bayswater. I think we
quite flew all the way home, but after a time my principal
sense of relief was the fact that I could soon get my
odious stifling funeral mourning off, and slip into my
cool every-day garments. The black skirt must be worn,
but a white cotton blouse would be deliciously refreshing.
"You look quite flushed, Joan," said Aunt Fanny.
" Now that I look at you, I do. not think you have a
good complexion. Some people look so pretty when they
flush; you don't. I suppose, dear child, that I must not
scold you to-day, that the reason of your heightened colour
is those tears which you have been brave enough not to
shed."
"You are quite mistaken," I replied; "I have not had
the faintest idea of crying."
"My poor darling, I understand," said Aunt Fanny,
and she patted my hand with her fat one.
She was in complimentary mourning, as she expressed
Ube Ibeiresa
33
it, and her hand was encased in a very tight kid glove.
We reached Dorset Gate. Williams looked magnificent
to-day, and he was most respectful to me as he flung
open the hall door. We all trooped into the empty
house—the heiress, her relations on the mother's side,
and all Uncle Ralph's poor cousins. I considered it a
horrid sight — a sort of desecration. I wondered that
Uncle Ralph could stay quietly in his grave and think
of it.
" He doesn't think of it, of course," I said to myself,
" but I wonder he doesn't."
I went moodily into the drawing-room, and tried to
hide myself behind the heavy curtains at the farthest
window. Aunt Fanny and the relations walked about the
room and criticised the furniture. They went into rap¬
tures over the china, and poked and patted and tapped
the piano and the cabinets and the queer old Queen Anne
chairs. Aunt Fanny said, with a deep sigh, that the
room was a noble one; then Mr. Pritchard came in, and
sat down by a little table which had been cleared for the
purpose, and we all stood and sat near him, and the will
was read. It was quite a short will, and the reading of
it did not take five minutes. There were some legacies
to the servants, and then there came a list of the different
possessions of the dead man, and then my name; I knew
it was coming, and wished I need not listen. I heard
one or two sighs quite close to me, and then a cross old
lady who had expected a legacy put up her pince nez, and
stared at me from head to foot, and Aunt Fanny took my
hand again and patted it lovingly ; then Mr. Pritchard
stopped speaking, and then every one in the room, rela¬
tions and all, came round me to congratulate.
E
34
Ube Ibefress
" I wish you would not," I said suddenly. " I don't
like it a hit; it is a horrid responsibility."
"Joan, my darling, try not to be so eccentric," said
Aunt Fanny.
I heard one of the relations saying that I was a very
affected girl, and that she had no patience with me; and
then Uncle Bannerman came slowly up—he was a very
slow, ponderous, dull man—and he put his big hand under
my chin, and raised my face, and looked steadily into my
eyes, and said—
" I only trust in Providence that you have got a good
head for business."
" No, I have not," I replied. " I hate arithmetic, and
I never yet could make a sum in addition come
straight."
" Frivolous, unseemly," murmured another relation.
And then the room began to clear, and the distant
cousins went away ; and Mr. Pritchard said that he would
call on me the following morning in Bloomsbury, and
Aunt Fanny took me home as tenderly as if I were a
piece of Dresden china, and the horrible day of the
funeral was past.
CHAPTER V
MY PROPERTY
R. PRITCHARD came the next day and began
to explain to me about my property. I saw
him in Uncle Bannerman's study. I always
bated that study ; it was at the back of the
house, and looked out on to a little yard. It had Vene¬
tian blinds, which were never painted when the rest of
the house was done. Aunt Fanny said that no one saw
them, so it did not matter, and the lower half of the ugly
window was protected by a wire screen blind. The rest
of the furniture was in keeping with the window; it was
old and faded, and too big for the room. There was not
a single bright thing about this room ; and as I used to be
put here when Uncle Bannerman was out, and I was par¬
ticularly naughty as a child, it is scarcely to be expected
that I should feel with affection towards it.
I sat here now, feeling as dull and miserable as I had
ever felt in my life, with Uncle Bannerman opposite to
me, and Aunt Fanny by ruy side holding my hand, while
Mr. Pritcbard explained my future responsibilities. He
was very ponderous and dull, and I did not take in a
tenth of what he said. As far as I could make out,
my property principally consisted of houses—houses and
35
36
tffcp property
warehouses, with a sprinkling of shares in Consols, and
railways, both at home and abroad.
" How much have I got altogether ? " I said when he
had done speaking.
This was such an important question, so direct and to
the point, that it disconcerted Mr. Pritchard very much.
He took off his glasses and wiped them, and rubbed his
long nose gently with a finger of one hand, and then put
on his glasses again, and peered at me, and finally, before
he replied, placed them on the centre of his broad, bald
forehead.
" Eh ? " he exclaimed ; " what was your question, Miss
Prinsep ? "
" What is my yearly income ? " I asked abruptly.
" A very sensible question," murmured Uncle Banner-
man. " After all, the yearly income is the main thing
when all is said and done."
He smiled at me as I had never seen him smile before.
I am certain that for the first time in my life he began to
consider me not an absolute fool. Mr. Pritchard became
deep in calculations; he murmured some magical figures
softly under his breath, and turned over long sheets of
foolscap paper and lawyer-like documents of different
kinds. At last he was in a position to reply.
" Well," said Aunt Fanny, in a short, sharp voice. She
was also intensely interested in the question of the yearly
income.
"I should say," began Mr. Pritchard slowly and em¬
phatically, as if each word was weighted with gold—" I
should say that Miss Prinsep may consider herself in the
fortunate position of a yearly income of about three
thousand pounds. This will, of course, fluctuate—some-
flhv property
37
times approaching a greater sum, occasionally dropping
a very little below this figure; but with judicious care,
and under my management, I should say, Miss Prinsep,
that you are entitled to live up to this sum."
"Then how much have I got altogether?" I said
again.
" I have been for the last two hours trying to inform
you of that fact, my dear young lady," said the lawyer,
with a gentle sigh. "Your uncle has left behind him
realisable capital to the amount of something like one
hundred thousand pounds. Some of that capital is pay¬
ing very small interest at present, but several leaseholds
will shortly fall in, and the property in the future may
even amount to a greater sum than that which I have
just mentioned."
" One hundred thousand pounds," I murmured under
my breath. " Thank you very much, Mr. Pritchard. At
what hour to-morrow will it be convenient for me to see
you ? "
" Quite right, quite right," said Mr. Pritchard, nodding
his head. "I see, Miss Prinsep, that you intend to be a
business woman; I am glad of it; I assure you I much
prefer it. Of course a young girl cannot take in all these
weighty matters in one hour, two hours, nor several
hours. I shall be pleased to come to this house to talk
over the subject again with you to-morrow, say at eleven
o'clock."
"Excuse me," I said, "but I want to go to see you.
Will eleven o'clock be convenient for me to call ? "
" I will come with you, Joan," said Aunt Fanny.
" I would rather go alone, Aunt Fanny, please ; that is
the reason why I proposed to visit Mr. Pritchard at his
(toy property
rooms, because I want to see bim alone. You see," I
added, looking steadily into Aunt Fanny's eyes, " it is my
property that I have got to talk about."
Poor Aunt Fanny, I was really sorry for her—she got
so red and looked so troubled. Of course I intended to
be very good to her when everything was arranged, but
in my peculiar position, that position which no one knew
except myself and the man who had just gone into eter¬
nity, I must get a perfect grip of the situation.
Uncle Bannerman rose when I said I wished to see
Mr. Pritchard by himself, and very soon afterwards this
little council of four broke up.
The rest of the day was a very uncomfortable one for
me. Francesca and Anne went on congratulating me,
and petting me until I felt so sick of their society that I
had to run away to my own room, lock myself in, and
become deaf to their entreaties to be allowed to enter and
share my solitude with me.
"The dear child is secretly grieving a good deal," I
heard Aunt Fanny whisper in a loud voice to Francesca,
when I came down before dinner. "Joan has a great
deal of self-control, but the shock has evidently told
very much upon her—she was so attached to her uncle,
poor dear fellow. A most fascinating man, Francesca—
quite a gentleman of the old school."
" Hush, mother, she'll hear you," said Francesca.
I went over to one of the windows, and wished I could
metaphorically stop my ears.
I thought very hard all night over my new position. 1
knew so little about money that I had no idea what three
thousand a year really meant. But from the respect
with which my aunt and cousins treated me, I guessed
/n>E property
39
that it must represent a very comfortable sum indeed. It
was not given to me, however, to use in luxury or com¬
fort—it was simply mine as a trust. With this money
I was to set Uncle Ralph right with his Maker. This was
the queer thought which rankled in my mind. Now that
I had got the money, how was I to do it ? The problem
puzzled me a good deal. I determined, when I saw Mr.
Pritchard, to try to sound him on the subject. I drove
to Mr. Pritchard's rooms in Chancery Lane in a hansom—
Aunt Fanny said she must put her foot down now with
regard to omnibuses—a girl in my position had positively
no right to use the conveniences meant for people of small
means. To oblige her, I must in future use a hansom.
"But you can afford to keep a nice little can in ge," said
Francesca. " I love a small victoria myself, and will help
you to choose one if you will accept my assistance, Joan."
" Thanks very much," I answered.
Several hints with regard to my future had been given
to me already by my aunt and cousins, but I had disre¬
garded them all. Up to the present I did not know what
my future would be.
When I arrived at Mr. Pritchard's office, he did not
keep me waiting a minute, although I was by no means
his first client, for several people were sitting in the outer
office when the clerk showed me the lawyer's presence. I
was glad that he did so, for I was eager to get the inter¬
view over.
The lawyer motioned me to a comfortable chair just
facing the light. He then seated himself with his back
to the light, and proceeded to take a good view of me,
both mentally and physically. I saw by his manner that
he ljked the position. He considered me a rather weak
4°
Property
silly girl, and was quite certain that he could manage my
property for me in his own way.
" Now what can I do for you ? " he said, in a cheerful
voice; "you may rest assured that I shall be only too
pleased to give you any advice in my power. My late
respected client had perfect confidence in me, and I trust
that I shall give you also, young lady, equal satisfaction."
" Thank you," I replied. Then I added, after a pause,
" I want to speak to you, but not exactly on the subject
of money."
" Indeed, this is interesting," said Mr. Pritchard, pursing
up his lips and giving me a shrewd glance.
"First of all," I continued, "I wish to remind you that
I am of age. I was twenty-two last week. I have there¬
fore perfect control of my own fortune, have I not?"
" Absolute," said the lawyer. " Mr. Prinsep left you
all this wealth unconditionally."
"That means that I can do what I like with it?"
"You can. You can make ducks and drakes with it if
it is your pleasure so to do."
I smiled when the lawyer said this, and the lawyer
smiled also, as much as to say—
" I consider you a very wise young lady, who will con¬
tentedly leave your affairs in the hands of your business
man."
" Did you know my uncle well ? " I asked.
"Well?" repeated Mr. Pritchard. "I have had the
pleasure of Mr. Prinsep's acquaintance, not only as man
of business, but also as friend, for the last thirty years."
"Have you indeed?" I replied, my face brighten¬
ing; "then you must have thoroughly understood his
character,"
fll>£ property
41
" I fancy I knew him as well as any man living, Miss
Prinsep."
" I am so glad—for you can answer an important ques¬
tion. Perhaps it will surprise you, but in my position it
is imperative that I should know the truth. Please tell
me what sort of man my uncle really was. I had after
all but a very surface acquaintance with him. What sort
of character did he bear ? "
Mr. Pritcliard looked very much amazed; he raised his
brows and said, after a perceptible pause—
" Your uncle was an excellent man—most excellent."
"What sort of life did he lead?" I continued.
Mr. Pritchard's brows went up higher than ever—he
even took off his spectacles and wiped them. When he
put them on again he gave me a glance not only of
anxiety, but of reproof. I believe he thought I was a
little off my head.
" Your late uncle led an exemplary life," he said slowly
—"the life of a gentleman and a Christian."
" A Christian," I exclaimed eagerly. "Christians do a
great deal of good, don't they ? "
"Um—good! Your uncle was what would be called
a silent Christian. I have no doubt he did great good,
but he was not one of those who proclaim their deeds
of charity in the market-place. Scripture is against
that mode of procedure. Mr. Prinsep, to quote from
the Bible, never told- his right hand what his left
hand did."
" But you, who knew him so well, must have found
out?" I asked abruptly.
" I did know him well; his life was quiet and unobtru¬
sive. He never spent his entire income; he thought of
42
Property
his heirs, or, rather, Miss Prinsep, of you, his heiress. He
owed no man anything; in short, he belonged to the
excellent of the earth."
I sat still for a moment. I saw that Mr. Pritchard would
not tell me what I wanted to know. I was rather tired
of his platitudes. After a time I said—
"The property so unexpectedly left to me is a great
responsibility."
The lawyer's manner became eager and emphatic.
"You must not regard it so," he said; "your prospects
are most brilliant; you are young and rich and, ahem—
very pleasing. If you will take my advice you will be
guided in your future entirely by your excellent uncle
and aunt. The opportunity is now yours to repay them
for all their past kindness. Consult them, my dear young
lady ; consult them about your future."
" I don't mean to," I answered. " The fact is," I con¬
tinued abruptly, " I can't. I am not quite, quite my own
mistress."
Mr. Pritchard got quite red when I said this; perhaps
the wild idea darted through his brain that I was engaged
to some spendthrift.
" I have no idea of wasting my property," I said, " on
the contrary, I wish to improve it. I don't intend it to lie
fallow, I can assure you."
"Admirable, Miss Prinsep, admirable; who would have
thought that such a wise head was on those young
shoulders."
"You said yesterday," I continued, "that a large
part of my uncle's property consisted of houses—London
houses."
" That is the case,"
/top iproperts
43
" Where are they ? " I asked.
" Some are east of the city; some are situated not far
from Holborn; there is also a small country property, but
that is in Yorkshire."
" I should like to see the London property," I said.
" What did you say, Miss Prinsep ? "
" I should like to see the property."
Mr. Pritchard looked embarrassed.
"Why should you trouble?" he said. "Young ladies
don't understand these matters. Your interest in the
houses will consist of the pleasure with which you will
receive your quarterly cheques."
" You mistake me very much," I said, getting red. " I
intend to know all about my property—whether the houses
are in good condition, whether the tenants are happy and
comfortable."
" For goodness' sake don't become philanthropic," said
Mr. Pritchard, holding up his hands in horror.
" Was my uncle a philanthropist ? "
" Thank Heaven he was not; in my opinion, the philan¬
thropic craze shows a mind slightly off its balance. Your
uncle was blessed with a sound head for business, Miss
Prinsep."
"Perhaps so," I answered. "Of course my uncle did
what he pleased. He has now left the property to me.
and I am now equally resolved to do what I please. I
will see the houses. Will you take me to see them, or
will you send me with some one else?"
"I cannot prevent you seeing your property," said Mr.
Pritchard, "but please understand that you will not do
the least good by troubliug yourself in this matter. The
greater part of your late uncle's property is let on lease.
44
Jpropert#
Until the leases fall in yon have, no power whatever over
the property, beyond receiving the rents paid to you at
stated intervals by the leaseholders."
" I don't understand these things," I said. " Of course
the whole aspect of affairs is completely new and puzzling
to me, but I think, nay, I am sure that my idea is right
in the main. I will know for myself all about the sources
of my income."
As I spoke I rose, and laid my hand for a moment on
a pile of documents which lay upon the table.
" These refer to my property, do they not ? " I said.
" Yes."
" Can I have tbem copied ? "
" Copied ? What do you mean ? "
" What I say. I should like to study these documents.
Can they be copied ? "
" They can—certainly."
" Please have them done as quickly as possible."
" You won't understand the copies when you get them."
" Still I should like to look them over. How soon can
these deeds be copied ? "
" Within a fortnight, perhaps."
" That is a great deal too long. Can I have them in
three days ? "
Mr. Pritchard's eyes twinkled.
" You are a determined young lady," he said.
" But can I ? "
" Yes—if I put outside clerks on the job."
" Please do so."
" I will, if you really desire it."
" I do. Can I have the deeds by Tuesday ? "
"To the resolute all things are possible," was the
property
45
reply. " The copies shall be in your possession on Tues¬
day morning."
This was Thursday. I bade Mr. Pritchard " good¬
bye " and went away. I drove straight to a model
lodging-house in a place called Saffron Hill. I felt rather
frightened as I gave this address to the cabman. He
certainly favoured me with a dubious glance as I did so.
Saffron Hill is a quarter little known to the uninitiated,
and I had never been there before. It is but a short
drive, however, from Chancery Lane, being situated just
at the back of Holborn Town Hall. The weather was
intensely hot, and Saffron Hill was not a savoury part of
London in hot weather. The model lodging-house looked
dirty, grimy, and most uninviting. A slatternly woman
was standing by the entrance door. I stooped forward out
of my hansom and addressed her.
" Hoes Mrs. Keys live here ? " I said.
The woman stared at me in a very insolent manner
from top to toe.
" Find out fer yerself," she said.
She turned on her heel as she spoke, gave me a scowl
of dislike, and disappeared down some stairs into the
basement regions of the house.
I jumped out of the hansom, stepped into the entrance-
hall, and saw some names written in black on a white¬
washed wall. The name of Mrs. Keys was put opposite
No. 17, on the third floor. I went back to the hansom
driver, and asked him to wait for me.
"Yes, miss," he answered.
I then began to toil up the ugly stone stairs to the
third floor. I did not meet any one on the way, which
rather surprised me. At last I came to No. 17. There
46
/ll>£ Property
was a little knocker to the door, which I used. It was
immediately opened, and a big, broad-faced woman, with
a sunny expression and eyes twinkling with good humour,
flung the door wide open and stared at me in astonish¬
ment. Her astonishment was quickly over; a smile
broadened her mouth almost from ear to ear.
" It ain't—no, it is," she cried. " Come in, Miss Joan,
my darlin'; come in and welcome. Oh, dear, dear, and
how are you, pet ? "
"I am all right, Honey," I answered; "how are
you ? "
" All the better for seeing you, dearie. Now what did
you come to me for ? Of course it ain't for nothing. If
I can help you, Miss Joan, I will."
" I want to talk to you, Honey," I said. " May I sit
down ?"
" Of course, dear; here's a chair as clean as can be, for
I scrubbed it not half-an-hour ago."
Mrs. Keys had been cook at Uncle Ralph's some years
ago. She had been an excellent cook—at least I had
thought her so. Many surreptitious visits had I paid to
her kitchen in the days when she reigned over it. I
was then child enough to appreciate unlimited cakes, pre¬
serves, fruits, and gingerbread. Mrs. Keys always had a
store ready for me when I went to visit her. She used
to make a great fuss over me, and I used to submit to her
endearments, partly because I was fond of her, and partly
because I was decidedly greedy. She had left Uncle
Ralph's service many years ago, and had started for her¬
self in the laundry and charing line. She admitted that
it was a poor trade compared to domestic service, but
said frankly that she preferred her liberty and bad times
property
47
without Williams to service and good times with him.
She and Williams hated each other, which had been the
principal reason for her vacating her excellent post in
Uncle Ralph's house.
Mrs. Keys was very glad to see me now. She seated
me on a little stool two or three feet away from a blazing
fire. The door of her stove was open, and the heat of the
fire came full on my face.
" I can't sit here, Honey," I said. " How can you stand
such a hot room ? Do you know what the atmosphere
is outside ? "
"No, dearie," she answered, "but I've had the brown-
kitis lately, and draughts is dangerous. The doctor said
I must keep in warm h'air, and I don't let the fire out-
day nor night."
" Then no wonder you are so pale," I replied, in a
deprecating sort of way.
" I was always used to the kitchen, and kitchens are
'ot, come summer or winter."
" That is true," I answered.
I took my seat on the window ledge, and wiped the
moisture from my brow. Mrs. Keys' room was the pic¬
ture of neatness and cleanliness ; but for that dreadful
stove it would have been quite pleasant to sit in.
" Take a seat, Honey," I said ; " I want to talk to you.
Of course you have heard what has happened ? "
" Well, my dear, I don't know that I have; it is some
time now since I was round in Bayswater."
" Then I have news for you," I said. " Uncle Ralph is
dead."
"Heaven preserve us, dead is he?" exclaimed Mrs. Keys,
throwing up both her fat hands in horror. " Poor gentle-
48
tf&P property
man ! well—I am sorry. A. nice gentleman too—never
meddling out of liis own province ; but for Williams I'd
a been there now. Ah, Williams knew at which side his
bread was buttered. He has a big legacy most like.
Do say, Miss Joan, has Williams had a legacy from the
old master ? "
" Yes, Honey—five hundred pounds."
"To be sure! He'll be setting up in the public line
now. I know him; he and Mary Simpkins have been
keeping company for a good bit. They'll marry now, and
set up in the public line."
" Oh, never mind about them," I answered; " let them
do it if they like. You have not asked if I have been
left any money, Honey ? "
" Well, darlin', I don't need to. Is it likely he'd
forget his own flesh and blood ? "
" He didn't, Honey; I'm grieved to say he didn't."
" Grieved, Miss Joan! grieved that a bit of money
has come to you ! But say, my love, he didn't treat you
shabby now ? He was a very eccentric man, although a
real gentleman, and no mistake."
"He left me all he possessed," I answered. "I am
very rich, Honey—frightfully rich."
" How much have you got, darlin' ? "
Mrs. Keys' face was now quite flushed; her eyes were
bright; she drew close up to me and took one of my
unresisting hands in hers. She looked as interested as
Aunt Fanny.
"I am told by the lawyers," I replied, "that I shall
have an income of three thousand a year."
" Preserve us ! that's a powerful lot," said Mrs. Keys.
" It is, Honey. Now, Honey, let us try and forget it
lfrropert£
49
for a minute. I want to ask you one or two questions.
Do try and answer them straight out. Forget that 1 am
Uncle Ralph's heiress. Answer me truly from the bottom
of your heart."
" I wonder now what the child's after," muttered Mrs.
Keys, half under her breath.
"You lived with Uncle Ralph for several years?" I
began.
" Ten long years, my pretty."
" Then you knew him well?"
" To a turn, Miss Joan—to a turn. I knew his appetite
truly to a turn. There never was a gentleman more par¬
ticular with regard to a fried sole : it mustn't be too much
done, and it mustn't be too little done; it must be just
golden—that was the word. Oh, the pesperations I used
to get into in hot weather over the master's fried fish."
" He was particular about everything, was he not ? "
" Yes, yes, and money didn't matter. He must have
the best—the best food, the best wine, the best service.
Oh, he was a real gentleman."
"You thought him a very good man?" I answered.
Mrs. Keys looked slightly puzzled.
" Why don't you answer ? " I said impatiently. " You
thought Uncle Ralph a very good man ? "
"To be sure," she said, then brightening up, " as good
a man as ever lived : paid my wage to the day ; grudged
us servants nothing in reason; I'd a been with him now
but for Williams."
" Being a good man, he helped a lot of poor people ? " I
said ; " having a lot of money, he gave a great deal away ?"
" Well, dearie, it wasn't my place to meddle about his
charities ; I didn't know nothing about them."
a
Property
" Honey," I said, rising suddenly to my feet, " I see
you cannot answer my questions unless I explain myself.
Now just listen to me, and I'll tell you in a few words
what I mean. I saw Uncle Ralph the day before he died.
Williams tried to keep me out of his room, but I ran up
when his back was turned." Mrs. Keys gave a quick
chuckle, instantly suppressed. " Uncle Ralph was not
in bed," I said. " I sat with him for some time. Just
before I left, he told me that he was going to leave me
his property, and he said—he said such a queer thing,
Iloney—he said that he had been an unfaithful steward,
and that when he was weighed in the balance he would
be found wanting, and he asked me to do the work he
had never done. And now the property is mine, Honey
—all the money and the houses—and I am young, and I
feel that if I take the money I must do what Uncle Ralph
asked me to do, and I don't know how. I want to find
out how he was an unfaithful steward, so that I may be
faithful. I thought Mr. Pritchard, the lawyer, could help
me, but he didn't; so now I have come to you, for I must
find out my work, Honey. However horrid it is, I will
do it. It is a compact between the dead and me, and I
must do it."
While I was speaking, Mrs. Keys looked awestruck.
" It must be the houses," she said, after a pause. " I
can think of nothing else."
" The houses," I replied. " What do you mean ?"
"Dear," she answered, "you have never lived in Saf¬
fron Hill ? "
" Never," I answered; " I should not like to."
" Well, I have for the last seven years. When I was
leaving your uncle, he told me that I could have rooms in
property
51
this model lodging-house. Why, this house belongs to
you now, Miss Joan."
"To me?" I cried in astonishment.
"Yes, my dear, of course this house is yours; and
there's a court just down at the end of the street which
is yours also. You mustn't go to it, my love; it is an
awful place. But a deal of rent comes out of it, and the
rent used to go into your uncle's pocket. There's a man
comes every Saturday to collect the rents. I pay mine
regularly, but there's some in this house, and some in the
court at the bottom of the street, who find it hard work to
make up their shillings; and once, some years ago, an
Irishwoman—her name was O'Plannigan—well I remem¬
ber her—her husband was dead, and she had six children,
and two of them down with diphtheria; she begged and
prayed to have the rent lowered, and Mr. Bridges, he's
the man who collects, he was very hard on her, and
she went straight off to Dorset Gate to see your uncle.
She asked me what sort of gentleman he was, and I
said he was the real good old stock, and that he wouldn't
refuse to listen to her. And then she went off, but
whether she saw him or not I can't say. Anyhow,
nothing was done for her, and the poor soul, she drowned
herself. I don't suppose Mr. Prinsep ever heard of it,
but it made a noise in the court—the real landlord not
helping her one bit, and her being brought back from the
river. The children were taken to the workhouse, and,
lor'! it was forgotten by the end of the week, but it made
a fuss at the time. Perhaps the master did hear of it,
Miss Joan, and perhaps the thought of her face come to
him when he was dying. It seemed hard, and him so
rich, not to forgive her her eight shillings a week when she
52
/I&S property
hadn't the money to pay. There was others, many and
many, who felt as bad as she; but she was the only one
who went direct to the fountain-bead, as it were, and who
got no relief at all. When Mr. Prinsep's name was men¬
tioned down in the court the day her body was brought
back, there were hissings and cursings; but you mustn't
fret over that, my dear young lady, for there isn't a land¬
lord in any of these parts who don't come in for that sort
of thing."
" I understand," I said slowly. " I'm very glad I came
to speak to you, Honey. Had my uncle many houses
beside those you have mentioned—this one, and the court
down at the end of the street ? "
" I can't say, my dear. There's nothing to complain of
in this house, only we'd like the windows a bit bigger,
and a better supply of water laid on. But, after all, it's
a model house, and those who come to it know what they
have got; but the houses down in the court are a dis¬
grace, Miss Joan. Ho, my love, I won't talk about them
to you any more."
" I want to go and see them," I said. " Will you come
with me ?"
"You go and see them!" said Mrs. Keys, raising her
hands in horror. " Why, it would be about as much as
your life is worth. The police don't dare to go down
into that court. One half of it is Irish, and the other
half Italians, and they're half savages. No, Miss Joan,
it ain't fit."
" Something must be done," I said.
I felt quite cold, notwithstanding the heat of the room.
" What is the name of the man who collects the
rents ? " I said, after a pause.
jfifop fl>ropert£
53
"Mr. Bridges. He has been at the work now for four¬
teen years."
" Do you know where he lives ? "
"No. 12 Compton Street, just round the corner. Oh,
my love, don't worrit yerself. It's an awful puzzle how
to help the poor, and your uncle was not worse than
hundreds of other landlords—not a bit worse. Why,
you're quite white, Miss Joan."
" I feel sick," I sa.J. "I will go away now, and come
to see you to-morrow."
I bade Mrs. Keys good-bye, and went slowly downstairs,
through the model lodging-house. The house belonged
to me. I thought it a hateful possession. I st< oped into
my hansom, and desired the driver to take me vo No. 12
Compton Street.
CHAPTER VI
JASPER COURT
R. BRIDGES was in. I never saw any one look
so astonished as he did when I presented myself
in his dirty, grimy little office, and told him who
1 was. He was a fat,greasy-looking man, who had
a very pompous manner and a good deal of showy jewellery
about his person. He stared at me in a rude way until he
knew my name, then he became obsequious to the last
degree ; he fawned upon me, and I am sure if I had asked
him to let me make a mat of his body he would have
complied. I told him quite plainly what I had come for.
" There is a court on Saffron Hill which belonged to
my uncle, Mr. Prinsep," I said, " and which is now my
property."
Mr. Bridges bowed, and then mopped his forehead.
He then remarked in a breathless sort of voice that the
property on Saffron Hill was very valuable, bringing in,
by means of weekly rentals, quite fifty per cent.
"What is the name of the court?" I said.
"Jasper Court," he replied.
" I want to go over it," I said.
" You, Miss Prinsep? Oh, excuse me, it is not quite a
place for ladies."
54
jasper Court
55
" Not a fit place," I answered; " but you go there every
week."
" To collect the rents, certainly."
"And the money is to come to me in the future," I
replied.
" Well, in one sense it is; in another, no."
" What do you mean ? "
" Well, all that court has been let on a lease."
" I don't understand," I answered.
Mr. Bridges smiled in a condescending way.
"This is the state of the case," he replied. "You are
the head landlord, but there is another landlord under
you. You receive so much a year for the houses in Jasper
Court; these rents are paid to you by Mr. John Simmins ;
he at present holds the entire court under lease. His
lease will not expire for another twenty years. Until
then you can't interfere in any way in the matter of
diminution of the tenants' rents, nor can you improve the
houses without the permission of the leaseholder. Do
I make myself comprehensible ? "
"But the houses are very bad, are they not?" I asked.
" Well, not worse than others; it is a valuable property.
Jasper Court consists of twenty-four houses; these houses
are full from attic to basement. I collect the rents weekly.
Yes, it is a good property, valuable—the leaseholder, Mr.
John Simmins, is thoroughly pleased with his bargain."
"As head landlord," I answered, after a pause, "I am
anxious to go and see Jasper Court. It does not matter
at all," I continued impatiently, " whether the place is a
fit place for me to see or not. In your company I shall
probably be safe. I should like to go there with you—on
what day do you collect the rents ? "
56
Jasper Court
Mr. Bridges looked very much disturbed, not to say
annoyed.
" There are a good many ladies," he said, after a pause,
" who take up ridiculous and higliflown ideas with regard
to the requirements of the poor. The first thing one has
to consider is the patent fact that people born in that
class of life do not consider bad air and overcrowding as
hardships : they are accustomed to that state of things, and
provided they get enough to eat are really content with
their condition. Having gone in and out of some of the
worst dwellings of the poor in London, I can testify to
the truth of my statement. To you, Miss Prinsep, Jasper
Court would appear as a very terrible place; it is not so
to the Irish and Italian residents, who would be extremely
sorry to be put out of it. Being only head landlord, you
can't possibly interfere to better the condition of the
court, and I should strongly advise you to shut your eyes
to evils which you cannot remedy, and to leave the court
alone."
"Thank you," I answered, after a pause, "but I am
not in a position to take your advice. Will you kindly
answer my question, and tell me what day you go to
collect the rents from these poor people ?"
" I go on Saturday morning."
" At what hour ? "
" I begin my rounds at nine o'clock."
" I will come with you next Saturday, and will call on
you at this house at five minutes to nine."
"Very well; since you so desire it, Miss Prinsep," said
Mr. Bridges; "but remember I take you under protest—
you will see sights which will shock and distress you, and
you can do nothing whatever towards their alleviation;
Sasper Court
57
the only person who can do that is Mr. Simmins, and I
can assure you in advance that I do not know the person
on earth who could induce him to put his hand into his
pocket unnecessarily."
I made no reply at all to this, and a moment later was
driving back to my uncle's house in Bloomsbury.
I had spent a terribly exciting morning. A little bit
of the curtain had been lifted with regard to my future
life, and I saw that I had indeed put my hand to the
plough, and had pledged myself to undertake a task of
no ordinary magnitude. I had a great deal of obstinacy
in my nature, and notwithstanding my inexperience was
determined to overcome difficulties, and to fight the
dragon, who had suddenly risen in my path, to the bitter
end. I was late for lunch; indeed, I had forgotten that
there was such a thing as food.
Francesca ran out into the hall when she heard me
come in.
" Is that you, Joan ?" she said. " Mother has been quite
anxious about you. You must be starved ; it is long past
lunch hour."
" Come in, Joan, dearest; come in at once," said Aunt
Fanny.
She also had left her place in the dining-room, and
come into the hall.
" Why, my child, how flushed and tired you look,"
she exclaimed. " Have you had a very long interview
with Mr. Pritchard? Prosy old man, I'm afraid he has
bored you to death."
I made no reply, but taking off my hat, pushed back
the damp hair from my forehead. Anne had left the
dining-table, and was standing by one of the windows—
a
58
Sasper Court
she was humming the air of a music-hall song under her
breath. Anne was the musical member of the family.
Her cheerful notes jarred upon me.
" Francesca, ring the bell," said Aunt Fanny, " I
ordered some cutlets to be kept hot for you, Joan," she
continued. " Ah, here comes Lucy with them. You
can take the covers, Lucy. Bring some claret, please, for
Miss Frinsep. Now, my dear, I insist on your having a
good lunch."
Aunt Fanny put two delicately prepared cutlets on my
plate; Francesca rushed to fetch the peas, while Lucy
poured claret into my glass. They all fussed over me,
and meant to be very kind, and I longed beyond words
to be alone. It was impossible to suppress the attentions
of my affectionate relations. I ate my lunch quickly.
Aunt Fanny sat near me, and Anne went on humming
the air of the " Man who broke the Bank at Monte-
Carlo." After a time Anne sauntered slowly towards
the door. Just as she reached it she turned and said
abruptly-—
" If I were you, mother, I'd have it out with Joan at
once. We must know what her intentions are, though
she chooses to "
" Hush, hush, Anne; go away, and don't interfere,"
called Aunt Fanny, in a sort of ajony. "Go at once."
" No, stay, Anne," I cried. " Come in and say what
you want to say. You have a bad opinion of me; say it
out at once."
" No, I haven't," said Anne, closing the door, and
walking back into the room. " Yes, mother, I will
speak. What is the use of beating about the bush?
You and Francesca smother Joan with attentions which
jasper Court
S 9
she doesn't care a bit about. I have seen how bored she
was, how bored she has been since Mr. Prinsep's death.
I know exactly what she means to do. She means to
leave us in the lurch."
Poor Aunt Fanny's face became so red that I quite
pitied her. Tears absolutely filled her eyes—tears born
of a sort of passionate despair at Anne's injudicious
conduct.
" Why was I born with such a daughter ? " she said.
" Oh, Joan, my darling, do forgive her. Don't listen to a
word she says."
" Yes, I will listen to her," I replied. "I think you
are perfectly right, Anne, to speak out. Of course I
owe you something, Aunt Fanny."
"My darling, I am not thinking of myself. Oh, Joan,
won't you believe me? Francesca, stand up for your
mother, child. Tell Joan the truth. You are in a
critical position, Joan, and I would honestly act as a
mother to you. I don't want to listen to a word that
Anne says."
" But I do," I replied. " Anne, I am greatly interested.
Do go on speaking. I promise that whatever you say
will make no difference in my conduct, but I should
like to get your real opinion of me. You always were
outspoken; be outspoken now."
" I don't blame you a bit," said Anne. " You don't
owe us anything."
" Anne," almost shrieked her mother.
" No, she doesn't, mother, and you know it perfectly
well. Joan has always been the greatest convenience in
the family. We have been paid, and paid well, for every
scrap of attention we have given her. She has always
6o
Sasper (iourt
been in this house in the enviable position of the paying
guest. Now, I never was jealous of the paying guest of
the family, though I appreciate the advantages of having
her. We must look for another paving guest now, for I
see in Joan's eyes that she means to leave us. I don't
blame you, Joan—not a bit. You have got a splendid
chance. Dame Fortune has been good to you, and has
flung wealth at your feet. You will go your own way
now, and have nothing to do with us; all I ask you is to
be quick about it, and put mother out of suspense."
As Anne spoke, she walked to the door of the dining-
room, opened it, and slammed it behind her.
There was an awful pause after she left. Aunt Fanny
buried her face in her pocket-handkerchief, and Fran-
cesca looked at me with her large, well-opened, brown
eyes full of tears. Francesca could be very pretty and
pathetic at times, and she looked wonderfully interest¬
ing and sweet when her eyes implored me to forgive
Anne.
" The child must be mad," said Aunt Fanny at last.
" Francesca, my dear, your poor sister has lost her senses ;
there is not the slightest doubt on the subject. Joan,
dearest, you must forget her cruel words.. It is impos¬
sible for one of your nature to echo them, even for a
moment. Remember, my dear child, that I am your
sainted mother's own sister. A relationship like mine
cannot be bought, Joan. Love and consideration like
mine cannot be secured for any money."
" Please listen, Aunt Fanny," I said. " I am truly
glad that Anne has had the sense to speak out. I have
not the slightest idea of forgetting you nor Francesca nor
Anne herself, but at present I can make no plans. I can
Jasper Court
61
only assure you of one thing—that my life is going to be
independent, that I shall in all probability follow a path
down which, no—I ought to say up which you would
have no intention of walking with me. But at present
I can ouly repeat that I have no plans. I shall not even
have money until the will is proved, and lots of other
things gone through. I cannot make any plans, but "
" I know," interrupted Francesca, " I know what you
mean to do, Joan. You are going to have a lovely little
house in South Kensington, a house exquisitely furnished,
and you'll sometimes have me to stay with you, and we'll
go into society—won't we ? and have a good time, a real,
rollicking good time, won't we, Joan ? "
" My dear Francesca, a girl of Joan's age can't possibly
live in a house without a chaperon," interrupted Aunt
Fanny.
At this I rose desperately to my feet.
" I don't mean to have a house in South Kensington,"
I said. " I don't mean to lead a life of pleasure. Oh,
Aunt Fanny," I continued, suddenly thinking of Jasper
Court, and speaking with my heart full, " there is such a
lot of misery in the world. Why should I think only of
myself and of pleasure ? I will not—I could not. Oh,
you none of you can understand, and I can't explain yet
—not quite yet."
I rose to leave the room. Aunt Fanny, fat and excited,
pursued me to the door.
" My dear, brave girl," she said, " you shan't be worried.
This great fortune which has beeu given yon, this talent
from God which has been laid at your feet, is overpower¬
ing you, Joan. My child, I understand ; you'd like to
give some of it to the service of the poor. There's our
62
Jasper Court
clergyman, Mr. Fortescue; you sliall see liim, and he will
explain how you may devote a certain sum out of your
large yearly income to the cause of the Lord's poor, Joan.
Yes, I see that thought pleases you. Francesca, you
might call on Mr. Fortescue this evening, and ask him if
he can find it convenient to come and see Joan. I am
persuaded that he has not heard of the dear child's afflic¬
tion, or he would have called before now."
" Don't attempt to ask him to call, Francesca," I said.
" I don't care for Mr. Fortescue ; I never did. If he came
to see me, I should have nothing to say to him. Now,
Aunt Fanny, if you don't mind, I will go up to my room
and rest."
Aunt Fanny said with her lips that she did not mind,
although her eyes were full of uncontrollable longings
and burning questions. Poor Aunt Fanny, she was on
tenter-hooks. I pitied her, and wished I could confide in
her; but I could not. When I did, I knew there would
be a storm, and I dreaded the storm.
I went upstairs to my room, sat down near the window,
which I flung open, and thought of Jasper Court. I
thought of the woman who had gone to see Uncle Ralph,
of the sort of home she had probably left, and the state
of the sick children. I thought of the despair at her
heart, of the courage too, and the desperate wild hope
which animated her when she was shown into the head
landlord's presence; then the icy clutch at her heart
which must have paralysed her as she came away. But
I could not follow her down that desperate road which led
to suicide. I dared not think of the end of that despair¬
ing woman's day. I dared not follow her into the utter
darkness of the night into which she had vanished,
jasper Court
63
There came a tap at my door, and Francesca came in.
Francesca looked very pretty and a little frightened ; her
cheeks had a wild rose sort of bloom on them, and her
big brown eyes were full of pathos. I have not a word
to say in my own defence, but my cousin's attitude, the
imploring look on her face, irritated me beyond words.
I loved her much better in the days when she took no
notice of me, and when Aunt Fanny broadly hinted at
almost every meal that I was in the way.
"What is it?" I said crossly. "I want to be alone;
why do you come and disturb me ? "
"I'm desperate and must come," said Francesca; "I
thought if I came all alone that you'd confide in me."
"Good gracious, Francie," I answered, "can't you see
for yourself that I have nothing to confide ? "
"Oh, that's absolute nonsense," said Francesca, jump¬
ing on the middle of the bed as she spoke. " You know
perfectly well that you have."
" I haven't," I answered.
" Then why are you so full of mystery ? "
"I am not full of mystery."
"You are—you know you are."
I was silent, I turned away my head, and looked out
of the window.
"I wish you'd go away," I said, after a pause; "it's
hard that I can't have even my own room to myself."
"You can when I have said my say; mother is afraid
to speak out, and Anne is only rude."
" I respect Anne; she says what is in her mind," I
answered.
" Well, I am going to say now what is in my mind. You
can't possible spend three thousand a year on yourself."
64
jasper Court
" I never said I should," I replied.
"Then, that's just the point. I suppose you know that
we are your nearest relations ? "
"Yes, I am not likely to forget it."
" Are you going to take a house in South Kensington;
and are we going to live with you, Joau ? "
"I can only say 'no,' to both those questions," I
answered.
Francesca's face grew pale, and her eyes brimmed with
hot tears.
" Poor mother," she answered, " mother was so full of
it, ever since the moment your Uncle died. You know
how she hates this part of London, and how she has all
her days pined for Kensington. We would have gone
West ages ago, but for father's obstinacy — he always
declared, and he stuck to it, that he would rather have a
large house in Bloomsbury than a small one in Kensing¬
ton. At last it seemed as if the chance for which mother
has waited so long had arrived. I told her she mustn't
build on it, but I did think myself—I really did, Joan
—that you would be glad to share housekeeping with us
until you marry. We could live very well indeed on our
joint-incomes—couldn't we, Joan?—and mother would
arrange that you had a suite of rooms to yourself, and all
that sort of thing. Of course if you did give Anne and
me a dress now and then, we wouldn't say ' no,' but we'd
not encroach—we really wouldn't, and you could not go
into society without some one to chaperone you, and who
could be more suitable than mother. Mother says that
of course you will be presented at the first drawing-room
next spring—there is old Lady Groombridge who would
present mother first, and then mother could present you—
jasper Court
65
of course you would rather be presented by one of your
own relations. I wish you'd think of it, Joan; it is the
very best possible plan that could be arranged, and it
would make us all happy. Then there's Frederic too.
I have never concealed the truth from you, Joan—you
know all that Frederic is to me."
Francesca began to tremble now; her full lower lip
was slightly pouted; her eyes grew brighter and more
eager than ever.
"Yes, I know about Mr. Ross," I said, after a pause.
" I could scarcely know you without knowing about
him, Francesca—could I ? But I thought it was all off—
I thought his mother would not hear of it ? "
"But she would if we went West—that's what makes
me so desperately eager," said Francesca. " If she heard
of your fortune, and knew that we lived in good style
and all that, she'd most likely consent. Oh, Joan, how
can I coax you to consent to this heavenly plan; and so
much depends on it—all the happiness of my life, Joan."
Francesca had got off the bed now, and was kneeling
by my side. Her final appeal to me about herself seemed
natural; I was suddenly touched and interested—I put
my arms round her and kissed her.
" I can't do what you wish," I said. " I am not to blame
for this: the matter has been taken out of my hands. I
will tell Aunt Fanny in another day or two; I will tell
her everything as soon as I know myself. I don't know
myself yet, so it is impossible to speak. As to you and
Mr. Ross, Francie, perhaps I can do something—I can't
say ; I can make no promise ; but I won't forget."
"You're a darling," said Francesca.
She kissed me, squeezed my hand, and went away.
I
CHAPTER Y 11
THE SOFT HAND
RUE to the appointed hour I met Mr. Bridges
at his house in Compton Street. I drove there
in a hansom, and asked him to accompany me
in that vehicle to the entrance of Jasper Court.
He looked very uneasy, and I noticed that he carried a
stout walking-stick.
" You won't like this business," he said, as he stepped
into the hansom by my side. " I am known in Jasper
Court; the people take me as a cruel necessity. They
know that if they don't pay the rent regularly, Simmins
will turn them out. The place which will be hell to you
is home to them. They don't want to be turned out.
Yes, they take me as a necessity, but your presence will
- xcite them. They will ask questions. The whole thing
i s likely to be most unpleasant; remember I have warned
you."
" You have, and I am very much obliged to you," I
answered. "Will you kindly tell the cabman where to
drive ? "
Mr. Bridges shouted some directions through the little
window in the roof, and we began to drive rapidly in the
direction of the court.
66
Ube Soft Daub
67
" Nor can you do any good," continued the rent-collec¬
tor, after a pause, " for the whole thing rests in the hands
of Simmins. Your uncle sold his right in the houses to
Simmins for a considerable yearly rent. Simmins, for all
practical purposes, is the real landlord."
I made no reply at all to this. But Mr. Bridges'
nervousness affected me to a certain extent. I was not,
a coward, but I disliked bad smells, and dirty houses, and
ragged men and women as much as any girl brought up
in my position could possibly do. Some people have a
love for the poor and suffering inborn in them. That wa3
not my nature. But I was dogged and obstinate. I
had an Englishwoman's respect for a promise; I would
keep mine, cost what it might.
The hansom drew up at the entrance to the court, and
Mr. Bridges gave me his hand to help me out.
" Wait here until we return," he said to the hansom
driver. " You'd better take my arm," he said then to
me.
I refused this offer, however—not that I did not cling a
good deal to Mr. Bridges at this critical juncture, but for
the simple reason that the passage which led into Jasper
Court was so narrow that two people could not walk
abreast in it without rubbing against the greasy, slimy
wall at either side. This I objected to for many reasons.
At nine o'clock in the morning Jasper Court was in full
life, although by no means in its noisiest life. The men
had gone away to their different daily occupations, the
young able-bodied women and boys were also conspicuous
by their absence; but the small children and old women
made the narrow, ill-smelling place alive with their shouts
and screams and cries. When we found ourselves in the
68
Ube Soft 1ban&
court, the first object on which my eyes alighted was two
women engaged in a hand-to-hand fight. From their
appearance they must have been Italians. Their hair
streamed down their backs. One woman's face was
bloody: the other had just given her a severe blow. As
she stepped back, partly stunned, she trod upon a baby of
a year old. The baby gave an unearthly shriek of terror.
In a moment I forgot my fears, rushed to the child, and
picked it up. I had always thought of babies as pretty,
but this child had a terrible face. Its black eyes were
almost starting from its forehead ; its little features
were drawn and weird; it was very dirty and painfully
thin. I had scarcely taken it in my arms before the
woman with the bloody face turned fiercely, snatched it
from me, cuddled it to her breast, and rushed down a low
archway out of sight. When she did this some boys
began to laugh, and the other woman, putting her arms
akimbo, looked at me in an impertinent manner.
"I'm jiggered, but ain't yer a bloomin swell?" she
exclaimed.
She turned me round roughly as she spoke, and putting
one of her dirty hands on my hat, deliberately examined
the manner in which it was trimmed. She then pushed
me from her, wiped the perspiration from her face, and
marched across the court.
" For goodness' sake, Miss Prinsep, if you value your
life, don't interfere with these people," said Mr. Bridges
in a hoarse whisper.
I had forgotten his presence, but turned now to see
that the stout little man was absolutely quaking with
terror.
" Follow me, please," he said.
tTbe Soft 1ban&
69
He held out his hand, took mine, and led me into a
house to the right.
" We begin at the top," he said. " Remember, I told
you this was no place for you. I hope you are not hurt.
Would you like to go away now ? I will put you into the
hansom if you wish. Did that woman hurt you ? "
" Not a bit," I answered. " She was hurt herself, poor
wretched creature, but she neither hurt me nor frightened
me. Now, come, Mr. Bridges; let us get to the top of
the house, and begin to collect the rents."
The house looked comparatively empty. We ascended
the stairs and began our work. I have heard of men like
Mr. Bridges being spoken of as sweaters. I began for
the first time to understand the meaning of the term.
I had never seen stairs which were like those we now
ascended. They were slippery with dirt, black with dirt,
falling to pieces with dirt and neglect. The greater part
of the banisters had long disappeared; the windows,
which were originally made to give light, were choked
with filthy rags; there was not a scrap of glass in the
two we passed. Here and there on the stairs was a hole
over which we had to leap to keep ourselves from being
hurled into some unknown abyss of horror below. At
last we reached the rooms which were designated attics
in Mr. Bridges' book. He tapped at the door of one,
did not wait for a reply, opened it, and poked in his
head.
" Is the rent ready?" he asked.
He kept me behind him; he evidently did not wish me
to enter.
" For the sake of Heaven, you won't turn me out
because of the bit of rint to-day, Mr. Bridges ? Sir,
Ube Soft 1ban&
you won't, as you love God, and as you hope for mercy
yerself ?" said a quaking old voice in a high weak
treble. The voice had an unmistakable Irish accent
in it.
I pushed the door boldly open and went in. Was
this a room? Was any one in Christian England ex¬
pected to pay coin of the realm for such a den ? The
attic in question was very small; it was also very
low; it had a sloping roof which contained one tiny
window. This window was begrimed with smuts and
tightly shut. The sun beat pitilessly on the sloping roof.
The air of the room was foul in the extreme. Fiery
beams of strong light came in through the tightly shut
window. The atmosphere must have been considerably
over ninety.
On a bundle of rags on the floor lay a very old woman.
She lay on her left side, slightly huddled up. She looked
at us as we came in. I had never seen a face like hers
before. It was slightly paralysed at one side; the skin
was drawn tightly over the bones; the sunken eyes were
bright. The toothless mouth opened in dull surprise as
she glanced from the well-known and doubtless terrible
figure of Mr. Bridges to mine.
" Thank the good Lord," she exclaimed.
Her indescribably weak voice came shrilly to our ears
because of the tone at which she pitched it.
" Thank the good Lord ; ain't I been praying for this
all night. Come yere, pretty, come yere. Kneel down,
lovey. I ha' been praying for yer, and the good Lord
has yeard me. You're au angel straight from heaven,
hain't yer ? Kneel, pretty, kneel. Let me touch yer
hand."
Ube Sort 1banb
71
" Nonsense," interrupted Mr. Bridges, in a very testy
voice. " You don't suppose you are going to get over me
with that sort of humbug, Mrs. O'Mahoney ? Where's
your r.ent ? I beg of you, Miss Prinsep, not to notice the
creature," he continued, fixing his blazing, angry eyes on
my face.
"Yes, I shall notice her," I replied. "Why shouldn't
she think me pretty if it comforts her ? "
I went and knelt on the floor, dirty as it was, and laid
my cool hand on the old hag's forehead.
"A clean, soft hand," she murmured in a drowsy, con¬
tented voice. " Straight from heaven, no doubt. What
sort o' place is it now, dearie ? Do they plague the life
out o' yer for rint there? Spake the truth, pretty. You
ha' come as an answer to prayer, and you could not tell a
lie, now could yer? Oh, don't take yer hand off, me
jewel, it's so clane and saft. Ah, I'm dyin', but I aiu't
frightened now. They don't come for no rint in heaven,
do they, lovey ? "
" I really," began Mr. Bridges, coming a step nearer, " I
really must protest."
The old creature had closed her eyes; I don't think she
heard his indignant voice. I was trembling a good deal,
but I kept my hand on her forehead.
" Don't worry her," I said to the rent-collector. " Don't
you see that she is dying ? I will give you the rent, what¬
ever it is, presently."
" Comfort, comfort," muttered the old voice. " A clane,
saft hand—no rint yonder—I can slape—I'm right glad.
Don't yer leave me, pretty. You stay here until we both
on us goes up to the Blessed Mary together."
She closed her eyes again. Her weak voice seemed to
72
JLbe Soft 1bant>
come from a greater and greater distance, and to grow
fainter and thinner, until it almost merged into air. I
felt the pulses throb beneath the tight skin on her
temples. They went quickly, very quickly. Suddenly
long shivers passed through her frame. Her breath,
which was coming in gusts and pants, stopped. There
was an awful rattle in her throat.
I had never seen any one die before. I was really
frightened.
" Mr. Bridges, what is it ? " I cried.
Mr. Bridges no longer looked irritated. There was a
queer expression in his eyes. He looked down at the
woman on her bed of rags, and uttered a faint, a very
faint sigh.
" Come away now, Miss Prinsep," he said. " You can
do nothing more."
" But she doesn't breathe," I said.
" She does not," he replied. " I told you this visit
would be very unpleasant. The poor old body is dead.
Come, you can do nothing further for her. Come at
once; this is no fit place for you."
" I won't leave this room," I said, " until some one
comes in to take charge of this poor old creature."
" What do you mean ? She is dead."
" She shall be treated with respect even if she is dead,"
I answered. " Can't you find a woman, and bring her in
here?—a woman who will do what is necessary for this
poor body ? "
Mr. Bridges walked impatiently out of the room. He
presently returned with a little old Italian who could not
speak a word of English. She uttered a cry when she
saw the dead woman on the dirty rags, swooped down
Ube Sott Ibanfc
73
upon her, closed her eyes, put her lips together, straight¬
ened the features, and turned the body slightly on its
back.
I pressed a shilling into her hand, and left the room
with Mr. Bridges.
It would be impossible for me to describe the whole of
that morning's work. I can truly say that not a room in
that wretched court was fit for human habitation. The
broken windows were stopped up with rags, the floors
were grimy with dirt, and vermin swarmed all over the
horrible place. How any human creatures could live in
such an atmosphere was beyond my comprehension. I
went quickly through my self-imposed task. I shrank
from nothing, but followed Mr. Bridges desperately from
room to room. Quite half the inhabitants could not
speak a work of English. The Italian portion of the
court looked, if possible, more desolate, more forlorn,
more horribly inhuman than the Irish.
By the time we had collected the rent from the last
miserable cellar, the news had evidently got abroad that
I was the new landlord. When Mr. Bridges and I got
into the open air, quite a swarm of people were collected.
They looked at us suspiciously and curiously.
" Come, this is what I feared," said Mr. Bridges.
"Now we have got to make our way out as quickly as
ever we can. I see you are shocked; I knew you would
be. You must on no account talk to these people now;
don't promise them anything."
" But they are expecting me to speak," I said. " See
how eager they all look."
" Come on," said Mr. Bridges, pulling my hand.
But I resisted him, and turned to face the crowd.
K
74
XCbe Soft IbaitO
" Bless lier pretty face," said a woman who stood
near. "Are you the new landlord, miss? You'll do
something for us, won't you, miss? God above bless you,
miss."
" Drat that," said an angry woman's voice. " I tell yer
there ain't no God in the matter. It's hell this is. Don't
talk to me of none o' yer 'ells in the future. We're in
hell 'ere, and so I sed to Salvation Army Captain George
last Sunday. Why, we're in it, I sez. Don't yer talk o'
no other hell."
" Shut up there, mad Bess," said a man, the only
specimen of his sex in the burly crowd. " Let the lady
speak. There's a deal wants doing in this yer place,
miss."
"It shall be done," I said, with a choke in my voice.
" God helping me, it shall be done. Let me go now, but
I promise."
" Oh, hear her, the purty lady, she promises," said an
Irishwoman. "May the Vargin bless her bed, the purty
dear. Why, now, there's me and the childer: we can't
sleep in our cellar 'cause of the damp; there's an inch
o' mud on the floor. Dry as the weather is, we're eat
up with the rheumatis, that we is. Oh, glory be to God,
it's the truth I'm a telling yer, miss—yes, that it is, me
purty."
" I will see to it, I will see to it all," I said.
" You daren't," said Mr. Bridges, in a whisper.
" You've no voice in the matter. The court belongs to
Simmins."
"I will see to it, I promise," I said, carried out of
myself, and flinging my pledge back to the expectant,
eager, despairing crowd.
trbe Soft Ifoanb
75
A shout, something between a yell of triumph and a
hiss of despair, rose up in the horrible court. The
women pressed closer and closer round me; the children
began to pull my dress and paw my hands. A baby
clutched his dirty clawlike hand in my hair. I felt foul
breath on my cheeks, and almost thought I should have
fainted.
I don't know how Mr. Bridges got me out of Jasper
Court; but he did succeed at last. He helped me into
the hansom, and got in himself beside me.
"Now I hope you are satisfied," he said,as we drove away.
I did not speak—I could not.
"Are you hurt?" he said anxiously. "You have a
great deal of pluck, Miss Prinsep. I admire you—I do,
upon my word. I do hope those wretches did not hurt
you."
" It is no matter if they did," I said at last, finding my
voice.
As a matter of fact, the baby who had clutched my
hair had also scratched my cheek. My cheek smarted,
but that smart was nothing at all to the sense of indio-na-
O O
tion with which my whole heart was full.
" I know you are hurt," said Mr. Bridges. " You must
let me see you home."
"No, thank you. I will put you down at the begin¬
ning of Compton Street, and then drive to Bloomsbury.
Here are the two shillings for that poor dead woman's
rent."
"Thank you. Yes, it is necessary to square accounts
with Simmins. He is a hard man, very hard. I congra¬
tulate you on having got out of the court alive, Miss
Prinsep."
7 6
trbe Soft 1banb
I did not reply—I was shaking all over. I despised
myself for having such weak nerves.
" You made a judicious promise," continued Mr.
Bridges. " There was nothing for it but to say some¬
thing, for those poor devils were getting excited. Of
course, now, you see for yourself how unfit such places
are for ladies to visit."
"You mistake me," I said, " if you think I have done
with Jasper Court. I have made a promise, and I mean
to keep it."
"You can't; the court isn't yours. Simmins won't
care whether you made a hundred promises or not."
" I must see Mr. Simmins," I said. " Something must
be done."
" You can certainly please yourself about seeing Mr.
Simmins, Miss Prinsep, but, believe me, nothing will be
done."
" Why do you say so ? " I asked, in a voice of despair.
" Because I know my man."
CHAPTER VIII
THE CAPTAIN OF THE FORLORN HOPE
HAD a hot bath when I went in, and changed
my clothes, which smelt horribly. I hope my
readers will forgive me for mentioning these
small details, but I am really anxious to speak
of things as I found them. When I was dressed in
something cool, fresh, and clean, I went down to the
drawing-room with a novel and some fancy-work in my
hand. I was so nervous, and what I had seen had affected
me so unpleasantly, that I was most anxious to turn my
attention to something else. Aunt Fanny had not an
idea where I had spent my morning. I was very careful
not to enlighten her. She suggested that we should have
a drive in the afternoon. I willingly complied. I thought
it might distract my thoughts to drive in Hyde Park. I
should then see the other side of the picture—the glad,
beautiful, rich, lovely side—the men and women who had
ascended to the top of the ladder, the children who were
gently nurtured from their birth. I hoped that the sight
would comfort me, and was quite anxious to enjoy it. A
smart landau from a neighbouring livery stable drew up
at our house about four o'clock that afternoon, and we
presently found ourselves taking our place in the row. It
77
73
Ufoe Captain of tbe jfotiorn 1bope
was a crowded hour, and we had to drive slowly. I sat
facing the horses with Aunt Fanny, and Francesca and
Anne looked extremely pretty in the back seat. I wanted
Francesca to sit beside her mother, but when I saw that
Aunt Fanny quite shuddered at this indignity to the
heiress, I did not press my request. A gentleman pre¬
sently rode up and spoke to us. He was Mr. Ross, Fran-
cesca's lover. She blushed brightly when she saw him. He
was a very commonplace man, and I had always wondered
what she saw to love in him. I think he was pleased and
astonished to see us in a nice carriage. He stared at me
also in a very marked way. In fact, he noticed me far
more than Francesca. I hated him cordially on the spot
for doing so, and was glad when he bowed to us and went
away. Francesca took my hand in hers and squeezed it.
" Francesca," I said suddenly, " you want a new hat;
you shall have one. If you don't mind, Aunt Fanny,
we'll drive now to a shop—a fashionable milliner's some¬
where—and Anne and Francesca shall choose the very
prettiest hats they can find there."
"You want a new hat for yourself, my love," said
Aunt Fanny.
"No, no," I answered, "I don't. The one I have on
my head is perfectly new."
" But it is not fashionable, dear. It is sweet of you,
Joan, to think of the girls, but I must not, as your aunt,
my love, allow you to throw away your money. In your
case, dear, it is your duty to dress well. Of course I
know you are in deep mourning, but as feathers and jet
are allowable, and those very large hats are now so much
worn, we can get you something really stylish at Madame
Jepps', in Bond Street."
Ube Captain of tbe jforlorn 1bope
79
I was sorry I had introduced the subject of the
hats.
"I am going to give France sea and Anne a hat each,"
I said. " I don't wish for one for myself at present.
Is Madame Jepps' the best shop, Aunt Fanny?"
"Yes, her things are in very good style," replied Aunt
Fanny.
We drove there, and my cousins spent a very pleasant
afternoon. I gave them hats, also ribbons, gloves, and
several pretty little etceteras of the toilet. Their eyes
quite beamed with affection while I laded them with this
finery—it seemed all a sort of mockery, for Jasper Court
remained firmly in my brain as the background of it all.
Behind the laughter and the smiles, the vanity and
frivolity, lingered the gaunt wolf of hunger—the black
demon of despair—the Juggernaut which crushed lives
at every step. I kept thinking of the woman who had
died in the attic that morning, and then of the baby who
had clutched at my hair. I was glad when our drive was
over.
The next day was Sunday. I had a headache, and
could not go out. I was sensible of a great reaction,
of a loathing of the work which lay before me. I spent
both Sunday and Monday indoors, feeling too limp, too
indifferent to all the world to take a single step in the
direction of my new life. But I knew it was before me.
I had not drifted to see Mrs. Keys—I had not gone
to Jasper Court for nothing. By-and-by courage and
determination would come back.
On Tuesday morning I went down early to breakfast.
Several letters lay by my plate; with the letters was a
bulky parcel.
So XTbc Captain of the jforlorn Ifoope
"Who are your correspondents, Joan?" said Aunt
Fanny.
" I don't know," I answered. " Probably nobodies."
" Would you like me to help you to answer your letters,
dear?"
" No, thank you," I replied. " I have nothing much
to do at present, and it rather interests me to attend to
my own correspondence."
" Francesca, pass Joan the toast," said Aunt Fanny.
She helped me to a cup of fragrant coffee. She was
very kind and patient. I felt quite sorry for her. I did
not know that lying by my plate was a letter which would
soon end her suspense.
When breakfast was over I took my correspondence to
my room. I opened the bulky parcel first. It contained
copies of the different deeds which were the pledge and
symbol of my fortune.
" These can be attended to presently," I said to myself.
I then began to look through my letters ; a few were
from old Girton friends. These girls had heard of
the change in my prospects, and wrote to congratulate
me. They were nice girls, and they all of them wrote
nice letters. But their words were commonplace. I
quickly perused these epistles, and laid them aside.
Following these more personal letters were advertise¬
ments of all sorts—from furniture dealers, from dress¬
makers, from servants' registry offices. I flung them
away with impatience to take up a letter which, from
the outside appearance, did not look like a shop adver¬
tisement. I opened it, and glanced with some surprise at
the heading—"All Souls Vicarage, Frank Street, Shore-
ditch." These were the words underneath:—
Cbe Captain of tbe jforlorn 1bope
81
" Madam,—I trust you will forgive a perfect stranger
taking the liberty of writing to you. My excuse is, that
I do so on a matter of common interest to us both. The
information of the death of Mr. Prinsep, of 10 Dorset
Gate, Bayswater, has reached me through a daily paper.
I have made inquiries, and discover that you are his
heiress. A considerable portion of his property lies in
my parish. I am happy to be able to tell you that the
leasehold of several houses in this street has just fallen
in. These houses are yours, therefore, to do as you will
with. May I have the pleasure of taking you over your
property, and explaining to you, from long and personal
experience, how you can most effectually better your
tenants, and promote the cause of religion and virtue in
this dark part of London ? It is possible that my letter
may not appeal to you at all. But I feel that I am
only performing a duty in applying direct to you in the
matter.—Yours faithfully,
" Ranald Moore."
I read this letter over twice. I felt my cheeks flush as
I did so. My heart beat with sudden hope—with fresh
energy and life. I ran hastily down to my uncle's study.
I thought Uncle Bannerman must have already gone to
the City. He had not done so; he was seated by his
desk near the window, and looked up in surprise when
I burst into the room.
" What is it, Joan ? " he said.
" I have come for a telegraph form," I answered.
Uncle Bannerman was a man of very few words. He
pointed silently to a corner of his large desk, where a
pile of telegraph forms lay under a letter-weight. I took
L
82 Che Captain of the jforlorn Ibcpe
one, went on my knees by the side of a blotting-pad, and
hastily filled it up.
" To the Reverend Ranald Moore, All Souls Vicarage,
Frank Street, Shoreditch.—Letter received. With you by
noon to-day. Joan Pkinsep."
While I was writing my telegram Uncle Bannerman
had risen from his desk.
" Do you want that sent off ? " he said suddenly.
" Oh, please, uncle."
" Give it to me, and I'll do it for you."
He took the telegram, folded it up without glancing at
it, and slipped it into his pocket.
" You won't forget to send it? " I said.
" Certainly not."
" Well, here's the money for it."
" Keep it, child; I don't want your sixpences."
Uncle Bannerman was a very dreamy sort of person.
I felt firmly convinced at that moment that he had for¬
gotten all about my change of fortune. I ran suddenly
to his side, put my arms round his neck, and kissed him.
lie looked rather disturbed than otherwise at my sud¬
den burst of affection, but he patted me on my head, and
told me that I was a good child, and that I had better
lake care of myself. This was one of his most common
expressions. He then went into the hall, and a moment
later I heard the door bang behind him.
I put Mr. Moore's letter into my pocket, and soon after
eleven o'clock went out to find my way as best I could to
Shoreditch. Shoreditch is somewhere in East London. I
had never been in East London in my life. If that part
Ufoe Captain of tbe forlorn 11)ope
83
of the world at all resembled Jasper Court, I did not envy
the people who lived there. I was rather puzzled for a
moment how to get to this remote and terrible region,
but finally resolved to take an omnibus conductor into my
confidence. I went, therefore, into Oxford Street, hailed
an omnibus, and showed the man Mr. Moore's address.
" I want to get there," I said. '' Can you tell me how ? "
"Jump in, miss," was his answer; "this yer 'bus will
"take you as far as the Bank, then you change ; I'll tell
you what 'bus to get into, miss, when we reaches the
Bank."
He looked at me in a friendly way, and I seated myself
near the door, secure under his patronage. We reached
the Bank in the course of twenty-five minutes. I had
never before been in this scene of bustle and rush un¬
attended. When I got out of the omnibus I felt somewhat
lost and forlorn.
" You cross over to that corner, miss," said my friend
the conductor, " and you'll find 'buses there as 'ull put
you down in High Street, Shoreditch. Any policeman
will tell you, miss ; there's lots of 'em standing at that
corner."
He pointed in the direction of Tlireadneedle Street
as he spoke. Threadneedle Street seemed a loug way
off. A perfect forest of cabs and omnibuses stood be¬
tween me and it. I wondered how I was ever to reach it.
Presently, however, one of that well-trained force—the
London police—came to my aid and piloted me safely
across. He did more than that, he showed me where the
omnibuses stood waiting to go eastwards.
" Eastward Ho!" I said to myself as I scrambled
into one.
84
Ube Captain of tbe 3forlorit 1bope
It was a very hot day, and the sun beat on the glass
with power. The omnibus was empty when I got into it.
Presently a faded-looking woman in rusty black took a
seat opposite to me. She had a sort of dim effect all
over. Her face was not exactly dirty, but it was grimy
with dust and toil. She was very pale, but the perspira¬
tion stood in large drops on her brow. I remarked on the
heat of the day, and she gave me a weary glance.
" It is 'ot," she answered, in an apathetic tone.
The omnibus moved forward, and the woman and I sat
in opposite corners, now and then glancing at one another
—there seemed the gulf of ages between us. She left the
omnibus at the farthest end of Bishopsgate Without. Not
long afterwards the conductor informed me that I had
nearly reached my destination.
" I know All Souls Vicarage," he said, " and I know
Father Moore—he's a good 'un, he is—he gives himself
away, and nobody can do more'n that, can they ? You
walk down that street, miss, and you'll find yourself at
the corner of Frank Street, and All Souls Church is in
Frank Street—yes, Father Moore's church is there, and
a good church too—he ain't a bad sort—he 'ave a club for
boxing men. I took a turn there myself one night
when I was off duty. Right you air, miss; that's your
corner."
I bade the friendly conductor " good-bye," and in some
trepidation made my way in the direction of Frank
Street. After a little difficulty I found it. It was a long
narrow street, not particularly shabby-looking nor re¬
pulsive in any way at this hour of the morning. A boy
came up and asked me what I wanted. I said I was on
my way to All Souls Church.
tTfoe Captain of tbe jforlont Ifoope 85
" You foller me," he said, giving me a wink, and
running on in front of me.
We had not gone a dozen yards before I found I had
reached my destination. In the midst of a lot of shabby
buildings stood one newer and more respectable than its
neighbours. A door was open, and a respectable-looking
man stood in the doorway.
" Is Mr. Moore in ? " I asked.
" I think so, miss," was the reply. " Are you the lady
he is expecting ? "
" I am," I replied.
"Please come this way, miss."
He took me into a large room, in which a crowd of
children were congregated. They were all shabbily
dressed, and stood so close together that it would have
been difficult to crowd in even an extra one. Two
ladies and a couple of men were standing at the far
end of the room. As I entered, the shrill young voices
all rose in a wild but hearty rendering of " God Save
the Queen." There was a terrible smell in the room ;
I had never smelt anything like it before.
" Follow me, miss," said the man who was conducting me.
He led me to a spiral iron stair not far from the en¬
trance-door. I followed him up and up. Presently we
reached a small gallery, from which we could have a view
of the room below and its occupants. The gallery led
into a neatly furnished sitting-room. The windows here
stood partly open. There were several chairs, numbers
of photographs on an over-mantel, some books in a book¬
case, a picture or two on the walls.
" Sit down, please, miss," said the man, " and I'll
inform Mr. Moore that you have arrived."
86 tTbe Captain of tbe forlorn 1bope
He left me to my own meditations. I took off my
gloves, and wiped my heated forehead. The smell from
the children below was permeating the room. Their
voices sounded hearty as they ascended to my ears. I
made up my mind to take no notice of the close atmo¬
sphere, and went out and stood on the balcony. I was
standing there watching the scene, wondering at the
uniform ugliness of all the faces, when a man of large
build, dressed in a sort of nondescript clerical costume,
came quickly in. He glanced up in my direction, said a
hasty word to one of his helpers, and ran up the spiral
stairs.
" It is very good of you to answer my letter in person,"
he said. "Your telegram gave me great pleasure."
" I hope I have not come at an inconvenient hour?" I
replied.
"No hour is inconvenient when so much depends on
your visit," was the reply. " Will you come into my
sitting-room with me ? "
He brought me in and closed the door.
" I wrote to you as a last resource," he said imme¬
diately. " We are in despair here. We can do nothing
v ithout funds. There is a splendid work going on, but we
want funds. I am a very abrupt and outspoken man—
I have need to be. We appealed many times to the late
Mr. Prinsep, but we never even had a reply to our letters.
It occurred to me that you might be different. Pray, don't
answer in a hurry. Let me simply state the case."
Mr. Moore stood up while he was speaking. He faced
me. His face was full of energy. He had dark eyes,
which seemed to glow with a sort of inward fire; his
features were somewhat homely; he had keen, firm lips ;
XT be Captain of tbe jfoilorn 1bope
87
his dark hair was worn short; his brow was very fine and
intellectual. My first impression of him was that he
was a man in a fearful hurry. He seemed not to have
a moment to spare. I have seen many an East London
worker since then, but I have never, never come across
any one so absolutely selfless as Mr. Moore. He looked
like what he was, a captain in charge of a forlorn hope—
he had evidently no time to waste on conventionalities.
" I wrote to you on a mere chance," he began again.
" Your telegram coming so soon after the receipt of my
letter filled me with hope. Now, are you willing to do
anything? You are rich, are you not?"
" I have a large yearly income," I replied.
" And you are young and strong."
"Yes, I am young and strong."
" Some of your income is derived from this place—
this hell on earth—it was on that account that I was
emboldened to write to you."
"You did very well to write," I answered.
I felt that I must tell him all my story in a moment.
He was drawing me out of myself in a most marvellous
way—still I waited for him to speak further.
"Above all things," he said, "at the present moment,
the work of this place needs money. I have worked here
for a long time—I have splendid workers under me—the
place is not quite what it was, but every moment we are
drawn up for the want of money. The vexed social
problem could easily be solved if enough money were
forthcoming. We could use emigration, for instance,
if we had funds. Emigration might be a panacea for
hundreds of heartbreaking cases of destitution, if only
there were funds to emigrate the right persons. We
88
Cbe Captain of tbe aforlortt 1bope
have a free refuge for men here—I will show it to you
presently—a great work is carried on in that direction
—we could extend it almost indefinitely if we had funds.
Rescue and reformatory work of all kinds for both sexes
are in need of funds. A great deal of money is wanted.
You have a considerable income; will you devote some
of it to this work ? "
Then I stood up. My face was very pale I knew—my
voice faltered.
" I never heard of you until to day," I said. " I don't
doubt for a moment that you have been doing a splendid
work for years which I, in my ignorance, knew nothing of.
Your letter came to me this morning like a ray of light
from Heaven itself. Now, if you will listen to me I will
tell you my story."
"My time is yours," said Mr. Moore.
He stood facing me ; he was far too impatient to sit.
His eyes seemed to draw me on. I did not feel at all shy
nor afraid as I explained the situation. I told him in a
few brief words exactly the position in which I found
myself. I was uncle Ralph's heiress, but the money was
mine on a condition.
"You agree with me," I said, breaking off abruptly;
" you agree with me, don't you, that I ought not to take
the money if I do not fulfil the condition ? "
He nodded, but did not speak.
" I am glad that you agree with me," I said, my voice
faltering for the first time. " And now I must say some¬
thing quite frankly. I don't like the state of things a bit.
I don't want to throw myself into this gulf. I am young.
I am fond of nice intellectual things. I like books and
music and pictures. I have been to Girton — I have
Cbe Captain of tbe jforlorn 1bope
89
just come down. I have been brought up in a refined
manner. The refined things of life are second nature to
me, and I love them very dearly. It would be horrible to
me to live here. Is it necessary for me to live here ? "
"You must settle that matter between yourself and
your Maker," was the reply.
"Now I must come to another point," I continued.
" I am not at all in the ordinary sense religious. The
religious people I have met in the course of my life have
not pleased me. I suppose there is not a man nor woman
living who would not believe in the real thing; but in the
sort of life I live one rubs up so often against the sham,
and the sham thing has put me off religion. That being
the case, I don't know how I am to appeal to my Maker
in the matter."
" Do you want me to help you to a decision ? " asked
Mr. Moore abruptly.
I gave him a very earnest glance. "I should value
your opinion," I said, after a pause.
" Then you shall have it."
He flung himself on the sofa near me and spoke. " I
am a man of very plain words," he began. " I never
mince matters; it is impossible to mince matters in a
place like this. If I say anything that may hurt you,
pray forgive me."
" I have asked for your candid opinion, and I must
bear pain if you choose to inflict it upon me," I answered.
"Believe me, I don't want to," he said suddenly.
His face softened; he looked me all over from head to
foot. I was neatly dressed, and I was young—I belonged
to the refined classes. My attitude, the expression on
my face, must have shown him that I had never come
9°
Zhc Captain of tfoe jforlorn Ibope
across roughness nor hardship. A wave of sudden sym¬
pathy, amounting almost to compassion, filled his fine
eyes.
" I am sorry for you," he said abruptly. " By-and-by
you may wear the martyr's palm; but according to my
view of the case, the path you are called 011 to walk just
at present is a rough one. But before I say any more,
let me ask you a question."
" Please do," I answered.
"Are you quite independent? Have you any home
ties which may prevent your giving yourself to this
work ? "
"None," I answered; "I am practically as free as the
air. I live with an aunt and uncle and cousins who do
not need me, who can do very well without me. I have
no other near relations. I am of age; the fortune I have
been left is absolutely my own."
"And now you want my honest opinion?" said Mr.
Moore.
"Yes."
" Well, here it is in a nutshell. Your uncle, the late
Mr. Prinsep, owned houses in this street which brought
him in an income of about twelve hundred per annum.
In their present condition these houses are a disgrace to
humanity. They are only fit to be pulled down. It is
a scandal that any human beings should live in such
dwellings. I have lived here for the last ten years, and
I ouodit to know. The death-rate in this street is four
o
times that of the rest of London. When a man or woman
falls ill in one of these houses, he has no chance. It is
like playing a game where your adversary holds all the
trumps; it is fighting a battle when the enemy has all the
ftbe Captain of tbe jforlorn ibope 9<
ammunition. Many of tlie rooms in your late uncle's
dwellings are not more than nine feet square; their
sanitary conditions are too awful to be mentioned. Yet,
from these houses he has received for many years twelve
hundred per annum. He never saw the houses ; never
once in the whole course of his life did he come near this
place. His rents were paid him, and that is all he cared.
I wrote to him many times on the subject; as I told you
just now, he never replied to my letters. On his death¬
bed, perhaps, the memory of those letters came to him.
He spoke to you then of a stewardship unfaithfully per¬
formed. You know the rest. Now, it is my strong
belief that you ought not to accept his money without
taking up also the heavy mantle which he has laid upon
your shoulders. All the things he failed to do, it is
possible for you to perform. That is my opinion. You
will think that I speak from a selfish motive. Not at all.
It is true that I am a shepherd of souls in this place,
and I speak in the name of my Divine Master. There
are sheep to be fed, and lambs to be nourished. I speak
in His Name, and tell you frankly that I think you ought
to take up the burden ; but you must not take my opinion
alone."
"Who else am I to ask?" I answered; "in all the
world, who else can know so well ? But please remember
that I know nothing whatever about the poor; I know
nothing whatever about philanthropic work. I can, of
course, give you money. Will that be sufficient ? "
" From your point of view, it won't. Money is well,
but personal influence is still better. The two combined
can do splendid work. In short, I believe, and I believe
only, in a man coming himself into the midst of this fight.
92
Cbe Captain of tbe jfortorn 1bope
If you give at all, give everything. That is my opinion.
I won't say another word now. Will you think it over? "
I rose abruptly.
" Thank you," I answered, " I will let you know ; you
will hear from me in a few days."
He did not attempt to detain me, and I went home. I
went straight up to my own room, locked the door, and
thought over the situation. Things had narrowed them¬
selves considerably, and I began to see a lurid and rather
terrible light on my path. I felt very nervous, and
terribly depressed. At the same time, something within
me seemed to have been suddenly born into life that day.
I think it must have been my soul. It was an infant soul
yet, but it might rise to strength, to enthusiasm, even to
glory. When I felt its feeble wings fluttering within, I
felt a strange sensation of happiness, and I began to
understand the look in the eyes of the man who had
spoken to me to-day. His strong soul bore me upwards
on wings like an eagle. Surely it was worth losing all
the world to win such a soul. I took the different legal
documents from their packet, opened them, and studied
them as well as I could. After a time, matters begau
to get clearer to me. The houses in Jasper Court, and
the houses in Frank Street, Shoreditch, were the only
houses of this sort which my uncle possessed ; the rest of
his property consisted of stocks and shares, and a small
estate in Yorkshire. The estate was let to a good yearly
tenant. The management of the stocks and shares I felt
I might leave safely with Mr. Pritchard, but Jasper Court
and the houses in Frank Street belonged to me ; they
were the burden which I was to carry on my young
Bhoulders. I resolved that I would carry them. Having
Ube Captain of tbe jforlom Ibope
93
made my resolve, I fell on my knees and attempted to
pray. It is a literal fact that I had never really prayed
before, and now I only repeated the Lord's Prayer over
very slowly. When I came to the concluding sentence,
I paused to think. " For Thine is the kingdom, the
power, and the glory. Amen." I rose abruptly from my
knees. As I repeated these last words, a light seemed to
come to me. I began to understand why certain men
thought nothing of going down even to hell itself, for the
sake of bringing God's kingdom out of the depths. It was
late in the day, and I was tired. But full of my new-born
resolve, I went out, and called on Mrs. Keys in Saffron
Hill. She was in, as usual. As usual, her little room
was very clean and very hot. As usual, she sat near the
glowing fire, and when I complained of it, mentioned her
brown kitis.
"And what's the matter with you, my dear?" she said,
giving me a full glance. " Have you been ill since I saw
you last, my pretty ? "
" I have gone through a good deal," I answered. " I
have had to make up my mind on a very important
matter. It is made up now, and we have only to turn to
the practical details. Honey, answer me a plain question.
Are you wedded to this little room ? "
" Well, dear, it's as good as another, not but what I'd
like more light and a better supply of water; but we all
must have something to grumble about — there ain't
nothing, to say, really wrong in the room, dear."
" If that is the case, somebody else can come and
occupy it," I said. "The fact is, Honey, I want
you."
" You want me, my dear Miss Joan ! what for?"
94
Cbe Captain of tbe aforlorn Ibope
Mrs..Keys had risen while I spoke; she came a step
nearer to me, and looked at me very earnestly.
" I suppose, darling," she said, " you are going to
Dorset Gate, for the house and all the furniture are
now yours; and I know, my pet, you always thought a
lot of Honey's gingerbread and cakes and puddings; and
I don't go for to deny that there never was anybody who
could fry a sole better than I could. But, my dear, if
Williams is to stay, I can't go back—come now, that's
flat."
I could not help laughing.
"You shan't be worried by Williams, you dear old
woman," I said. "You will be rather surprised when f
tell you what I really want you for."
"Well, dear, I'm all attention."
" Before I begin, Honey, I want to say one thing—my
mind is made up. If you don't come with me, I must try
to get some one else. I'd rather have you than any one
else; but please understand that."
" Yes, my dear; yes, Miss Joan; how determined you
do look, to be sure. Why, you've got quite a look of your
uncle, only your eyes are brown, and his were blue—it's
wonderful—and you hold yourself up grand, too. Oh
dear, we live in a queer world ; young ladies seem to have
it all their own way these days. Now, my dear, tell me
what's in your head. I'd do a good deal for you, Miss
Joan, but live in the house with Williams I can't and
won't; anything else, though, I'm willing to listen to."
"I am not going to live in Dorset Gate," I answered.
" I shall ask Mr. Pritchard to let the house; it may
as well be let furnished as otherwise—that matter can
lie in his hands. Now, Mrs. Keys, this is the state of
Ube Captain of tbe forlorn 1bope 95
affairs. My uncle has died and has left me all his money,
all his lands, and all his houses; those terrible houses in
Jasper Court, and others. I went to see Jasper Court
with Mr. Bridges on Saturday—oh, the thought of it has
haunted me ever since. Please don't interrupt me, Honey,
dear; I have more to say. These are not the only houses
that my uncle owned. There are others in a part of East
London called Shoreditch—awful houses, full of rooms,
where people have died simply because they could not
live; rooms only nine feet square—think of it, Honey.
But out of these terrible houses my uncle received an
income of twelve hundred per annum. They are mine
now—mine, with a great deal besides of the money
which he has saved out of them. Mine, did I say?" I
stood up suddenly and stamped my foot. " No ! they are
not mine; they belong to the devil. I won't touch that
money except to give it back again to the poor and the
suffering. Uncle Balph led a bad life, Mrs. Keys. It
looked beautiful, but it was a whited sepulchre—that's
what the Bible would say of it; and if I take his money,
I will only take it to give it back again. Then perhaps
it will become God's, and the curse will be removed.
There," I said, stopping abruptly and wiping my eyes;
"now I have had my say, and we'll just come to the
commonplace part of the business. I am going to live in
Frank Street, and I want to know if you will come with
me, and live there too."
" My dear child, my brave Miss Joan. Oh, you must
be mad, my darling."
" Perhaps I am," I answered; " anyhow, my mind is
made up. "Will you come with me, or must I get some
one else ? "
96
Cbe Captain of tbe iforlorn Dope
" Oh, my dear, you ought to think it over.7'
" I have thought it over. Will you come ? Is it
' yes' or ' no ' ? "
"If your mind is made up like that, it must be 'yes,'"
answered Honey. I could not leave a young thing to go
down into that God-forsaken place by herself."
I flung my arms round Honey's neck and kissed her.
CHAPTER IX
A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR
HEN I broke the news to Annt Fanny I had a
bad quarter of an hour. I think she believed
that I had taken complete leave of my senses.
" Those terrible slums," she cried- shudder¬
ing as she spoke, and drawing in her dress instinctively
as if one of the slum children were likely to touch
her.
When I had clearly explained the position she treated
it at first as a huge joke. She called Francesca and Anne
to listen, and asked them to look carefully at me, and
then told them that my unexpected change of fortune
had turned my brain.
But when she saw that I was in earnest—in short,
that there was both sense and, determination in my
madness—she changed her tone, and became exceed¬
ingly angry. She accused me of base ingratitude, and,
in short, in her great disappointment and vexation
completely forgot herself.
" You must choose between us and the slums, Joan,"
she said finally. " If you are wicked enough to go down
to those parts, to bury yourself alive in that region of
dark heathendom, you must not expect your respectable
97 N
98
a iJBafc (Quarter of an 1bout
friends to take the least notice of you. I mean what I
say—you must choose between us and Frank Street."
" I don't think you do mean it," I said. " When you
have got over your disappointment, you will not refuse to
see me when I want a breath of fresh air and a cheery
word from my own near relations; but whether you
refuse or not to see me, Aunt Fanny, I am going, for
this matter has been taken out of my hands."
" Eubbish," said Aunt Fanny; "it is positively blas¬
phemous of a chick like you to imagine that you have
been put into a position to set Providence right. It is
the will of the Almighty that there should be rich and
poor people in the world, and you have no business to set
vourself up as knowing more about the race than your
Maker."
"We must agree to differ," I said. "My view of the
case is not at all what you think, Aunt Fanny. Then,"
I added, after a pause, " I have not forgotten that you
are my mother's sister, and that I lived with you when
I was little. You gave me house-room, and you took a
certain amount of care of me. I suppose you meant to
be very kind, and I should have thought more of this if
you had not been so much kinder since Uncle Ralph's
death than you were before."
" You impudent girl," said Aunt Fanny.
" It is true, Annt Fanny," I said.
"It is perfectly true; you're as right as rain," said
Anne. " I do like some one who can speak up to
mother. Now then, Joan, what else?"
" I am desperate, and I must speak the truth now," I
said. " I don't forget flint you are my near relation,
Aunt Fanny. I have been thinking matters over, and I
H Quarter of an Ifoour
99
certainly sometimes should like to come to see you; and
though I am fond of this house in Bloomsbury, yet if
you really wish to go to South Kensington, I will pay
the difference between the rent here and the rent
there."
Aunt Fanny's face grew very red. She was about to
say something when I interrupted her.
"I have been looking into the matter," I said again.
"The money left me is represented by an income of
about three thousand per annum. Out of that, I find
that five hundred pounds is not derived from the
dwellings of the poor. Part of that five hundred a year
I must have to spend on myself, but I shall not need it
all. If you care to accept it, Aunt Fanny, I can let you
have two hundred and fifty towards the rent of the house
in South Kensington."
" It would be a mean shame to take it, that's all I can
say!" exclaimed Anne.
"Anne, I should be glad if you would leave the room,"
said Aunt Fanny.
"No, mother, I won't—I won't stand by and see Joan
robbed. If she chooses to take a Quixotic view of the
situation, I, for my part, am not one to blame her. I
can see her meaning. The money which comes from the
dwellings of the poor she will not touch, and she offers
to divide the five hundred a year which is over and above
that part of her income between you and herself. I
really think it is very fine of her, and I don't know why
she should be scolded in the matter. At the same time,
of course, you won't take it."
Aunt Fanny burst into a fit of hysterical weeping.
She sobbed loudly, and the girls and I had to get her
IOO
H Bat) Quarter of an Ifoour
sal volatile, and do what we could to calm, her down.
When she became calm again she said nothing at all
about my proposal, but she no longer treated me with
the violent dislike which she had shown during the
teirible hour and a half when she thought that I and
my riches were going to melt away into East London.
On the contrary, she took one of my hands and squeezed
it affectionately, and told me not to mind Anne, who had
always been a great trouble to her. When I went out
of the room she must have at once sent for Uncle
Bannerman, for he looked at me in a very queer way
at dinner that evening, and when the meal was over
asl.ed me to accompany him into his study.
"Now, Joan, what is this I hear?" he said, laying his
hand on my shoulder.
"I hope you won't think me mad with all the others,"
I answered.
"I do think you quite mad," he replied; "but I have
seen that madness before; it is a fine frenzy, and often
leads to results."
" What do you mean ? " I said, surprised at his tone.
"You remind me of a brother of mine who died when
he was young," he answered. " He was a curate in a
large overworked parish in Manchester. His brother-
curate was a very delicate man. There was a severe
outbreak of typhus fever, and Tom, my brother, threw
himself heart and soul into the battle, for it really was
nothing else. His brother-curate was a man of the
name of Irving. He was very delicate, and Tom insisted
on doing all the sick visiting himself, and sparing Irving,
whose constitution, he said, was not proof against so
severe a test. Well, it ended in the usual way. Tom
H Quarter of an Iboiic
t OI
died of fever, and no one thanked him for throwing
away his life. He left a widow with several children
behind him—his family have been more or less on my
hands ever since. Your aunt does not know, and I have
never told her, Joan, but that is the real reason why I
have not been able to move West. The extra rent which
a house in Kensington would cost me has gone to help
to educate poor Tom's family. Tom was a very un¬
earthly fellow, and you remind me of him as you stand
there. But, child, he was a man, and you are a woman—
a girl rather. I don't approve a bit of what you are going
to do, remember ; although I am powerless, unfortunately,
to oppose it. In all probability you will die of some horrid
fever or some other preventable disease before two years
are over, and then where will your money go ? "
"It isn't my money, Uncle Bannerman; that's just the
point. I don't regard it as my money. I must give it
back to those who paid it for many years through their
heart's blood."
"Well, I can't at all understand the position," said
Uncle Bannerman. "You remind me in some extra¬
ordinary way of Tom, whom I always regarded as a fool;
but I suppose there's something in it, only it is beyond
my wits. I am not angry with you, child; not at all."
CHAPTER X
ANNE'S TRIUMPHANT MARCH
NCLE Bannerman's remarks comforted me a
good deal more than I had any idea of. That
night I could not sleep, and my thoughts
wandered much to that brother of his who had
died years ago, and whom his family regarded as a fool.
I thought him much the same sort of fool that St. Paul
was, and was proud of being placed in the same category.
Early the next day I wrote to Mr. Moore, and told
him of my decision. 1" further said that I should like
to take up my residence in his parish at as early a date
as possible, that I intended to take an old servant with
me, and wished to live amongst the people as their
new landlord.
"There will be a considerable amount of money to
devote to their interests," I continued, "and about the
spending of that I must consult you. In the meantime,
can you help me to find suitable quarters ? I am prepared
for most things, but I do want my rooms to be made
fairly clean."
To this letter Mr. Moore wrote an instant reply. He
congratulated me on having come to a wise decision, which
he was quite certain I should never repent in the future;
I02
Hmte'3 {Triumphant ADarcb 103
"although for the present," he added, "you will doubtless
feel it acutely." He then said that he could get rooms for
me and my maid on the first floor of a cabinetmaker's shop
in Frank Street. He suggested that I should furnish them,
us the surest way of combining cleanliness with cheerful¬
ness ; he further asked me to go down to see the rooms at
as early a date as possible.
I did so the very day I received his letter, taking Mrs.
Keys with me. Mr. Moore met us on the threshold of
our new home. Its outward aspect did not certainly look
inviting. The house was a very old one, and perhaps at
some distant date had harboured respectable inhabitants.
But these palmy days were long over, and its wide
stairs were considerably the worse for the havoc of the
many feet that had passed up and down on them. I did
not like the first floor at all; it looked across a narrow
street into a public-house. I came to the conclusion that
the noise in this place would be extremely trying both to
Mrs. Keys and myself, and asked Mr. Moore if we could
not have rooms at the top of the house. He inquired
of the cabinetmaker, whose name was Harris. Harris
informed us that the top floor was at our disposal. We
mounted three more flights of stairs to reach it. Here we
looked over the roofs of the opposite houses, and on a
clear day could get a view of the dome of St. Paul's far
away in the distance. This was much more satisfactory,
and I arranged to take the rooms at once. In themselves
they were the reverse of inviting, and I was glad Aunt
Fanny had not seen them. I hoped some day to invite
my aunt and cousins to have lunch with me in my new
quarters, but this must be after a great amount of re¬
formation had been gone through. I decided to take not
j°4 Httne's ^Triumphant /ibarcb
only the top floor, but the attics overhead. This amount
of comfort I felt I might allow myself. It would be very
unpleasant to have neighbours tramping past me, and
walking about on the attic floors at untimely hours. I
arranged about the rent, and then asked Mr. Moore what
he would advise in the way of painting and papering my
new domicile.
" The place is as dirty as dirty can be," grumbled Mrs.
Keys. "Neither my young lady nor me can come into
these rooms until they're reformed from top to bottom."
"I don't want to have them smart," I answered, "but
I wish them to be clean and bright. They must, of course,
be re-papered and painted as soon as possible."
Mr. Moore gave me some valuable suggestions. He
furnished me with the address of a man in the neighbour¬
hood, who could not only undertake the job, but do it
thoroughly well; he said, further, that the man was out
of work, and that the decoration and restoration of my
rooms would be a godsend to him. Mrs. Keys volunteered
to go and fetch this man immediately. He came; his
name was Dawson; he brought a roll of papers with him,
and we chose some very light ones on the spot. He then
took out his knife and scraped the wall. The wall of the
room in which I was standing boasted of six papers, one
over the other.
"All these papers must be scraped away," said Mr.
Moore, "and then, Dawson, you must do what you did in
my case—you must use putty to fill up the holes in the
wall. In that way, and that alone, can this lady be secure
from what we may consider the plague of the East End."
I saw Mrs. Keys give a shudder, and did not care to
question further,
Hmte's XCriumpbant flDarcb 105
The same wholesale regime was to be carried out in
regard to the attics. The floors were to be washed with
turpentine. The woodwork was to undergo a certain
sanitary process, which might render it inocuous ; it was
then to be painted in a light, bright tint of china blue.
I came down once or twice to watch the work. It was
wonderful what a keen interest I took in it. The hideous
rooms began gradually but surely to put on spring dress ;
the windows were polished ; the floors were scrubbed and
scrubbed and scrubbed again ; the fresh paper and paint
seemed to let in sunshine as well as beauty and cleanliness.
When the rooms were ready I covered the floor with kamp-
tulicon; over this mats were to be placed. Then the furni¬
ture began to arrive. It was bright painted furniture of
the simplest description. At the windows I hung white
muslin curtains. When Mr. Moore saw Mrs. Keys putting
these up, he remarked that they would not long remain
white.
"They shall go into the washtub, then," I answered
stoutly; " for curtains that are to be washed constantly
are the only kind I will have."
" That is a good idea," he answered, with a smile.
East End as it was, my rooms began to look quite
bower-like before they were finished. I had eight rooms
in all. Two sitting-rooms facing the street, and a bedroom
apiece for myself and Mrs. Keys at the back. A large
front attic was to be used as a class-room, if I ever needed
such a thing; the other was converted into a kitchen,
with a proper stove and all the necessary appliances.
The two back attics were furnished very simply as bed
rooms. I did not quite know myself at that juncture
what I wanted them for, but I had them furnished,
0
io6 Hnite's {Triumphant /ibarcb
and even Mrs. Keys didn't say a word to oppose me.
Having made up her mind to help me in my project, this
good woman threw herself heart and soul into the whole
undertaking. Her matter-of-fact commonsense was in¬
valuable to me. She forgot all about her " brown kitis,"
which I fancy quickly disappeared under this new excite¬
ment which had come into her life. At last my little
home was ready for occupation. It had taken exactly
three weeks to prepare. I had bought myself some suit¬
able clothes—plain, dark serge skirts, and half-a-dozen
washing blouses for hot weather. I did not lay in any
store of clothes for the winter as yet. The day presently
dawned when I was to leave Bloomsbury to go East.
Aunt Fanny took no notice whatever of my preparations ;
she had relapsed into a sort of sulky silence. I suppose
Uncle Bannerman had told her that she must not accept
my olfer to help them with the rent of a house in Ken¬
sington, for she never alluded to the matter, and, in fact,
took very little notice of me. I was no longer of moment
to her; and.when I happened to be in late for lunch,
there were no special hot cutlets got ready for me.
Francesca looked at me many times with much reproach
on her beautiful face, but neither did she allude to my
East End scheme. As to Anne, she seemed to have
forgotten my very existence. At this time, Anne seemed
to live for her piano alone. I heard her rattling away at
her scales and exercises when I awoke in the morniDg.
and often late at night she was still vigorously playing.
She had considerable musical talent, but she was a good
bit of a trial to her relations at this time. I began to get
her exercises and scales on my brain, and to wish she
would sometimes indulge in music with a little bit of
Hnne's TTnnmpbant /ibarcb 107
melody in it. There was a fierce, harsh, quality about
her performances just now which I did not observe until
the day when I had announced my intention of taking up
work in the East End of London.
The last day in the old home arrived. I was very much
excited and interested, but no one else in the house even
knew that I was so soon going to take leave of it. No
one helped me as I packed my boxes. When I came
down to dinner, flushed and tired that last evening, no
one noticed my weary condition. Just when the meal
was coming to an end I spoke.
"I think I heard you say that you are going out early
to-morrow, Aunt Fanny," I said.
" So I am, Joan," she answered. "Lucy, you can take
Miss Prinsep's plate; I think she has finished. John,"
she continued, addressing her husband, " are you going
to your club this evening ? "
"Yes, my dear ; what of it ? "
Uncle Bannerman, who had been in a brown study, raised
his eyes and looked from his wife to me. He saw, if Aunt
Fanny did not, that I wanted to say something further.
"I am going out as usual to the club," he answered.
"There is nothing remarkable in that. I think, Fanny,
Joan has something to say to you."
"Only that I am going away early to-morrow," I
answered. " I should like to say ' good-bye' before I
move."
" I shall be here as usual at breakfast," said Aunt
Fanny, with a stony stare. " Francesca, love, if we are
going, we had better go."
" Where are you going?" asked Uncle Bannerman.
" To one of dear Mr. Fortescue's services," she replied
io8 Hnne's xCrlumpbant /ifcarcb
" We haven't a moment to lose. Run and get on your
hat, Francesca."
Francesca ran out of the room without glancing at me.
Aunt Fanny rose slowly to follow her example. When
she had got as far as the diniug-room door, she turned.
"Anne, are you coming?" she said, looking at her
youngest daughter.
"No, mother."
"Why not? You know Mr. Fortescue rather depends
on you to help the choir."
" I am not coming."
" Why not, my dear? "
" Because I want to practise at home, and also to talk
to Joan."
" Oh, don't mind me," I said.
" It is really quite unnecessary for you to put yourself
out for Joan," said Aunt Fanny. " She has no considera¬
tion for her relations, and can't expect them to consider
her."
" I don't. I wish you would go, Anne," I said, a great
lump coming up in my throat.
" I intend to stay at home, mother," replied Anne
calmly, and Aunt Fanny flounced out of the room.
" Quite right, Anne," said Uncle Bannerman, when we
were left alone. " I hope you'll go upstairs and help that
child with her packing—she looks worn out. Now, Joan,
my child, don't make yourself too much of a martyr. No
one will thank you if you lose your life by preventable
disease. Well, I must hurry off. If I'm late I shall miss
Burgin at the club, and I've something I want to say to
him. Good-bye, girls. I'll see you, Joan, in the morning."
He hurried away. I did not look at Anne, who had
Hitne's TTrfumpbant flbarcb 109
snatched up a novel, and whose eyes were fixed on the
open page, but rushed away to my own room. I felt
quite childishly weak and sentimental. My relations had
never been altogether to my taste, but I quite longed for
them to be kind to me in this crisis in my life. My rather
ugly little bedroom suddenly appeared to me as a haven of
rest. I was homesick as I walked across it, and reflected
that I should, in all probability, never spend another night
there. I was determined not to cry, however, and was
standing by one of my boxes, rearranging some of my
small possessions, when I heard steps on the landing,
followed immediately by a knock at my door. I had
scarcely time to say " Come in" before the door was
opened, and Anne entered.
"Oh, you are packed," she said; "I thought perhaps
I could help you."
" No, thanks," I replied ; " there is really nothing more
to be done."
" You look fagged," said Anne, standing rather awk¬
wardly by the foot of the bed as she spoke.
" Well, I have had a good deal to do one way or
another," I replied.
" And so you are really going to immolate yourself to¬
morrow ? "
"You can put it in that way if you like," I answered,
" but I assure you I am very much interested in the
experiment. I earnestly hope it will succeed."
" It is much more likely to fail," said Anne. " Well,
I admire your pluck. I thought I would come up and
tell you so."
She coloured very much as she spoke. I stood by the
mantelpiece and looked at her.
no Hnite's {Triumphant /Ibarcb
" I am not going to take up your time now," she said.
" I just want to say something before you go away.
We have none of us been good to you here. No, we
haven't," as I made an involuntary exclamation. lC I
shudder to think what kind of people you would have
found us if mother had not been paid to look after you.
Now you are going, and I am not a bit surprised. Thank
Heaven, we have not come to the last degradation of
taking half your little income from you. Mother was
equal to it, but luckily father stepped in at the right
moment and interfered. I suppose you are doing a very
brave thing, not in leaving us, but in going deliberately
into that awful death in life which people who live in the
East End must undergo. I believe the place is alive with
vermin, and altogether most unsightly and disreputable.
You have been brought up in refinement, and how you
can undertake such a life, puzzles me. But I respect
you for it. I don't pretend to be exactly fond of you,
for we are as the " antipodes" in every sense of the
word; but I thought you'd like to know that I respect
you; and I shall be curious to learn, too, how your experi¬
ment works, whether you find happiness in self-denial
—in short, whether your religion will stand the severe
test you are subjecting it to."
"But I am not religious," I interrupted suddenly.
" Pardon me, it is folly to say that; surely only the most
intense sense of religion could enable you to undergo the
life you have deliberately marked out for yourself. You
are a practical Christian, the only one worth having
anything to do with. I repeat that I shall be curious to
know if you find happiness in your self-sacrifice; if so,
you have taken the wisest course after all. No people
Hnne's {Triumphant /ifcarcb m
can be more discontented and wretched than Francesca
and myself."
"Oh, Anne," I said, "I did not know that you were
unhappy."
" Look at my face. Have I a happy expression ? " said
Anne suddenly.
She came into the full blaze of the gas as she spoke.
She was a young girl, only nineteen years old, yet already
a distinct wrinkle stood between her eyebrows, her mouth
had a fretful droop, her eyes a defiant expression.
" You look like one," I said, "who takes life too hard."
" Too hard! " she muttered, with an impatient exclama¬
tion ; " life is not worth fretting about—such a life as
we lead."
" But you have got your music," I said.
" Music! it isn't music, it's drudgery."
"But why do you make it drudgery ? why do you play
those awful scales from morning to night ? "
She gave me a queer look, and her whole expression
changed. "You notice that, do you ? " she said.
" Of course, who could fail to notice it. I have
wondered "
"Wonder no more," she said abruptly. "I can't put
my soul into music in a house with mother and Francesca;
but we are alone in the house now, and I don't mind you.
Come, I'll play something for you."
Sbe took my hand in a feverish clasp, and rushed
downstairs with me to the drawing-room.
" Sit there," she said, " somewhere where I can't see
you ; no, I don't want lights."
She went to the grand piano and opened it. It was a
beautiful instrument, given to Anne by her father a
ti2 Hnne's TEriumpbant tfbarcb
couple of years ago. She struck two or three ponderous
chords, and then dashed away into a melody tinkling and
fantastic as fairy bells. The little light that was in the room
fell on her face, which instantly underwent a transforma¬
tion ; the wrinkle left her brow ; the peevish lines vanished
from her mouth ; the dark, rather angry-looking eyes were
filled with ecstacy—I saw that she had absolutely for¬
gotten my presence. Anne played to me for over ■ an
hour ; during that time she seemed to go through a whole
gamut of emotions. From grave to gay, from passion to
frivolity, she tripped and raced, marched and swept.
Suddenly she stopped and looked full at me.
"Now I will give you my idea of religion," she said.
She broke into a grand inspiriting march. Under¬
neath the march was a minor key, which seemed to
express a sort of sob, a groan or wail from dim multi¬
tudes ; the march waxed more and more triumphant;
lighter and clearer became the strain ; the minor undertone
grew faint, and then was still. She sprang from the piano
and shut it. I went up to her, took her two hands, and
kissed her.
"Anne," I said, "you are a genius. I didn't know it
was in you. Where did you get that music ? "
" Out of my head," she answered shortly.
" But, Anne, do you know you possess a wonderful
gift?"
"Bosh," she replied abruptly, "I don't possess it; now
and then something gets inside me, and I have to play
like that or I'll burst; but it has nothing to do with me,
it is something apart from myself. Perhaps you under¬
stand, Joan, that it is utterly impossible for me to subject
mother and Francesca to that kind of music."
Butte's Uilumpbant /Iliarcb 113
"I do understand," I answered.
"Perhaps you understand, too," she continued, "that I
also in my dim sort of heathenish way believe in religion,
or rather in the ultimate victory of good over evil. Did
you notice that my march became victorious in the end—
the groan and the sorrow vanished, the minor tone of
pain ceased ? Why do I talk like this ? Good-bye,
Joan ; good-bye."
"But I shall see you in the morning," I said, clinging
to her now that I was leaving her.
" No, you won't," she replied; " I'll be in my shell again
then, and unable to get out a word to you. Do you think
it is easy for a girl like me to get out of her shell ? It
isn't. Good-bye, Joan."
"No, no, not yet," I said, running after her ; "I don't
believe you and I are as the antipodes—there is some¬
thing alike in us both. Oh! what am I saying? It is
conceited of me to say we are alike; yon are miles and
miles beyond me, and above me; only one who had a great
soul could play as you play. It is in you to be anything,
Anne; it is—yes, it is. Why do you crush and starve
your soul ? Oh, Anne, why don't you come and help me ?
There's room for you in Frank Street."
Anne gave a short, hard laugh.
" Good gracious, child, what are you dreaming of," she
said. " If you think there is self-sacrifice in me, you are
vastly mistaken. I loathe poor people, and I hate dirt.
I have not the slightest wish to raise the masses.
Now I am tired, and have a headache. I am going to
bed."
She wrenched her hands out of mine, and left me
She had already got back into her shell, and it was
p
H4 Brine's TTnumpbant /Ibarcb
impossible for me to touch her or influence her in any¬
way. Nevertheless, during the night which followed, my
last night in the old house, I thought of Anne and her
triumphant march with a queer sense of excitement and
pleasure.
CHAPTER XI
MY FIRST TEA PARTY
T took me nearly a week to settle in East
London. I was not at all happy during that
first week. The whole place was strange to
me—the work to be done seemed immense—
the people to do it were harassed, overdriven, drawn
up at every moment by want of funds. It is a true
saying that London is both the richest and the poorest
city in the world. A stone's throw from luxuries the
most immense lurks poverty the most squalid. Starva¬
tion, vice, underpaid work, grinds the souls of the people
down into the bottomless pit. Everything soon looked
ugly in my new home ; even the white curtains were grey
with smuts before the week was out. The weather was
very hot, and I found it impossible to open my windows,
except very early in the morning, on account of the
London blacks, which swept in regiments into the room
and took possession of it. Before I began my life-work I
had fondly hoped that my money could establish large
reforms, but I saw that after all it was but a drop
in the ocean compared to the needs of the place.
The colossal evils could scarcely be reduced even by
a dozen girls' fortunes. Brave noble men and women
«5
r 16 /Iftp jfirst Uea parts
were giving up their lives in the cause, but still the
evil grew and grew. Mrs. Keys began to look very dis¬
contented. She even talked again about her brown kitis,
and openly regretted her rooms in the model lodging-
house.
" It ain't that I was in a good neighbourhood there,"
she said, " but I was next door to a good one. It was but
a step from Saffron Hill to Holborn Viaduct, and there,
as you know, Miss Joan, one could take a 'bus and be in
the West H'end in twenty minutes or so at the farthest.
Oh, this is an awful place; and what good you can expec'
to do with 'em ruffianly, murderous-looking men and
women, is more than I cau say. Give it up, Miss Joan
dear; give it up."
"I can't," I said; "I am bound by a vow—a vow to
the dead."
"Dear heart, how hard you take it," said the old
woman, clasping one of my hands in hers. " It's wonderful
to see a young girl so full of conscience; but now look
here, my pet, even suppose you give up the money that
the houses bring in—even suppose you give it all up and
build model houses all over the place, why should you
spend your five hundred a year in wearing yourself to
death, and doing no good to nobody?"
"You mustn't discourage me, Honey," I answered to
this. "Nothing would induce me to touch that money,
but even that does not pay the debt. What of all the
past years when Uncle Ealph enjoyed it ? What of the
interest on all those years? I am giving myself to pay
that part of the debt, Honey."
"Well, it's wonderful," said Mrs. Keys, flinging up her
hands. " Talk to me of religion! I never seed such a
/ifcg jftrst XLca H>art£
117
glowing example, never before in the whole course of my
existence."
"I wish you wouldn't say that," I answered; "lam
really not religious at all."
I ran out of the room, locked myself into my bedroom,
and indulged in a hearty cry. I was certainly having a
bad time just then; in short, I was feeling my feet, and
the process was anything but agreeable. Before I arrived
at my new home, my idea was that Mr. Moore would
guide me step by step in my work. I soon found
that he was far too busy for this. The life of this good
man was one long race against time and evil. His time
was far too short for him to complete the work he had
set himself to do. He had no thought of preserving his
health, nor of lengthening his days. Physically, he was
very strong. He had given himself up long ago as a
willing sacrifice to the cause which he had in hand.
Outside his special work, which in itself was overpower¬
ing and large, and which I must describe presently, was
other work on a larger and more efficient scale. Funds
were more plentiful in other regions. There was the
work done not far from his doors, by the brave men
who lived at Balliol House. From this centre radiated a
religious, social, arid educational life which was having
day by day a really permanent effect amongst the poor
of that part of London. Balliol House had been estab¬
lished in Bethnal Green in order that Oxford men miarht
take part in the social and religious work of the Church
in East London, that they might try the effect of mental
culture as well as spiritual teaching, and might them¬
selves offer an example of simple and religious life.
Balliol House could accommodate twenty-eight young
ii8
(foy jftrst ttea U>art^
men from the universities. There they lived, giving them¬
selves up in a threefold sense to the service. The head
of the house was an all-inspiring power in their midst.
On my first Sunday in East London, tired, discouraged,
and utterly ignorant with regard to my future, I went
to hear him preach. The service was held in St. John's
Church, Bethnal Green. The church was crowded when
I entered. Mr. Wingate's sermon was very short and
impressive. " Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in My
Name, He shall give it to you," was his text. He spoke
of the magnificence of the promise, and told the men and
women, who seemed to hang upon his words, that if one of
the Father's children did not pray, He missed that voice.
"I miss My little human praise," the poet Browning says
of God in one of his poems. The preacher said, further,
that it was even a grander thought that God would
answer the prayer. But the request must be for something
good. If the request was really gocd, every man present
might try to realise that it would be granted. Such a
privilege, however, entailed a life in accordance with it.
We must ask the Father in the Name of Christ. When
a husband trusted his wife with the use of his name, he
assumed that she was faithful to him, and would bring no
discredit on his name. Christ also assumed the same
when He trusted us with the use of His Name. Lastly,
the preacher urged the practice of prayer. By no other
means could we attain to true manhood. The man who
never prayed was, he said, the nearest approach to a fish
out of water. Prayer was like breathing; it expelled
the impurities and sins in confession, as the lungs in
breathing expelled the bad air. It was a very difficult
thing to begin to pray, but those who persevered went
/ID£ tftrst Uea fl>art£ 119
from strength to strength, until before the God of gods
appeared every one of them in Zion. While the preacher
spoke there was a great silence in the building. The
words were of the simplest, but I think they found their
mark. I went slowly home through the hot, fervid,
close-smelling summer air, and met Mr. Moore face to
face.
" What is the matter ? " he said abruptly; " you look
excited. Where have you been ? "
"I went to hear Mr. Wingate preach," I said.
" I am glad of that; he is a remarkable man—very
strong in every sense of the word. He believes in our
threefold nature, and acts according to his belief."
"I was discouraged, and he has helped me," I said
simply. " He believes in prayer."
" No one who does not pray ought to spend a week in
this place," said Father Moore. "A week here without
prayer would send me mad."
" When can I see you?" I asked; "I am very helpless
and discouraged."
" Is that so ? " he answered, giving me a keen glance;
" forgive me, I have been very remiss. You have been
so brave and independent, that I almost forgot that you
are also human. How unkind of me. You look fagged;
have you been overdoing things ? "
" Overdoing ! " I said passionately ; " I have been sitting
at home, and doing nothing."
"No wonder you look nearly dead. Come, you must
set to work this minute. I want you to start a girls' club
without delay."
" I know nothing about it," I answered.
(i You will soon learn; begin to-night. You have a
120
jftrst TTca U>art£
room quite suited to the purpose, have you not, in your
own house ? "
" Yes."
"Well, begin to-night; what is the good of waiting.
Get your gas turned on; take up some picture-books, and
invite one or two girls to come and see you. No matter
what they talk about, get them to confide in you. I know
a lady who will help you to form a proper club, and give
you lots of valuable advice later on, but begin yourself
to-night. Remember, you must do your own work in this
place."
lie left me abruptly. Before I could find words to
reply to him, he seemed to be a quarter of a mile down
the narrow street. He swung along in a quick, ungainly,
but decidedly masculine stride. I stood almost petrified
on the pavement. I was to start a girls' club that very
night!
" Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in My Name, He
shall give it you," came back to me like an echo.
" God, for Chuist's sake, help me," I said, under my
breath.
It seemed like a very short, irreverent sort of prayer—
no moment for preparation no sort of introduction, just a
flinging of my request at the foot of the Throne of God.
Nevertheless I felt quite encouraged. I walked down the
street, and stopped at my own door. It certainly was not
a pleasant door to stop at. The cabinetmaker who owned the
house must have done but a poor business. He let out all
the floors in lodgings except the basement, which he
occupied himself. On the ground floor at the back lived a
man and woman and a girl. The girl stood now at the
entrance door. Her hair was in steel curlers. She wore
tfirst ftea Iftartp
121
an untidy cotton blouse and an old skirt made of some
drab material, wliich was partly out at the gathers, and
streamed in a short, dirty train behind. She was a well-
made buxom-looking girl, but her face was covered with
smuts, and grimy from want of washing. I had seen her
once or twice since my arrival, but had never spoken to
her. I stopped now and looked at her almost timidly.
She also stared at me. She half opened her lips to speak.
I rushed into my subject before she could say a word.
" Will you come and see me this evening ? " I said.
" I should like to show you some pictures, and have a chat
with you."
Her whole face broadened into a sort of grin; but look¬
ing at me, and seeing that I faltered and changed colour,
she suddenly stretched out one broad, powerful arm, and
laid her hand on my shoulder.
" You ain't up to this sort of work, my dear," she said;
" ef I was you, I'd leave gels like me and my mates alone."
" But I have come here to make friends with girls like
you," I answered. " I wish you would let me ; it will be
very discouraging if you don't."
" My word, do you really want us ? " she asked.
" Of course I do; do you think I'd live here if I
didn't?"
" I thought you wished to do the religious dodge."
She stared at me fixedly as she spoke, then a great
flood of colour filled her face ; her eyes, which were very
big and handsome, shone. She laid her hand again on
my shoulder.
" Forgive me, miss," she said. " I b'lieve youhe good;
I said so to Lucy Ash yesterday. You're very slight and
small, miss, and not up to the ways of rough gels like me
Q
122
jfirst TEea
and my mates, but I b'lieve you means well, I do, 'pon
my word. I'll come up to your room ef you likes, miss,
that is, ef you promise not to preach your religion at me."
" Of course I won't," I answered; " why should I
preach to you ? "
" Well, that's a bargain ; when shall I come ? "
" Come at seven o'clock," I answered ; " I'll give you
some tea."
" My word," she replied, " I'm dying to see wot sort
of place your'n is."
" I shall be delighted to show it to you. Please tell me
your name."
" Martha Mace, at yer service."
She nodded to me, and went into the street. As she
was going out I called after her.
"Martha, if you like to bring auy other girl, you may."
" May I really ? " she asked, smiling broadly as she
spoke, and showing a whole set of splendid teeth.
" There's my mate now, Lucy Ash ; I'd like fine to bring
her along o' me."
" Do," I said ; " she'll be heartily welcome."
I rushed upstairs quite gaily and triumphantly, and
burst into the room where Mrs. Keys was seated asleep
near the fire.
"Honey," I cried, "have we got anything nice in the
house for supper ? "
"Lawk a daisy, how you did startle me, Miss Joan.
Now, who's coming to supper, my pet ? "
" Two girls from downstairs."
" Two of them. Miss Joan, you must be real mad."
" No, I am not, Honey, but I am wonderfully happy.
I am going to give those girls the best supper I possibly
ZllbE ifirst XTea lp>art£
123
can, and you must help me. I want yon to be like a
mother to them, dear Honey, and I will be like a sister;
and now, what have we for supper ?"
" Dear heart! I suppose you won't give it to 'em in
your best sitting-room ? "
"Yes, I will, of course. Oh, Honey, don't discourage
me."
" I won't. I'd be a brute if I did. There, I suppose it
must be done. I knew you'd hobnob with them all before a
fortnight were out. What would that poor dear gentleman,
who liked his soles done to a turn, say if he was to see
you now ? But there, in for a penny, in for a pound. I'll
help you, my dear. It means a frightful lot of cleaning
up—goodness knows what those girls may bring into the
room—but I'm equal to it, Miss Joan. How, let me see;
you want to give them a right down good meal ? "
"I do, Honey. I want them to have a sort of little
paradise while they are in this room."
"To be sure. Well, if it makes you feel better, I don't
mind. How then, what do you say to cake—home-made,
for I made it myself yesterday—and tea with plenty of
sugar and milk, and sardines, and a dish of honey, and as
much bread and butter as they can eat ? "
" Splendid," I answered. " I'll pour out the tea, and
you shall cut the bread and butter, and help the girls to
unlimited honey and cake. We must be sure to make
the table look pretty, too. Let us put some flowers in
the centre."
Mrs. Keys and I both busied ourselves, and were as
much excited as if we were expecting to entertain royalty
to supper. At last the meal was ready, and very pretty
and refined it looked. I had a lamp with a coloured shade
I 24
/nip jfirst Zca patty
placed in the centre of the table, and I put on a cool,
white dress, and a blue ribbon round my neck. I had
given up even the pretence of mourning since I went
into East London. I thought that a bit of colour now
and then would be good for the people. Seven o'clock
struck from the church near by, and I became as nervous
and excited as if I were going to receive the most im¬
portant company in the world.
From the eager look on Martha Mace's face, I fully
expected her to be punctual to her appointment. But
this was not the case. When the hour was chimed
out on the neighbouring clock, it is quite true that I
heard footsteps running noisily up the stairs. It is also
quite true that they stopped on our landing; but there
came no knock at the door, and by-and-by the steps
receded softly, but with many an unavoidable creak.
" Can they possibly be afraid to come ?" I said to
Mrs. Keys.
" Afraid ? " she replied, with a sort of snort; " it ain't '
in such as 'em even to know fear. They'll come fast
enough when they 'as a mind to. You mustn't even look
for decent respect from the like of 'em, Miss Joan."
" Hush," I said suddenly.
I thought I heard the steps coming back. They ap¬
proached nearer—they certainly reached my landing—
then there was silence. I threw open my door abruptly.
A small, slight girl was kneeling with her eye to the key¬
hole. Martha stood a little in the background. The
small girl stood up when I appeared.
"It's all right, Matty," she said to her companion.
" Beg pardon, miss," she added, " we was only 'aving a
spy round afore we came in."
dfirst XTea part£
125
They marched into the room, not even waiting to be
invited. But I saw that they were both more perturbed
than they looked. They had done me the honour also
of putting on all their finery. Martha's hair was out
of its steel curlers. She had on a flaming red flannel
blouse and a black skirt. The dress was in its way pic¬
turesque, and it suited her well. Her face was clean now ;
and although she had not gone to the length of washing
her hands, she looked really handsome and well set up.
Her companion, Lucy Ash, was a drab sort of little
creature from head to foot. Her hair was the colour
of hay, her complexion was a paler shade of the
same tint, her eyes were washed-out blue, her eyelashes
and eyebrows so faint in colour and quantity, that they
were scarcely discernible. She had long, straight fea¬
tures, and very thin lips. Both girls wore the universal
fringe, which reached down to their eyebrows. When
they entered the room they stared about them, looked
at me with a certain degree of satisfaction, and frowned
visibly at Mrs. Keys. They had not expected Mrs. Keys
to be present, and their first glances at her were un¬
doubtedly ones of disapproval. As I fully intended
Honey to be a sort of mother to my girls, I was not
going to allow this for a moment. I brought Martha up
to her, and introduced them to each other quite formally.
" This is my friend Mrs. Keys," I said. " Mrs. Keys,
Miss Martha Mace."
Martha and Lucy both giggled when I made this formal
introduction, but I saw that they were pleased as well as
surprised. Having performed the same ceremony between
Mrs. Keys and Lucy Ash, I then invited them to seat
themselves at the table.
126
/I&p first tTea parts
" Honey," I said to Mrs. Keys, " we will now begin to
enjoy our tea."
" Honey ! " repeated Martha; " what a funny sort o'
name."
"It is my own private and special name for my dear
friend," I replied. " I call her by it because she is as
sweet as honey, and as good, to those she likes."
" And as tart as winegar to them she don't like," re¬
peated Mrs. Keys.
This speech set the two girls giggling- After a pause
Martha said abruptly—
" I like outspoken folks, don't you, Lucy?"
" I like cake better," said Lucy, who was attacking a
great junk with manifest appetite.
1 said very little during tea, but I helped my guests to
full and plenty. They began by being rather genteel in
their appetites, but soon their reserve wore off, and they
ate heartily. Mrs. Keys began to talk to them, suiting
her talk to their style and needs; they threw off all
reserve, and answered her questions readily. She com¬
plained of the dreadful smuts of the place, and Martha
gave her some hints with regard to the best hour to open
the windows.
"I can't abear stuffy places myself," she said; "but
there's only one hour in the day when the smuts don't
rise, and that's between four and five in the morning, that
is in summer; the fires are out, and the smuts are all
laid; you can open the winders then, and in fine lofty
rooms like these can lay in a supply of air for the day."
Mrs. Keys thanked Martha for this advice, and, tea
being over, began to clear away the things.
" I'll help yer," said Martha, jumping up.
/!!>£ ffirst Zca parts 127
" No, don't, mj dear; sit still and talk to my young
lady."
"I can't see yer do it all by yerself," said Martha;
" I'll take the tray up to yer kitchen, and help
wash up."
" Let her, Honey," I said to the good woman; " Lucy
and I will have a chat together while you are away."
Martha grinned with pleasure. Mrs. Keys filled the
tray, and Martha raised it with the ease of conscious
power. She held herself as erect as a dart, and carried
the tray on the palm of one hand, supporting the elbow
of that hand with the other, in the way I have seen
waiters do. When the two had left the room, I turned
to Lucy.
" Martha is a very fine-looking girl," I said.
" She's all that," answered Lucy, with enthusiasm;
" she's the best gel I know. I'm in rare luck to 'ave 'er
for a mate."
" What do you mean by a mate ? " I asked.
Lucy glanced up at me with a look of mingled surprise
and contempt.
" Don't yer know that much ? " she said. " All on us
'ave our mates."
" Do you mean that every girl here has another girl
friend ? "
" Why not ? but it's much more'n friend—we're mates,
that's wot we calls each other. It's as good as bein'
married in some ways, an' with none o' the troubles; we
sticks to each other through thick an' thin, an' fights for
each other, and shares each other's bite and sup. There
ain't a gel in our factory wot 'aven't 'er mate."
" And Martha is yours ? "
izB /n>p jfirst Uea lpart£
"Yes, good luck to 'er. I don't know where I'd be but
for 'er. I ain't strong, yer sees; I'm often down with
quinsy, an' brown kitis, an' sore trof, and ef it weren't for
Martha, wot's as strong as a 'orse, I don't s'ppose tkere'd
be much left o' me when my bad times is on. Martha
never knowed a day's illness in the whole course of 'er
life, not but she 'ave 'er troubles, paw gel."
Lucy shut up her mouth when she said this, and gave
me a look which seemed to say, "You ain't agoin' to
draw 'em from me, so don't you try it on."
I did not mean to try it on, but I meant to get Martha's
confidence from her own lips by-and-by.
"You say you are a factory girl," I said; "where do
you work ? "
" Where do I work! " she answered. " Do yer know
March Gate Lane ; it ain't far from Aldgate ; you'll call
that a good step from yere, but that don't matter; I'm in
a lucifer match factory. Martha wor with me, but she's
in the public business now."
"The public business," I answered. "Do you mean
that she serves in a public-house ? "
" Yes, wy not; it's a werry good trade."
"Well, tell me about yourself," I said. "I know no¬
thing whatever about factory girls, and of course as I
have come to live here, I should like to know all I can.
What kind of work do you do ? "
"Wot do we do?" repeated Lucy; "we makes
matches. The trade ain't wot it wor, nor is the wage.
In my mother's day she used to earn eighteen shilliugs
to a pound a week, now I get no more'n seven shillings
a week, an' that working twelve hours a day."
" How can you possibly live on it ? " I said.
jfirst Uea ifrart#
129
" It ain't so bad as long as you've a 'ome," replied this
young person. " I give my mother 'alf a crown a week—
that lodges me, an' she does my washing in. I've been a
year and a 'alf now in the business, and maybe I'll get a
rise afore long. No, matches ain't wot they wor, but then
the risks ain't so great. In the old days the phosphorus
used to get into yer bones and eat 'em away; now things
ain't so bad as that. I 'ad an aunt an' two cousins wot
died of the phosphorus, but then they made a pound
a week; it seems as ef it cuts both ways," continued
Lucy, with a sigh. " I often thinks I'd rayther 'ave the
money an' the risks, but mother tells me that's 'cause I
don't know wot the pain's like. Any'ow, I 'ave my four
and six a week to live on, an' I works twelve hours a day,
an' I suppose it's hard enough, but Martha an' me we 'as
our fun for all that."
" How can you feed yourself on such a small sum ? " I
asked.
"How do I feed myself?" she replied. "Well, I don't
go 'ungry, you may be sure. A penny roll o' bread an' a
hap'erth o' coffee does for bre'kfas', the same for tea,
an' you can get dinner—a piece o' fried fish an' a thick
slice o' bread—for tuppence; an' ef you're tired o' that,
there's 'ot soup for a ha'penny and a penny a basin. Oh,
I manages fine, and puts by something for clothes
too; it ain't to be expected as I'm not to smarten my¬
self up. Wot do yer think o' this dress, now? I saved
for a whole month to pay for it at the pawn-shop;
I expec' a lady wore it once; there's silk lining in the
cuffs."
Lucy looked quite animated while she talked. A little
touch of pink came into her cheeks and improved her. She
13° tfivst Uea partp
became confidential and affectionate, changing her seat
suddenly for one close to me.
" I likes the cut of yer blouse," she said.
" Do you ? " I answered ; " I got it in Oxford Street;
would you like to copy it ? "
Lucy stared at me in astonishment.
" Do yer mean to say as yer wouldn't mind?" she cried.
" Mind ? Certainly not," I answered; " I tell you what
I'll do. I'll cut you out paper pattern from it, and give
it to you, and you shall make one just like it for your¬
self when you can save the money."
"To be sure, so I could," said Lucy; "I've a bit of
flowered calico at 'ome; I wonder ef it'd stretch to that
blouse ; it's a yaller ground with green leaves and red
poppies on it; it's werry jinteel, and'd look real stylish
cut your way. I like 'em sleeves; the gathers over the
shoulder is werry neat."
"Well, you shall have the paper pattern," I replied.
Martha at this moment returned to the room.
" Come along and set you down, Martha," said Lucy, in
a thoroughly free and easy voice. " She's all right; she
ain't religious, nor nothing o' that sort. I s'pose you're
powerful rich, miss, but yer ain't got a proud nor 'aughty
'eart."
"I hope I haven't," I answered. "Martha, there is a
seat for you on this window ledge near Lticy and me."
But Martha did not sit; she stood facing us, a slightly
puzzled expression in her eyes.
" Set down, Matty," said Lucy; " she's all right. I were
telling 'er about my factory work, and 'ow I lives, and
she's offered to cut me out a pattern of this blouse; it's
a neat blouse, ain't it, Matty ? "
/IDS tfivst XTea parts
" Yes," replied Martha ; " the blouse is werry well, but
it's the way she does up her back 'air that takes my
fancy. I likes it; it's sort o' simple, and yet it ain't;
'ow do you give it that twist, miss ? "
I did not feel inclined to take down my hair; but
when I suddenly saw a look of wonder and almost
reverence in Martha's big black eyes, I felt the sacrifice
worthy of the occasion; accordingly I said with a smile,
" There is no use telling you how the thing is done—you
must see for yourself."
As I spoke I took out a comb and some hairpins, and
allowed my long chestnut hair to ripple over my back.
One of my good points was my hair ; it was very soft,
and long and thick; it was shaded, too, from chestnut to
gold; and when the lamp light fell on it, it glistened and
shone. Martha took a tress quite tenderly between her
fingers.
"Well, ef that ain't a picter," she said.
" Why, you looks jest like one o' the hangels in Father
Moore's church," said Lucy; " you know 'e 'ave painted
winders in the church, and one on 'em 'as an hangel
painted on it, with 'air like yourn—my word, is it dyed,
or is it nater'l ? "
" It was dyed by nature, if you like," I answered, with
a smile.
"You air a good 'un," said Lucy, with a hearty laugh.
" Don't she take a joke, Matty ? Now show us 'ow you
twists it up."
I did so with a few deft movements. Martha watched
me critically. Her own very thick hair was black as a
coal.
" Shall I do up your hair for you ? " I asked.
132
/n>£ jfirst Uea fl>art£
This was a stretch on my part, and I was relieved
when she answered after some deliberation—
"You may, but not to-night."
" Why not to-night? " I asked.
" I'll wash it first. My word, it don't do for a gel to
be dirty in the room with one like you."
" Sit down, Martha," I said; " I have a great deal to
say to you two; you are my first friends, the first friends
I have made in my new life."
" Oh, we likes to be yer friends," said Lucy. " I wish,
Matty, she weren't rich, then she could come along o' us.
Ain't 'er 'ands white, and ain't she got pretty teeth ?
It's wonderful to see the likes o' 'er not 'aughty."
" Maybe she's the angel out o' the church winder come
alive," said Martha.
She made this remark with such passion, and such a
flash of almost agony in her eyes, that I looked at her in
astonishment. Never in all my life had I hoped for such
a compliment; from this girl it was no compliment, it
was sincere.
"Martha b'lieves in poetry an'all that hyflutin sort,"
said Lucy.
"I am very glad to hear it," I answered. "Do you
know any poems, Martha?"
" I know ' Three Little Niggers,'" said Martha; " ' The
Man wot Broke the Bank,' 'Wapping Old Stairs,' and
'The Quality of Mercy ain't strained."
It was an odd mixture from music - hall songs to
Shakespeare.
"I will teach you other poems," I said; "you shall
come to me every evening, if you like."
"I can't, miss; I've no time."
/Ifty first Zca ifrart#
133
"Lucy says you are at a public-house all day."
" Right you air, miss; that's the way I makes the coin.
You see," she added, squatting down suddenly on the
floor at Lucy's feet and mine, "we're all paw folks in
this place. I don't mind work ; wot were I made for, 'ef
I did ? I were in the factory with Lucy fo' a bit—that's
'ow we came to be mates—but arterwards, when I grew
big an' strong, father got me a place as barmaid at the
' Red Dragon' round the corner. I'm off duty every
second Sunday, and that's 'ow I'm 'ome to-day. You
axed me 'ow I likes the work, miss. Well, it ain't fo' me
to complain as 'ow my bread is buttered, but torking o'
liking, well, I don't. I begau by thinking it fine. Yon
see, I 'ave to dress well, and make the most o' myself, an'
look smart, an' 'ave a cheerful word to throw to the men
an' women, an' in the day time there ain't anythin' to be
complained of, but from early evening until midnight it's
'ard, miss, for the folks do crowd in, and the men, when
they gets tipsy, they ain't too pertic'ler what they say—
not that I can't give 'em tit for tat, but there!—some¬
times they do talk queer, and men come wot it's a shame
for a respectable gel to know anythin' about. There's
Lee, now—oh, I won't tell yer to-night about 'im, but ef 'e
worries me, yes, ef there's any more o' wot went on last
week, I quits, and that's flat. No, I ain't agoin' to tell,
Lucy, so yer needn't be in a funk."
Lucy's face changed colour; she put out one thin hand,
very thin it was, almost transparent, and laid it for a
moment on Martha's shoulder.
"They'd take yer back at the match factory, yer know
that, Matty," she said.
Martha laughed in a discordant manner.
134
jfit'st Uea j^art^
"Don't let's tork o' it," slie said; "let's 'ave a pleasant
time. Wot's yer name, miss ? "
"Joan Prinsep," I answered.
"Jo-an Prinsep," said Martha, lingering over the
sound. "It sounds sort o' country lane like—Jo-an.
Was you reared in the country, miss? "
" Part of the time," I replied. " Now, Martha, I want
to talk about you and Lucy and other girls like you. You
are my friends ; is not that a bargain ? "
"Surely," said Martha.
Lucy suddenly and without the least warning laid her
head confidingly on my shoulder. Her frowsy tow-
coloured hair touched my cheek ; she gave a little sigh.
" Seems to me I'm agoin' to love yer, Jo-an," she said.
Martha did not speak, but her big eyes devoured my face.
" If you love me you will help me," I said, touched and
drawn out of myself. "Now, I have come here to help
you and a lot of other girls. I don't want to preach to
you a bit, but I want to show you lots of things that you
have never heard of, nor even thought of. I want you to
understand that if you are in trouble, I am here to help
you-—I want to be your sister, in short."
"Bless yer, dear, you can, easy enough," said Lucy,
cuddling up to me in her most affectionate style.
" I want to start a girls' club. Will you and Martha
help me?"
"A girls' club," said Martha; "that's the sort o' thing
Father Moore 'as started fo' the men 'ere; father were a
member fo' a bit, an' it did 'im a sight o' good—they 'ave
a deal o' boxing at the club, and rare fun. We don't want
a moddle-coddle sort o' club, Jo-an—the gels 'ere wouldn't
stand that; we want something spicy."
/n>E jftrst XTea parts
135
"You shall tell me what they would like," I answered.
"I thought we would begin by just having games and
music. You might tell me what sort of games they would
like, and also what sort of songs they would like me to
sing; then if any of them can sing, I could play their
accompaniments. Will you two think it out, and will you
both come here to-morrow evening ? "
" I can't, miss," said Martha; " I'm not 'ome till arter
midnight."
" Can you come then for half-an-hour—it is very late
I know, but just for once—to talk the thing out ? "
"Yes, miss, I'll come," she replied; "but it's late for
Lucy 'ere, and she ain't too strong."
" Lucy shall come early," I answered, " and I will give
her her tea. I'll expect you, Martha, at half-past twelve
to-morrow night."
" Right you air, miss; I'll come," she replied.
" Now I want to show you these pictures."
As I spoke I took up a large photographic album; it
contained photographs of my girl friends at Girton, of
my uncle and aunt and cousins—in short, my relations
generally. I felt instinctively that the girls would prefer
these sort of pictures to any others in this stage of their
mental growth.
CHAPTER XII
BLUE AND PINK BLOUSES
HAD several talks with Martha and Lucy,
and then went one evening to call upon
Mr. Moore. It was between nine and ten at
night. I had learned something of his habits ;
he generally had a sort of picnic meal at that hour, and I
felt pretty sure of finding him at home. His man, John
White, was standing near the door of the club-room.
The men's club was full at this hour; they were busily
engaged playing billiards, and a few were boxing inside a
ring. I had to pass through the club to reach the spiral
stairs which led to the little vicarage. The vicar was in
the act of making himself some coffee from a bottle of
coffee essence when I arrived. The day had been a very
hot one, and his room felt close and unrefreshing. He
turned quickly when he saw me.
"Sit down, Miss Prinsep," he said; "I'll be ready
to speak to you in a moment. John, are the men all
right ? "
" Hearty, sir," replied John.
" They don't want me for anything ? "
" Nothing, father ; they are as right as possible."
" Then you can shut the door. Look after them, and
136
Blue aitfc pmfc Blouses
137
tell me if I am required ; but don't disturb me unless it
is necessary."
The moment we were alone, Father Moore laid his cup
of coffee on the mantelpiece and faced me.
" I hear you are getting on capitally," he said. " I
saw Mace this morning, and he says that you have made
a complete conquest of his daughter. Martha is one of the
strongest characters in the parish—a queer mixture of devil
and saint. She is hard to win, and I congratulate you 011
the way you have set about to secure her confidence."
"Do you know anything of Lucy Ash ?" I interrupted.
" Only that she is a delicate girl, and Martha's mate.
She was down with pneumonia last winter, and Martha
nursed her whenever she had a moment off work. She
shared all her earnings with her, and kept the girl alive.
I called to see her several times, but they wouldn't let me
inside the door. The Ashes have a great dread of what
they call 'religious.' I at present only represent 'reli¬
gious' to them. There, you have the pull over me. You
can do a layman's duties, and so reach out your hand to
many whom I unfortunately cannot touch."
" Well, at any rate, both girls have gone to your
church," I said.
" Did they tell you so ? "
" Not in so many words, but they paid me the sweetest
compliment I ever had. They told me that I looked like
the angel in your church window."
" Did they ? I am glad of that. Those windows meant
a hard fight. I guessed what the effect would be when
the church was lit up at night, and the soft coloured light
stole out on this hell on earth. But now, you want to say
something special."
8
IBlue attfc HMtiT? blouses
"I do," I answered. "I don't want to take up your
time, but I must ask you to kelp me to get a room for
my girls' club."
"You have one in your own bouse, have you not ?"
" It is not large enough for what I require ; I must
have a big room. I had twenty girls in my attic last
night, and three times that number have already promised
to attend."
" Sixty girls already," exclaimed Father Moore. "You
are a magician, Miss Prinsep."
"Martha is the magician," I answered; " she has done
everything. You see, I have gone on the tack, at first at
least, of not touching on the religious side of life at all."
" Quite right, quite right. Tell me how you manage."
" Oh, we play and sing, and amuse ourselves, and are
all friendly together. I really think last night they forgot
that I was not quite one of themselves."
" But you must insist on their treating you with respect."
" Martha sees to that; she looks after me like a young
dragon. She won't allow a girl in, either, who has not
washed her face and hands. I am sure the club will go.
I am deeply interested in it, but I want to engage a large
room at once. Is there one suitable in the parish?"
" I'm rather afraid we shall have to build one."
" All right," I answered, " let us begin at once."
" What it is to have funds!" said Mr. Moore, with a
smile. " Some evening when I have time I must tell
you of my early struggles here—no church, no club-
room, no money. Eight thousand souls in utter darkness,
and not an individual but one weak man to do anything
for them."
" Things are different now," I answered, looking at him.
JStue anb BbiixT? $lousc$
139
" Things are," he replied, " but the fight has been
sore."
He did not speak for a moment, but looked straight
before him. He had evidently forgotten my presence.
" Do take your coffee," I said; " you won't be able to
work if you don't eat."
He took the cup from the chimney-piece, gulped down
the contents hastily, and put the empty cup back.
"You shall build your room," he said, after a moment;
" but your club, once begun, must not wait for it. I
wonder if Andrews could help us. There is a large room
on the ground floor of his house which he used to use as a
shoe warehouse. The late occupant got stone-broke, how¬
ever, and I don't think the room is let. Come, we'll go
at once and see it."
He took up his hat, and I followed him downstairs.
We went quickly down Frank Street, and soon turned
into a court at right angles with it.
" The worst of Andrews's place," continued Mr. Moore,
" is its neighbourhood. You ought not to go alone to
your club. It isn't safe for a girl to walk through this
court at night. I forgot the court when I mentioned the
room. I doubt, after all, whether it is a fit place for you."
" It is, it must be," I answered. " I am not going to
fear a trifling obstacle of that sort. The people will
know that I am going to help them, and I am certain
that no one will molest me."
" You must promise," said Father Moore, " that you will
not come here alone—you will have your servant, Mrs.
Keys, with you ? "
" When possible I will," I answered; " either Mrs. Keys
or one of the girls."
I40
Blue aitfc flMnft Blouses
" You would be safe with such a girl as Martha, or even
with Lucy, but you must expect to find girls coming to your
club who have no sense of honour or principle. I repeat
that you ought never to come to this court alone. There
are people here who would think nothing of taking your
life for half a sovereign."
" I can scarcely believe that," I answered.
" True, nevertheless," said Father Moore. " This, at
the present moment, is Satan's undisturbed domain. I
have wrestled for it in the name of my Master, but have
not yet got even the ghost of a footing here. Now,
come along. Don't attract attention by looking at any
one. Ah, here we are now in a comparatively respectable
street."
He had led me down a narrow passage, and into a
broader street. We stopped at the door of a good-sized
house. A man was smoking a short pipe in the open
entrance door.
" Hallo, Andrews, glad to see you in," said the vicar.
"Sarvice, sir," replied the man, doffing his hat, and
standing aside to allow Mr. Moore and me to enter.
" Let me introduce this young lady," said the vicar.
"Her name is Miss Prinsep."
" Evenin', miss," said Andrews.
He was evidently a man of solitary words, but I liked
his face, which was of the bull-dog order, but clean, well
shaven, and kindly in expression.
" Miss Prinsep has come to live among us," said Father
Moore. " She wants to help girls like herself, and is
anxious to start a club for them, something in the style
of my men's club."
"Ay," said Andrews.
Blue anb flMnfc Blouses
141
He fixed his eyes on my face, and then ran them like
lightning over my slight figure.
" It's a tough job," he said.
"You must not discourage me," I interrupted. " I
have got sixty girls already, and I want a big room for
them."
"I thought your workshop might turn out the very
place," interrupted Father Moore. " Is it disengaged ? "
" It is so, sir. I 'aven't even had an offer for it sence
Wheeler pulled it about so shameful."
" Get a light, my good fellow, and show it to us with¬
out a moment's delay."
The man fetched a candle, and led us down half-a-
dozen stairs. He held a big key in his hand, with which
he unlocked a heavy door, pushed it aside with a creaking
noise, and showed us into a large ground-floor room about
forty feet long and twenty wide.
" Why, this is the very place," I said; " only, doesn't it
smell musty ? "
"That's the ground-damp, miss. I ain't agoin' to
deceive yer."
" Well, that can be remedied," said Father Moore. " It
seems to me that this place will do for a time. Miss
Prinsep will take it from you, Andrews, until she builds
a suitable room for her purpose. Kamptulicon can be
stretched all over the floor, and the walls can be repapered
and varnished. What will you let it for ? "
" Twelve shillin's a week," replied Andrews, without a
moment's hesitation.
" Too much; ten will be enough."
" All right, sir ; I ain't agoin' to bargain with you. Ten
let it be."
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Blue atifc flMnfe Blouses
"We'll take it for ten, Andrews. Miss Prinsep, you
must come here to-morrow morning with me, and we'll
try and get an estimate of what will require doing.
Good-evening, Andrews."
We hurriedly left the house. Once again we had to
pursue our way through the ill-smelling court. A quick
walk up Frank Street brought us to the paperhanger's
shop where I had purchased the papers for my lodgings.
The man who had painted and decorated my rooms was
called upon to undertake the large basement room at
Andrews's. We selected papers there and then, and he
promised to send workmen on the following morning.
I went home in high spirits. Martha Mace was
coming to me at that time for a few minutes every
night between twelve aud one. I found it difficult
to sit up so late, but did it for her sake, for
those few minutes seemed to be the one refreshing
time in her twenty-four hours; not that she had yet
given me any confidence, but there was an expression in
her black eyes which spoke volumes, and she had already
improved in her personal appearance. Her splendid hair
shone from the effects of soap and water; her face, neck,
and hands were clean, and her red blouse was put on
smartly and sprucely. She had once complained of the
heat of the red flannel; and although I did not want to
pauperise, I could not resist buying and making for her a
blue cotton blouse, which was ready for her acceptance on
that very night.
I put the little parcel in her hands with a smile.
"Wot is it?" she said, starting back. "No, no, Jo-an,
I don't mean to take presents from yer."
" And I don't intend to give you a lot of gifts, Martha,"
Blue ant> flMnfe Blouses
143
I answered; "but a little token between friends is at
least allowable, and I liave thought so much of 3tou in
that flannel blouse during the hot days."
She looked at the pretty thing I had made, and all of a
sudden her eyes filled with tears.
" You're real good," she said. Then she hesitated, and
held the blouse at a little distance. " It's wonderful," she
said. " I 'spec' it'll fit like a glove ; and now, you don't
mind me sayin' what I really think, Jo-an ? "
" Of course I don't," I answered.
"Well, I wish you'd let me give it to Lucy. Lucy's
poorer'n me, and she feels the 'eat awful; it's miles worse
at that match factory than it is at the public in 'ot
weather—and Lucy loves to look smart, too. And for
me—to be honest, I don't care."
" But you ought to care, Martha, for God meant you to
be beautiful."
" Wot ? " she exclaimed. " Now, Jo-an, don't talk
folly."
" It's the truth," I answered. " God gave you a beauti¬
ful face, and a grand figure."
" Oh, don't, Jo-an. Why, you're torkin' for all the
world like Michael Lee. 'E sed only yesterday that I
were like a ripe apple. I won't let 'im compliment me.
I won't 'ave it. But now, may I give this blouse to
Lucy ? "
" It would be unkind of you to give away my present;
besides, it is unnecessary. I am making a blouse for Lucy
like that, only pink ; it will be ready for Sunday."
" You air good," said Martha.
She started forward impulsively, took one of my hands,
and raised it to her lips.
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Blue aitfc pink Blouses
" Now eat your supper, and tell me about your day,"
I said.
" Well, miss, there's but one thing to tell. I leaves
the ' Red Dragon' this night week."
" You do ? " I answered; " you surprise me."
" It's all along o' Michael, miss. 'E comes, and I can't
shake 'im orf. 'E tries to see me 'ome every night, and
I won't have it."
" But don't you like him ? "
"Yes—and no. He's not for me. Don't let's tork o'
'im no more."
" And are you sorry to go, Martha ? "
" For some things I be, for some not. The wage is
fair enough, there's plenty of vittals, and the work none
too 'ard 'cept from evening to midnight. But there, I
may be more help to you, Jo-an, when I ain't working in
the evenings."
" And what will you do now ? You will take up some¬
thing else surely."
" I can go back to Lucy's place ef I like, but I think
I'll look out for something else. There's a tidy bit to be
made water-cress selling, only it means early hours.
Any'ow, there's time enough ; I've a whole week to turn
things round in."
" Well, Martha, I've taken a room for our club."
"You ain't truly, Jo-an. Well, that's fine."
" Yes ; it is a big room, and will hold us all, I expect,
for some time to come."
" That's cheerful. Where's the room ?"
" Do you know Andrews's shop in Pink Street ?"
" -Surely."
" I have taken the ground floor room. It will take
Blue anfc flMnft Blouses
145
a week to prepare. We'll open the club in state the
night you leave the ' Red Dragon.'"
Martha smiled.
" You're real good, miss," she said. " It's wonderful
'ow you 'eartens a body up. Now I must say £ good¬
night,' for I'm beat. I'll help you all I can with your
club, miss."
She went away, and soon afterwards I was sleeping the
sleep not only of the weary, but of the happy.
The week that followed was a very busy one. The room
in Pink Street underwent the same sort of transforma¬
tion scene which my lodgings had been subjected to. The
walls, floor, ceiling, were all' thoroughly cleansed; then
the ceiling was whitewashed, the walls papered with a
stout washing paper, which was well varnished, and the
floor covered with thick kamptulicon. Venetian blinds
were hung at the windows, and thick curtains were
further added to keep out the cold.
" The room must not only be a strong, firm, warm,
serviceable room," I said, " but it must be pretty. Half
the trainiug for these girls is to give them pretty things
to look at."
I went to the extravagance of driving to Oxford Street
to choose pictures for my room. I remembered that
Peter Robinson kept a lot of good attractive prints
and engravings, cheaply framed, in his shop. I chose
about a dozen of these for my walls, and had them
brought back and hung up. I would not have coloured
pictures, for these, as a rule, are badly done, aud I wanted
to train my girls to like good things from the first. My
next step was to buy a good piano in a very plain frame.
I also purchased a bagatelle board, and half-a-dozen
T
146
Blue anfc flMitfe Blouses
small but attractive games, such as bezique, halma, reverse,
draughts, backgammon, &c. A clear space was left in
the middle of the floor for dancing, and I had some stacks
of cheerful songs and dance music put away in a little
cupboard just above where the piano stood. Gas was
laid on in the room, and as I admired incandescent
burners, I had these attached. The effect of incande¬
scent gas is to make a room in which it is used as bright
as if electric light were laid on. My workmen worked
with a will, and the pretty room was ready for occupation
the following Monday evening. I intended to inaugurate
its opening with a tea-party, hiring tables and cups and
saucers from Andrews's wife. Mrs. Keys made some of
the cakes for my party, but I bought the rest of the pro¬
visions from a general provision shop near by. Father
Moore asked me if I would like him to open the club
for me.
"No; don't open it, but come in near the close of the
evening," I said; "I want the thing to be quite informal.
In the present stage of my acquaintance with these
girls, a very little would frighten them and drive them
away."
CHAPTER XIII
MY SISTERS OF EAST LONDON
HE club was opened with great 6clat. One or
two ladies from St. Agnes's Settlement came
to help me; they gave me valuable advice,
told me what pitfalls to avoid, and, in short,
encouraged me much. But the life of the evening was
Martha. She stood with me near the entrance door,
and chatted gaily to the girls as they trooped in. She
was taller than me, and much broader. She wore the
pretty blue blouse I had given her, a perfectly neat black
skirt, and a bow of pale blue ribbon in her coal black hair.
" Why, Martha, how spruce you are," said several of
her friends as they passed into the room.
They looked more at her than at me. I was glad of
this, for I knew that she was a sort of guarantee to them
of my good intention. When the girls got into the room
they were handed over to the mercies of Lucy Ash and
Mrs. Keys. These two provided them with tea, cake,
and general refreshments. At first they were rather
quiet and a little subdued, but soon their voices rose
merrily; they chatted, laughed, and even sang. They were
evidently unaccustomed to the least restraint. Any
moment the scene might become a bear-garden. I could
*47
143 fll>£ Sisters of Bast Xonfcoit
not lielp starting and looking behind me as the noise
grew louder and louder.
"Lucy must come and help you by the door," said
Martha suddenly. " I will go into the room. Come along
'ere, Lucy."
She whispered a word to her mate, who silently and
swiftly placed herself by my side. Martha seemed to have
a magical effect on the girls in the room. Order reigned
immediately when she took the reins. After a time quite
sixty girls had arrived. As I did not expect any more
the door was shut, and I walked up the room to attend to
my company. One of my St. Agnes's Settlement friends
opened the piano and began to play. She played a very
lively air, and I saw the girls beginning to keep time
with their feet and hands. Two or three of them jumped
up from the tea-table, caught each other impulsively
round the waist, and began to spin round and round the
room. In a moment we had the tea things and tables
removed, and dancing was the order of the hour. At
Martha's request I danced with her, then with Lucy, then
with one or two of the frowsiest-looking of the girls. I
saw with pleasure that my companionship had a quieting
effect over each girl with whom I came in contact; they
were all perfectly civil, even respectful. But I knew
that this state of things could hardly go on. The dancing
was followed by music and several songs. I invited all
those girls who could sing to join in the choruses. We
made a very hearty and happy noise; and by-and-by
Father Moore arrived. His entrance was the crucial
event of the whole evening. I was quite determined
that my girls should recognise his presence. I hoped
by-and-by to lead many of them to his church; in short,
iIfoE Sisters Of j£ast Xonboit
149
my aim was to indoctrinate them with something of his
spirit. At this time in my life I did not consider myself
religious, but I knew enough to be certain that only
religion could civilise such a neighbourhood as I found
myself in. Father Moore's presence was unexpected, and
one or two of the girls made for the door when they saw
him. Martha was standing by the entrance. By a word
or two I had prepared her for this possible crisis, and she
knew how to act.
" Why are you going now ? " she said to the girls.
"There's parson; we don't want him," was the reply.
"All right; you can do as you please, but you don't
come back no more."
This remark was unexpected. Without doubt the girls
had enjoyed themselves.
"And why do yer go?" continued Martha. "Father
Moore needn't frighten you away; 'e's a good friend to
us, and to Miss Prinsep. Why shouldn't she 'ave 'im to
'er club ef she likes ? "
" 'E's religious, and we don't like that," said a pert
girl called Jenny Hayes.
"You needn't 'ave 'is religion; but ef you wants to join
the club, you must put up with him. Now, is it go or
stay ? "
"We 'ave 'ad rare fun," said several. "It's stay."
Only three went after all. The others slowly returned
to the upper end of the room where Father Moore was
standing on the raised platform which held the piano.
He was talking to one or two of the ladies, but I saw by
the expression on his face that he was anxiously watching
the little conflict near the door, and that his brow smoothed
when he saw Martha and the girls returning. In an
15° /Ifrv? Sisters ot" Bast ^London
instant lie had come to the edge of the platform, had
raised his hand, and pronounced the one word " Silence"
in a stentorian voice. The voices ceased talking as if
with a clap. Father Moore threw himself into the pause
and began—
"At Miss Prinsep's request I have come here to say
a few words to you, girls. She has been good enough
to open a club for your benefit. You can all be enrolled
as members of the club to-night. Those who wish to
come regularly can do so. The club will be open every
evening from seven to eleven. All members will be
expected to pay a penny a week."
I started when Father Moore said this, but he proceeded
without glancing at me.
"As you see," he said, "the fee is only nominal, and
you will appreciate the comforts of this club all the more
if you deny yourselves a trifle to obtain them. The
rules of the club are as follows:—Coffee and tea will
be sold here, but no intoxicating drinks of any kind.
The club has no politics—and no religion."
These final words were said with great emphasis; they
were followed by a long pause.
"Perhaps you are surprised," he said, "that I should
come here and tell you that your club is without religion.
What I mean by that is, that girls of every shade- of
thought are welcome here. You may be the most
religious girl in Shoreditch, or you may be an out-and-
out unbeliever, still you are equally welcome to the girls'
club. The object of the club is to make you happy, to
give you a right good jolly time. Any girl who behaves
badly, who is disorderly, who uses bad language, will be
no longer eligible as a member. I hope none of you will
Sisters of Bast Xonfcon 151
be evicted for any of these reasons; the case rests with
yourself. The club has no intoxicants, no politics, no
religion. You see for yourselves that the club is open to
you all on the sole condition that you behave yourselves
with propriety while you are here. There is a book at
the end of the room in which those girls who wish to
become members can enter their names."
There was a little chorus of applause when Father
Moore sat down. His speech was evidently to the minds
of those present, for nearly all the sixty girls entered
their names as members. They then paid their pennies
and went quietly away. When the room was nearly
empty I turned to Father Moore in some perplexity.
" You have puzzled me a good deal by what you said
just now," I remarked.
"I said the right thing," he answered. "The club
is not intended to proselytise. In a case of this kind
we must go far, far deeper down than mere proselytism
—we must first humanise. Some of those girls present
to-night are little more than wild beasts. We must treat
them as we should a wild beast, with steady and consistent
kindness. At the same time, it is absolutely necessary
that they should feel that you are master. If they break
the rules they are punished—punished by eviction. This
is absolutely necessary both for your sake and for the
sake of the other girls who remain. You must take
the girl where you find her, and touch her in any point
where she can be touched. In short, the whole principle
of the thing would break down if there were any
religious test. Your club must not be looked upon as
a 'parson's trap.' You noticed, of course, how startled
some of the girls were when I appeared to-night. But
152 Sisters of Bast Xonfcon
for Martha Mace, half of them would have left. Now
their fears are completely laid to rest, and I can come
in and out as I like, and as I hope you will allow me
to do at least once a week."
" You are right of course," I answered; " still "
" I have had ten long years' experience," he con¬
tinued. "Believe me, I am right. I have gone through
all this with my ' Working Men's Club; ' neither has
it any religious test, nevertheless I have largely filled
my church from the club. The whole thing comes
slowly and naturally. First there is the grand human
influence—the comfort of being in touch with some
one a little higher in the social scale than yourself,
the friendship of some one who believes in goodness,
in civilisation, who also believes in kindness—in brother¬
hood. Your place here is the place of a sister—you
must be a sister to these girls."
" We are a large family," I answered, and tears rose
to my eyes.
I went away pleased on the whole, but rather over¬
powered. Martha Mace came to me that evening for
a moment.
"I won't keep yer a minit, Jo-an," she said, "for you
must be dead beat; but I thought you'd like to know
that I've found something to do."
"And what is that?" I answered. "I hope it is not
watercress selling."
" No ; my mother's in that business, and she don't want
me to interfere—it's 'ard work too, out in all weathers.
Mother's 'ardened to it, but she thinks, maybe, I'd break
down."
" Ycu ! you look strong enough for anything," I replied.
/Il>£ Sistevs of Bast SLonboit
153
" So I be, but we've got consumption in our family.
I don't 'spect fo' a moment it'd touch me, but two on
us died of it when we was little kids, and the doctor
said then that I mustn't never be out in all weathers. I
don't like wot I'm doing a bit, but I must stick to it."
" And what are you going to do, Martha ? "
"Going behind a counter," she said. "I've found
a place at a 'aberdasher's in High Street, nearly 'alf
a mile from 'ere. I'll get my vittals and sixteen
pounds a year, and it ain't none so bad. I'll sleep at
'ome too, and get orf work, 'cept on Saturdays, at nine
o'clock in the evening."
"And when do you begin work?" I asked.
"Well, the hours are long. I must be at the shop at
'alf-past seven in the morning—yer see the winders
'ave to be dressed. Mother thinks I'm in rare luck to
get the place ; this is the fifteenth trade I've tackled sence
I were a little kid."
" You must tell me all about your life some day," I said.
" Some day I will, Jo-an dear ; that is, not all, p'r'aps.
I'm a bad 'un, yer knows—there's a deal o' the devil
in me."
"And a great deal of the saint, too," I answered; "you
will be all saint some day, Martha Mace."
She looked fixedly at me; her lips quivered for a
moment.
" I can't tell yer wot I feels when I'm with yer," she
said, grasping my hand suddenly.
" You have got some trouble," I said; " why don't you
tell it to me?"
" I can't—not yet—some day, p'r'aps. I'll go now,
Jo-an; but before I do, I want to ask yer a question."
V
i54 /n>£ Sisters of Bast Xonfcott
" What is it ? Sit down, dear."
"No, I won't; I'll be too tired to get up again ef I do.
It seems ter me that you're wonderful clever, that you
know a lot of all sorts o' things. Now, will yer tell me
something honest ? What do yer think o' Lucy ? "
" Your mate, Lucy Ash ? "
" My mate true enuff, paw gel."
" I like her, Martha; she's not as strong as you are, but
she is affectionate and faithful."
" She thinks a deal o' me, don't she ? "
" Her whole heart is bound up in you, I should say."
"Ay, that's true, paw Lucy. You don't think 'er none
too strong, do you, Jo-an."
" No; she is consumptive, if you like."
Martha's face turned white.
" I dreaded you'd say that," she answered; "you see it's
'em matches, and all the phosphorus that's used. Things
ain't so bad as they were, but the life ain't 'ealthy."
" Why does Lucy stick to it ? "
" What can she do when there's such poverty at 'ome.
Lucy's mother and the youngsters make match boxes
from morning to night, and the father, 'e's a cobbler;
'e's down with the rheumatis awful bad, and 'e 'as to
stay in bed most o' the time; 'e sits up in bed cobbling.
They're awful paw in Lucy's 'ome, and it's a real
trial 'aving to pay for the children's schooling. Lucy
can't give up; they think a lot o' the 'alf crown she
gives 'em every week for 'er bed and washing; they
couldn't keep the 'ome together but for that."
" But if they all work they must make a tidy penny,"
I said. "The mother and children make match-boxes,
you say ? "
/I&E Sisters of Bast Xonfcoit 155
"You mightn't call it making ef you knew what they
get for 'em."
" What do they get ? "
" Tuppence farthin' a gross — insides and outsides,
and to find their own paste. Yes, I knew you'd be
shocked; it's true. It's slavery, not work. The baby
ain't a year old, but when it were only two hours in
the world, the mother was setting up in bed making
match boxes, and little Tom, aged three, a-setting on the
bed 'elping 'er."
"Why do they do it, Martha?"
" 'Cause it's better nor starving. Oh, it is 'ard for many
o' the paw to live."
"I wonder Lucy has a happy moment," I said.
"Well, yer see, yer can't think o' things for ever and
ever. Lucy ain't strong in any way, and I'm bound to
protect 'er. I'm in trouble about 'er at the present
minit; things ain't wot they ought to be for 'er, and
it's no fault o' mine. But I can't tell yer to-night,
Jo-an; good-night, dear. Maybe some day you'll
come and see me at Kemp's, in High Street."
" I certainly will," I replied; " I'll get all my haber¬
dashery from you, Martha."
"Well, I'll serve yer honest, no mistake on that pint."
She left me with a wintry smile on her face; and too
tired almost to think, I went to bed.
My club was now started, and it gave me quite suffi¬
cient work to occupy nearly all my time and thought, i
saw, however, that Father Moore meant it to be only the
stepping stone to other things. The houses which were
my property in Frank Street had been condemned by
the County Council, and ordered to be pulled down and
is6 Sisters of Bast Xonfcoit
rebuilt. I told Father Moore that I would leave the
matter to him. But he would not allow this for a
moment.
"No," he said, "you must be a landlord in the true
sense of the word; you must take an interest in your
own property. I can recommend you to an excellent
architect; he will draw up plans for you, which you
must examine and approve of. They will begin to pull
down the houses next week, aud we must see what to do
with the unfortunate inhabitants until the model lodgings
are ready for them."
"That reminds me," I said abruptly, "of another part
of my property—an awful court, Jasper Court, on a
place called Saffron Hill. I went to see it before I came
here. It is as bad, perhaps worse, than Jacob's Court,
which I go through every night."
" I hope you never forget to take an escort with you
when you go through Jacob's Court ? " interrupted Father
Moore.
" I have not up to the present, but the people are
beginning to know me. I am certain there is no danger."
"Don't think so for a moment; there is emphatic
danger if you go alone."
I smiled.
" I promise to be careful," I said.
" Now tell me about Jasper Court."
I did so in a few words. I described the woman who
had died in my presence; the rabble in the little space
outside the house; the baby who clutched my hair and
scratched my cheek; the promise I had made.
" Flow long ago did you ma'ke that promise ? " asked
Father Moore.
/n>E Sisters of Bast Xonfcon 157
"More than a month ago."
"You have put yourself into a difficult position; you
have got to redeem it."
" I have not forgotten. I only wanted to get settled
here, and to ask your advice. Now what can I do ? "
" Tell me as quickly as you can what the value of the
property is."
"I have thought it all out," I said. "I receive for
Jasper Court twelve hundred a year, but the leaseholder
must make quite three times that sum."
" Very likely ; he probably makes cent, per cent. How
many houses are there ? "
" Twenty-four in all."
" Can you give me a rough idea of how many rooms
there are in each house ? "
"The houses are two storeys high," I said ; "but there
are basements and attics. Mr. Bridges, the man who
collects the rents, told me that not a room was ever
vacant. There are, on an average, four rooms on every
floor."
" Reckoning ground-floor, two storeys above, attics and
basements, that means sixteen rooms in each house," said
Mr. Moore. "The rents must certainly average, one
room with another, four shillings weekly a room. I know
the neighbourhood; the rooms would not be let for a
penny less. Roughly speaking, that court is worth to
the leaseholder something like four thousand a year.
How many years has the lease to run?"
" Twenty years."
" Then what do you mean to do ? "
" To see this Mr. Simmins first of all," I said.
"You may see him, but he will do nothing; the
158 Sisters of Bast Xonfcoti
property is too valuable, and you can't afford to buy him
out."
I was silent, dismay written on my face.
" There is only one thing to be done s^ far as I can
see," said Father Moore, beginning to pace the room
with short strides. "You must get the County Council
to condemn the houses."
" How can I set about that ? "
"I can instruct you how to act; it is a poor remedy,
however. There is a court not far from here which I am
using heaven and earth to get condemned, but two years
have passed and nothing has been done."
I rose.
"You discourage me," I said.
"I can't help it," he replied; "you are likely to have
a good fight here, and to do well; but Jasper Court, from
what you have told me, is a hell. I know the sort of
place, and unless you can touch the heart of a hard,
worldly man, you can do nothing to remedy the state of
thiugs."
" It is my duty to see Mr. Simmins, is it not ? " I said.
"It is your duty—yes."
"Then I will write to him, and ask him to appoint a
meeting."
CHAPTER XIV
MAMMON
GOT Mr. Simmins's address from Mr. Bridges,
and wrote straight away. In the course of post
I received a polite reply. It was addressed
from a place in Kent—St. Asalphs—and was
to the effect that the writer would be pleased to see
me on the following Saturday if I would do him the
favour of coming to St. Asalphs to lunch with Mrs.
Simmins and himself. The letter was written on thick
paper, crested, and addressed, and had a sort of perfume
about it which made me sick. I showed it to Father
Moore, who shook his head when he handed it back
to me.
" I read between the lines," he said. " I have learned
something about this Simmins. He is a self-made man—
one of those golden kings who turn everything they
touch into gold. Report calls him as hard as flint. I
doubt if you will do much with him."
"Would you not come with me?" I asked suddenly.
" I would gladly if Jasper Court were in my parish, but
it is not. As things are I have no right to interfere, and
he would probably resent my presence. You must use
159
i6o
/Ibammon
your woman's tact and wit, Miss Prinsep; but I don't
expect very much from the interview."
I wrote to Mr. Simmins accepting the invitation, and
on the following day took the train into Kent. A car¬
riage and pair waited for me at the little station, and
after a drive of a quarter of a mile I found myself turning
into spacious grounds, and finally stopping before a red
brick house built in the Queen Anne style. It was of
enormous proportions, and had a certain barbaric splen¬
dour about it which impressed me unfavourably from the
first.
Mrs. Simmins, a gentle, pale-faced little woman, re¬
ceived me with politeness, and after a short interval my
host entered the room. He was a tall man, with sandy
hair, very thin in figure, and with a sort of mus¬
cular aggressive look all over him. He was very polite
to me, however, and congratulated me on being the pos¬
sessor of such a valuable property
" I am delighted to make your acquaintance," he said,
as he took me into lunch; " but the fact is, the address
from where you sent your letter puzzled me a good deal.
Do you take an interest in that forgotten quantity, the
submerged tenth, and do you devote an afternoon in the
week to its cause ? "
" I live with it altogether," I replied.
"You surprise me! The enthusiasm of the young
ladyhood of the present day is altogether too much
for commonplace individuals of my type."
As he spoke he motioned me to a seat by his side.
The covers were lifted by two liveried footmen, and the
meal, a costly and elaborate one, began. During lunch
my host and hostess talked on indifferent subjects, and
Mammon
161
when it was over, Mrs. Simmins proposed that we should
return to the drawing-room.
" I must catch an early afternoon train," I replied,
" and would like to talk over some business with Mr.
Simmins if convenient."
" It is quite convenient," he replied. " Shall we have
our chat in the drawing-room, or would you prefer coming
with me to my study ? "
I felt that I could fight better in the study. Conven¬
tionalities would not be so overpowering. I might forget
the position of host and guest.
" If Mrs. Simmins doesn't mind, I will see you in the
study," I answered.
" Certainly, I don't mind," she answered, giving me a
kind glance. "I will have tea ready in the drawing-
room when you have had your little chat, my dear; and
pray don't exert yourself too much, for the day is very hot."
" I will be with you in a moment," said Mr. Simmins,
leaving the room.
When he did so, Mrs. Simmins turned and looked me
full in the face. Her eyes expressed sudden solicitude.
" I see that you are well meaning and enthusiastic,"
she said. "You are the head landlord, are you not, of
some of my husband's property?"
"I am," I replied. " I am the head landlord of a dis¬
graceful place called Jasper Court—a kind of hell on
earth."
" Oh yes, yes," she interrupted; " but you see the
people who live in those places don't look upon things
from our point of view, Miss Prinsep. I know you are
enthusiastic, and that you mean well; but, my dear
young lady, there is no use in it."
x
162
/nbammon
"No use in what?" I asked.
"You can't move him—you really can't. I beg of you
not to mention that I said so; you see I know him well,
being his wife. It is L. S. D. with him, my dear—nothing
else; it has been so all his life. L. S. D. makes you
hard, my dear Miss Prinsep, sometimes very hard—it
crushes the heart. I don't personally consider it the
best thing by any means; but there, as regards my
husband I only state a fact. Don't waste your words,
my dear, and don't breathe that I have spoken to you.
Oh, I am so glad you like these geraniums; I shall have
great pleasure in giving you a cutting from this plant,
if you really admire it so much."
These last words were spoken without any perceptible
change of voice or manner. Mr. Simmins had re-entered
the hall where we were now standing.
"I am at your service, Miss Prinsep," he said. "Will
you follow me, please ? "
I crossed the hall with him, and we entered a hand¬
some library, stocked with all the best modern books.
" Fine room, isn't it ? " he said. " I had it built on
a model of Lord Kaven's library in Aberdeenshire, and
Bumpus put in the books. No, I am not a reading man
—no time for it—but I believe they're all correct. Are
yon fond of books, Miss Prinsep ? "
"I ought to be," I replied. "I have had a good deal
to do with them."
" You have been educated up to date, I suppose ? I
don't approve of that. The craze for colleges for women,
and all that sort of nonsense, is just as objectionable as
the philanthropic craze of the age."
"Indeed you mustn't say any more, Mr. Simmins," I
/IDaninton
163
interrupted, trying to keep my temper, but feeling that
I was losing it. " I have spent some of the happiest
days of my life at Girton, and am, therefore, diametrically
opposed to your views. I also fully believe in what you
are pleased to term philanthropy, but which I would
rather call ' universal brotherhood.' "
" Oh, one of the cant terms," said Mr. Simmins, fling¬
ing himself into a deep library chair which turned on
a swivel. " I hope you like your seat. Are you in a
draught, or shall I shut the window ? "
"No, thanks," I replied; "I am quite comfortable."
" Now then, what can I do for you, Miss Prinsep ? "
He smiled rather insolently as he spoke, and gazed
at me straight between the eyes. There was nothing
for it but to take my courage in my hand and plunge
into the object of my visit.
" I want to talk to you about the property which you
hold on lease from me," I answered.
"You allude to Jasper Court," he answered.
" I do."
" I should not suppose you would call it an interest¬
ing place," he responded. " I have never seen it myself,
but Bridges does not describe it as a bouquet of sweet
smell."
"You have never been there?" I asked.
" Never," he replied, " and I don't intend to go. Mrs.
Simmins is rather timid about infection, and it would
be very wrong of me to cause her undue nervousness.
I heard from Bridges that you had been there. I should
not have alluded to the circumstance, but for your visit
to-day; as it is—pardon me, I think you took a liberty."
" What do you mean ? " I answered.
] 64
Abainmon
"You have, you see, by the terms of tlie leasehold,
nothing whatever to do with the place."
" I have not," I replied ; " that is just the point."
I rose as I spoke.
"Pray sit down, we can talk just as comfortably
quietly seated."
I sank again into my chair.
" Jasper Court is an awful place, Mr. Simmins," I said;
" and you make a lot of money out of it, don't you ? "
He folded his hands, bringing the tips of his fingers
together, and looked at me complacently.
" Jasper Court represents a comfortable yearly income
to me," he responded. "Have you any objection? I
secured the leasehold from your late uncle, and fear,
until the term has expired, that you can do nothing in
the matter beyond receiving twelve hundred a year, which
I pay you."
" I have not come on my own account," I replied.
" I have come in the cause of the miserable people who
live in that court. You ought to go and see it, Mr.
Simmins—you, who live in such comfort here. You ought
to see the miserable rooms, the horrible staircases; you
ought to feel the close, the stagnant, the bad air; you
ought to encounter those appalling smells, and—and,
you ought to see one of your tenants die. Oh, the place
isn't fit for any human being to live in. You have no
right to take money for it; such money can only come
to you as a curse. You will be sorry about it when you
die, you will indeed."
"Tut, tut," replied Mr. Simmins; "you are a brave
little girl to come and lecture me like this, but you are
also, let me tell you, a deuced impertinent one."
/iDantmoit
" I don't mean to be impertinent. I promised those
poor people to do something for them. Can I—can I pay
yon something. Will money move you, if nothing else
will?"
I paused. My eyes were full of tears. I felt that I
was expending my strength against a rock, aud despair
filled me.
"You have touched me," said my host, in a calm voice,
"on the one vital point in my nature. Money has always
power to move me. I may say frankly that nothing else
has. I have worshipped money since I was a small boy
with only sixpence in my pocket. I saw clearly from
that time, when I was ten years old, that money ruled
the world. I determined to rule it by the only and
legitimate means. I determined to make money. I have
made it, no matter how. I enjoy it thoroughly now that
I have got it. I find that the power of money has not
been exaggerated. I am much respected by my neigh¬
bours ; my presence is sought after eagerly; wherever I
go I receive consideration—in short, money has oiled the
wheels of life for me, and I am sincerely grateful to it.
Now, if you can prove to me, Miss Prinsep, that I shall
make more money by giving my tenants in Jasper Court
better houses, you may be quite certain that I shall not
leave a stone unturned to effect that object. Nothing
else will induce me to act; I may as well say so frankly
at once."
" Will you let me relieve you of the remainder of the
lease," I said.
" Gladly, if you will pay me sufficient for it."
" What do you want ? "
"A hundred thousand pounds."
i66
/Iftainmon
I started.
" You can't mean it," I said.
"That is my figure," he answered, rising. " The place
suits me. Good investments can't be got every day. You
shall have it for that sum, not a penny less."
" But a hundred thousand pounds is all I have in the
world," I answered, "and I have other claims—others as
pressing."
" Oh," he responded, " you perceive that the shoe
pinches you as well as me. That is my answer. I am
satisfied with Jasper Court as it is. No complaints of its
condition have ever reached me. You shall have it back
for the figure I have named, for I understand from
Bridges that there are one or two other courts in the
neighbourhood which would bring in as large, if not a
larger, rental. That is my answer."
" And you will do nothing unless I buy the property."
" Emphatically no. Why should I ? The people who
live there are not of our sort. What hurts us does not
hurt them. They are of that canaille which ought to be
swept off the face of the earth. The sooner they die the
better. It is false kindness to prolong their miserable
existence."
" And you were once a poor boy yourself, with only
sixpence," I replied.
" That is true; but I had the making of a man in me.
Now and then, even in the submerged tenth, there is one
unit which rises to the surface. In my family, which
was a large one, I was that one. The others sank as
the people in Jasper Court will sink, but I rose to the
surface. I think our interview is at an end, is it not?
I make you a fair offer with regard to that wretched
flDammon
167
place, Miss Prinsep. It is for you to decline or accept
it."
"You know that it is impossible for me to accept it,"
I replied.
" Oh, then, I have my answer. Now let me take you
into the garden; my wife will be so pleased to cut some
flowers for you."
" One word before I go," I answered. " I promised the
people of whom you think so little—the suffering people,
with their undying souls—that I would not leave a stone
unturned to help them. I will redeem my promise, if
not in one way in another. I am convinced that your
houses are not fit for human beings to live in. I shall now
take steps to have them condemned by the authorities."
Mr. Simmins permitted his lips to smile very slightly.
" That bugbear is so far off that it scarcely frightens
me," he answered. " Come into the garden, won't you,? "
CHATTER XV
A DROP OF WATER
WAS defeated, and I knew it; I had made a
promise which I could not redeem. Mrs. Keys
saw that I was in great trouble when I returned
home.
" You have done your best, dearie love; no one can do
more than their best," she said.
" I shall go to Jasper Court to-morrow," I said.
"Is that wise, Miss Joan?"
" I must tell the people that I can do nothing for them,"
I continued.
" My dear, is it well for you to do that ? they're an
awful rough lot—half Irish and half Italian. Twenty
to one but they have forgotten all about your promise;
why should you remind them of it just when you can do
nothing whatever to make it good ? "
"I must see them," I replied; "I won't slink out of
the thing in that cowardly way."
Mrs. Keys said nothing more, but I saw that she com¬
pressed her lips.
I slept little that night, and early in the morning
was on my way to Jasper Court. I felt excited, defiant,
fearless. I was determined to go alone. My heart ached
168
H Drop of Mater
169
so for tliose people that I could not feel afraid of them;
and Mrs. Keys was still asleep when I stole out of the
house. At this hour the air was fresh even in Shoreditch.
I got into an omnibus, and before long found myself in
Holborn Viaduct. I got out there, and walked down the
narrow passage which led to Jasper Court. I found
myself there before eight o'clock in the morning. Early
as it was, however, the place was all alive and full of
action; most of the men had already departed to their
work. The shouts of women's voices, joined with the
shrill laughter of children, rose on the air. The moment
I was seen, I was surrounded. I saw, with a choking sensa¬
tion at my heart, that I was not forgotten.
" Glory be to Heaven, here's the lady herself," said a
large, red-faced Irishwoman, striding up to my side,
pushing one or two neighbours away, and placing her
arms akimbo, as if she meant either to kill me or defend
me, just as the humour took her. Quick as thought I
determined to make a friend of this woman.
" What is your name ? " I asked.
" Why then, Honora O'Flaharty, me darlin'," she
answered.
" Here's the young lady!" shouted several voices.
" She's the lady wot come 'ere two months ago—she's
the landlord, she's the landlord—curse that Bridges, 'e
ain't with 'er to-day; an' so you 'as come all alone,
pretty lady, and we're not to pay so much for our
rooms—you're the landlord—you'll let us off our rent,
y, 9 >>
won t yer r
" Why then, me lady, my room ain't fit for a pig to live
in," said Honora, in a deep, powerful voice. "May the
Vargin hear me, for sure it's the truth I'm spaking.
X
H 2Drop of Mater
There's a big hole in the roof, and the rain pourers
through, and there's little or no glass to the winders, and
I've a sick darter, and sure, she's lavin' me. Oh yes, it's
to glory she's going—my purty Kitty, it's to glory she's off
find to the bosom of Mary—but not a wink o' sleep can
she get o' nights, 'cause o' the heat, and 'cause o' the noise,
and we has to pay four and six a week to that Bridges,
drat him; it's a quare burning shame, lady, that it is."
Mrs. O'Flaliarty's words, which were flung out in a
rapid torrent, were interrupted by several neighbours.
Each wanted to tell her own tale, and each one's tale
was more pitiable than the rest. The sickening story of
extortion, of cruelty and oppression, was poured into my
ears by fifty or sixty eager, passionate throats. The
women pressed close to me, closer and closer; I found
it impossible to edge in a word. The childreu danced
round the women in an outer ring; they added to the
babel of sounds by shrieking and screaming at the top
of their voices.
"You must let me speak," I said suddenly. "Honora,
keep the other women off. I have something to say,
and I can't say it while you press round me so closely,
llonora, take my part; keep the women off if I am to
say anything."
"Sure, that I will," she answered. "Keep off, you
drabs, you "
A torrent of horrible oaths tumbled from her lips;
her neighbours evidently regarded them as the ordinary
accompaniments of speech. They feared and respected
her powerful right arm, however; and when she raised
it menacingly, stepped back in confusion.
"J have got to tell you all something," I began; "it
U iDrop of Matet
cuts me to the heart to have to say it, but I have brought
you bad news this morning."
" Wisha, wisha, poor swate lady; don't you trimble
so," said Mrs. O'Flaharty, in a loud and would-be soothing
whisper. " Why then is it bad news now—why then now,
'tis we that are accustomed to that. You stay quiet, neigh¬
bours, and listen to the purty lady. Don't you shake,
woman dear; why, you are nearly as white as Kitty
upstairs; there now, spake out. Out with it; what's the
bad news ? "
They all looked at me angrily; the faces—eager,
passionate, dirty, drawn, despairing—seemed to surge
before me like a sea. I had come into the court as
Hope personified; I must fill those wretched human
beings with fresh despair.
" I came here some weeks ago," I said, " and made you
all a promise."
"Ay, that's thrue," came from half-a-dozen throats;
"we ain't none o' us forgot it."
"Maybe you'll forgive the bit of rent this week, laidy,"
said an old hag of about eighty, clutching hold of my
dress as she spoke.
" Keep back, all o' you," shouted Honora.
"I made you all a promise," I continued, "but I had
no right to make it. I thought I was your landlord, but
I am not. I find that I am powerless to abate any of your
rents. It is not in my power to improve any of your
houses. In short, I can't redeem my promise to you. My
heart is full of pity for you, but I can do nothing else.
I would give my life to help you, but I am powerless.
I am not the owner of this court; and the man who
is, will do nothing."
172
B Brop of Mater
My words were received at first with ominous silence,
but almost immediately a low growl of disappointment
came from two or three. This increased and grew louder,
until the women began to wrangle and fight together, and
come closer and closer to me. I saw that they did not
believe me, and that they thought less than nothing of
the rtal compassion which filled my heart. They did not
want kind words. Their case was so pitiable, that only
deeds could satisfy them. Here was I, daintily dressed,
well fed and well cared for, and here also were they;
they lived like wild beasts, and they acted worse than
beasts; they lived in a sort of hell, without literally a
drop of pure water to quench their thirst. They still
believed me to be their landlord. Hatred now filled all
the eager faces as they glared at me. I was not angry
with them for hating me. I did not wonder that they
failed to believe me. I never felt such compassion in
all my life as I did then for these despairing women
and children. I had no time to think of myself, nor
had I any room in my heart for fear. I dimly wondered
what would be the next move in the little drama. It
came quickly and unexpectedly. A man entered the
court, and came close up to me.
" Whist, Mike; go away, or kape aisy," I heard Mrs.
O'Flaharty whisper to him.
" I am not going away," he replied. He came close to
me as he spoke, and I felt his hot breath on my face.
I turned to look at him. He was a powerful man, with
a huge frame ; his face was dark and sunburnt and fierce.
A shock of red hair was thrown back from his forehead;
his great arm was bare to the elbow, the muscles stood
out like whip-cords.
H H>rop of Mater
173
One of the women came suddenly up and shook her
fist in my face.
"Yon stop that snivelling," she said, alluding to the
tears which had unconsciously rolled down my face.
" You're a humbug, you air," she continued. " It's a lie
you 'as been a-telling o' us. You air the landlord, and yer
jest wants to back out o' yer promise, but yer shan't; not
ef we knows it. Down with the landlord, boys and girls;
down with the mean, humbugging haristocrat."
"Yes, yes, down with 'er; drag 'er down," shouted a
dozen voices.
" Look 'ere, laidy, yer may as well know it first as last,"
shrieked another angry voice ; "you shan't leave this yere
court until you've halved our rents, so there."
The man behind me gave a huge laugh.
"Hold yer tork, all on yer," he said; his voice was
deep as a great growl. "You air a lot of cowards,"
he continued; "you want to knock down a poor little
innercent miss like this. Come away, miss; come with
me. I say this ain't the right place for the likes o' you."
With one powerful hand he caught hold of my arm,
and with the other pushed back the angry and excited
women.
" Sure then, Mike, you're in the right o' it. Bedad,
it 'ud be a shame to injure her," said Honora, turning
and giving him a hearty slap on the back.
" Come, miss; come with me. I'll see you safe," said
the man.
But real as the danger was, I was too excited to feel
afraid.
" Thank you for taking care of me,' I said to him,
" but I must say something more before I go. Oh! get
174
H Drop of Mater
them all to be quiet, won't you ? I just want to say
another word before I go."
The man stamped his foot, and uttered a great roar.
" Stay quiet, all on yer," he shouted. " Stop yer noise,
or I'll "
He clenched his huge fist. It was more than evident
that some of the women of the court were already familiar
with its power.
" Not another word out o' any o' yer throats," he
said, interlarding his speech with a terrific oath. "Now
then, laidy, out with it—out with what you've got to
say."
His words had effect. The excited women stood back.
They glared at me without a scrap of sympathy, but they
were sufficiently under the big man's power to be afraid
to interrupt me.
" I can't do anything to make your houses better," I
said ; "I can't do anything to abate your rents. This
court does not belong to me. The man who owns it
won't let me interfere. I am his landlord, not yours.
You can't understand me perhaps, but that is true. Now
I want to know this—why should you stay in this court?"
My question was evidently a surprise, for no one
answered.
"Any one who wants to leave Jasper Court," I con¬
tinued, " can come to another part of London, where I can
really be that person's landlord. I am building houses in
another part of London, where any one of you who likes
can live in comfort, where the rents will be propor¬
tionate to your earnings, and where I—I myself, will do
what I can to better your lives. The new houses which
I am building will have room in them for many of you.
B E)rop of Mater
175
Which of you will come? Perhaps some of you would
like me to be your landlord. I can be that in no other
way."
" What part is your houses in, dear ?" asked the big
Irishwoman.
" Shoreditch," I replied.
She shook her head.
" Our trade ain't there," she said. " We're most all of
us in the fur business, lovey."
"Then let me do what little is left," I continued. " Let
me come and see you now and then, and those of you who
really need relief let me give it to them."
"Money, money, we all want money," shouted dozens
of voices.
"You shet up, or I'll make yer," growled the man of
iron by my side.
"May I come and see you now and then?" I asked,
looking straight at the fierce, wild faces.
" If yer likes," muttered one woman, but her voice was
only half hearty.
" We don't want religion forced down us," said another.
"I won't come if you don't want me," I said; "what
is more, I won't come if you try to frighten me. But if
you will treat me as a sister or daughter of your own,
then I will come and see you. I will try to learn some¬
thing of your lives, and I will try to help those of you who
really need help."
" Sure then, you couldn't spake fairer," said Mrs.
0'PI ah arty.
But most of the women made no reply. I had failed
them signally in the great thing, and they would not
believe me in the little.
176
H IDuop of Mater
" Come, miss, we'd best be moving out o' this," said the
man.
"I'll come in a moment," I answered him. "Mrs.
O'Flahartv, may I see your Kitty first ? "
The big, coarse woman started as I said these words.
"To be sure, if you want to," she said. "I believe you
air all right, you poor bit o' a thing. None o' you, neigh¬
bours, shall touch this lady; you shall see Kitty ef you
want to, miss. Come along o' me."
She dragged me forcibly through the thickest of the
crowd. We entered a filthy house, and walked up an
awful staircase. The smell, the darkness, the greasy
feel of the stairs were indescribable. Presently we
reached the attic floor. We entered one of the rooms.
There was a tiny window in the roof, but only one pane
of glass was of use; the rest of the window was blind,
being stuffed up with rags. The smell in this room was
beyond description. An old crone, with a face like parch¬
ment, and bent nearly in two, was hovering over a handful
of fire. She did not glance up when we entered the
room; her old back was shaking as if with palsy; she
was muttering under her breath.
"That's me mother," said Honora; "don't take no
notice, lady; she ain't right in the head, the crathur.
Oh, Kitty, Kitty, core o' me heart."
The woman's voice changed; a human note, a tender
note came into it. She threw herself on her knees by
a bundle of rags which lay on the floor. A girl was
lying on the rags. I had never seen any one so like a
skeleton before. The girl was lying stretched out flat
on her back. Her eyes were closed; the lids were
flat, as if the eyes had receded so far into the head as
H H>rop of Mater
177
almost to have disappeared; there was a fringe of dark
eyelashes on the wan cheek; the girl's hair was flung out
over the filthy rags which acted as a pillow.
"Look up, Kitty me honey," said the mother; "ain't I
brought you a beautiful white angel; I have now, honey;
look up, me poor dear, for the love o' Heaven."
" Give me a drop o' water, mother," muttered the girl.
Mrs. O'Flaharty rose from her knees. She took a jug
from the dresser and poured a little water, which looked
almost the colour of mud, into a cracked cup.
"That's the kind o' wather we get here, miss," she said,
glancing at me.
She then held it to the girl's lips.
"Drink, me purty," she said, lifting the dying head as
she spoke.
The parched lips swallowed the horrible moisture eagerly.
The girl lay back again with a sigh.
" Look up, Kitty, now do, at the beautiful angel," said
the mother.
With a painful effort the tired lids were slowly lifted;
the sunken eyes shone beneath like glittering beads.
The girl gazed full at me with a puzzled, unpleased
expression.
"That ain't no angel," she said; "I thought maybe
Mary had come. ... I wish she'd come, I'm mortal tired
o' waiting."
" Who does she mean ? " I asked of the mother.
"Who do she mean, miss? why the blessed Vargin,
of course; she'll come soon, Kitty; she'll come soon,
mavourneen."
"A drop o' water, mother," said the girl; "I'm awful
full o' drought," she added.
z
i78
H H>rop of Mater
The water was again held to her lips; she drank
feebly, then shut her eyes, and turned her face towards
the wall.
I rose to go; I could do nothing. As I was leaving
the room, I heard the dying girl's voice say again—
"A drop o' water, mother, for the love of Heaven."
"Here, Honora, take this, and buy her something,"
I said.
I pressed some money into the Irishwoman's hand,
and rushed downstairs. I could stand no more. Half¬
way down the stairs I heard the feeble cry—
" A drop o' water, mother."
Such water as it was! my blood was boiling. I think
at that moment I almost bated my country for allowing
such a state of things to be possible.
When I reached the court, pale, sick, and trembling,
the women and children were still collected in little knots,
evidently watching for my reappearance; the big man
stood near the door of the house.
"Now.come out o' this," he said roughly. "Stand
back, neighbours, or I'll know the reason why; come
along this minit, miss."
He dragged my hand fiercely through his arm. In
a moment's time we had both reached a place of
safety.
" Now, miss, shall I get a hansom for yer ? "
" Why do you take care of me ? " I asked. " How did
you know I was here ? Who are you ? "
" Why do I take care o' yer ? " he answered. " Martha
Mace sent me. Mrs. Keys missed yer, and she told
Martha, and Martha knows as I live 'ere—yes, I live
'ere in this 'ere 'ell—not that I minds it. All the same
B Drop of Mater
179
they'd have killed yer most like ef I hadn't come; they're
wild beasts here."
"What is your name?" I asked.
"Michael Lee, miss."
The man doffed his hat as he spoke.
CHAPTER XVI
MA TES
HE summer heat merged into the pleasant
weather of autumn, then slowly and stealthily
the winter crept on; the mornings grew
shorter, the evenings drew in. As often as
not one wakened to a long day of perpetual night, so
dense were the fogs which enveloped the great city
during that November. November thus passed away by
degrees, and December, with Christmas at its heart, came
on. Christmas is not regarded in East London as in any
sense of the word a religious season, though it is the
subject of many thoughts, of anxious speculation, and, on
the whole, of rejoicing. But for Christmas where would
trade be in the winter? To the poor people of East
London trade is the be-all and end-all of living. At
Christmas the rich disgorge some of that money which
they have wrung from their poorer brethren; even the
stingiest buy more lavishly then, even the least charitable
are more charitable then. It is a disagreeable thought,
even for the most hardened, to reflect, as they surround
their own happy firesides, that there are tens of thousands
not a stone's throw away who have got no fireside, and
no cheerful fire, no warm clothing, no shelter; so at
180
/ifcates
Christmas thank-offerings arrive from far and near,
dinners of all sorts are in full swing, coal tickets are
given out in plenty, and feasts for the children, and
entertainments for the men and women, are quite every¬
day matters in the dreadful East.
We came in for our share of the general entertainments
at "All Souls," and there was a general air of bustle
and expectation abroad. The weather was exceptionally
severe, and Mr. Moore worked harder than ever. That
sense of hurry which I had always noticed about him
began to be intensified just then. He resembled more
and more a traveller who with all his luggage packed was
on the eve of a journey. He lived as he always did in
a state of picnic, requiring the smallest amount of indi¬
vidual service which I ever saw vouchsafed to living man.
His servant Thomas was devoted to him. Father Moore
was, without doubt, the life and centre of his large and
successful men's club ; but now and then I noticed that he
went with bowed head and an expression on his face which
was difficult to interpret, but which was the reverse of joyful.
I saw a good deal of him as the cold days advanced, for
with the cold came sickness, and when sickness was the
order of the hour the little band of workers at " All
Souls" had a tough time of it. We had to fight the
devil in his own quarters then, and he was hard to slay.
The kind of illness which was raging was not that which
O O
can be comfortably shipped off to the nearest hospital;
it consisted of colds and coughs and bronchitis, sometimes
aggravated to pneumonia, of rheumatism, and of all those
sorts of aches and pains which come from poor living and
damp and unsanitary dwellings. As usual, also, there was
a good deal of starvation or semi-starvation to be relieved;
182
/Ifcates
the soup kitchens were surrounded from early morning till
late night; we were all, in short, worked off our feet. Mr.
Moore's Free Refuge for Men had never an empty bunk.
In addition to the bunks being full, the men lay about on
the floor, glad of the shelter from the biting winds and cold
without, glad of the shelter, the human kindness, the bit
of fire, the morsel of gas.
Christmas went by, and, as is usually the case, King
Winter entered on a fresh reign of terror with the New
Year. The cold now was intense; there had been some
heavy falls of snow ; on the top of the snow came frost,
then a thaw, then fresh frost; the air was thick with fog;
the coughs and colds, the bronchitis and pneumonia, grew
worse. It was just about this time that I first noticed
something wrong with Lucy Ash. Lucy had been one
of my most faithful and affectionate friends from the first.
She had not Martha's strength and power; she was a
gentle, affectionate little soul. In another walk of life
she would have been refined and pretty. Even in the
class to which she was born, she was called by her com¬
panions "genteel Lucy." She liked to make the best
of her personal appearance; her hay-coloured hair, light
blue eyes, and pale complexion won her a great deal of
favour in more quarters than one. She had always her
young man to walk out with, and I expected her any day
to tell me that she was going to leave her poor post in the
match factory for a little home of her own. One Sunday,
as I was coming home from church, I came face to face
with Lucy. She was walking with a big, dark, powerful-
looking man ; his arm was familiarly flung round her neck ;
he had on a rough cap of rabbit's skin, a coat which
must once have belonged to a gentleman, and some coarse
flfeates
183
frieze trousers. In tliis hybrid sort of attire he looked
sufficiently big and startling to arrest attention even in
such a place as East London. As he and Lucy ap¬
proached, I saw that she blushed, that her eyes brightened,
and a smile of pleasure showed her white and even teeth.
To my astonishment the man doffed his cap. The moment
he did so I recognised him. He was the man of iron who
had saved my life in Jasper Court.
" Sarvice, miss," he said awkwardly, and looking at me
with something between a frown and a smile.
"How do you do?" I said. I shook hands with the
pair. " I have not forgotten what you have done for me,"
I continued, looking full at Michael Lee. " Lucy, did I
ever tell you that but for Michael I might have lost my
life at a dreadful place on Saffron Hill called Jasper
Court?"
"Jasper Court ain't none so bad," replied the man.
" 'Tain't fit for the likes o' yer, miss, but it's well enough
fer us. It's 'andy fer the fur trade."
"And are you in that?" I asked.
"Yes, miss."
I turned to Lucy.
"I have not seen you for some time," I said. "Why
liave you not been to the Girls' Club lately ?"
"'Cause o' my cough," she answered, shrugging her
shoulders. She half turned her head away.
"You might tell the truth, Lucy," said Lee, speaking
with a sort of growl.
"No, I won't, and you daren't," she answered, backing
from him, and giving him a look in which terror and
anguish mingled.
"Then I jest will," he said. "This-laidy means well.
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/l&ates
She's a friend o' you gels. You know why you don't go to
the club, Lucy ; 'tain't 'cause you've a cough, it's 'cause
you've quarrelled with Martha Mace."
"No, I ain't. Wot a shame," said Lucy.
" Oh, Lucy, if it is the case, why don't you tell me," I
said. "I thought you were such friends."
" So they ought ter be, miss," said her companion
eagerly. " There ain't a better gel than Martha in the
whole o' East London, nor a truer, nor more faithful;
but Lucy 'ave a spite agen 'er, and she won't go to tlie
club, nor to you neither, miss, 'cause she's afraid o'
meeting 'er."
" I don't expect Martha this evening. Will you come
to me, Lucy ? " I asked. " Why, it is a couple of months
since I have seen you."
"Won't Martha really be with you, miss?" she said,
giving me a wistful look.
" No, she caught a bad cold last week, and is in bed. I
saw her an hour ago, and the doctor won't allow her up."
A look of unmistakable relief passed over Lucy's face.
"Then perhaps I'll come," she said.
She moved on slowly with her companion. I heard
them wrangling as they walked down the street. I
entered my own house, and paused for a moment,
wondering whether I should go down to see Martha or
not. Martha lived with her father and mother in a
room in the basement. After a little reflection I ran
upstairs, fetched some oranges and a couple of sponge
cakes, and with them in my hand ran down to the base¬
ment. I knocked at Martha's door—she had a tiny bed¬
room to herself at the back of the kitchen. Her voice
said " Come in," and I entered, She was half sitting up
/Ifeates
in bed, breathing hard, for bronchitis held her in a tight
grip; her cheeks were flushed, and her beautiful eyes were
very bright. The little room was wonderfully tidy; a
small fire burned in the grate, and a kettle, to which a
big tube had been put, thus forming it into a temporary
bronchitis kettle, steamed on the fire. As I entered, the
old mother was bending down, pushing little bits of wood
into the grate in order to make a blaze. Mrs. Mace was
a very reserved old woman. She was evidently rather
afraid of her handsome daughter, and stood in consider¬
able awe of me. She dropped me a low bobbing curtsey,
and disappeared into her kitchen.
" Oh, miss, how good of you to come down again," said
Martha.
"1 forgot these oranges this morning," I said, "so I
thought I would bring them now. Don't talk, Martha ; I
see it hurts you to. I'll peel you an orange and leave it
ready for you."
" You air good, Jo-an," she said, with a smile, "and
I'm awful dry ; but there, you oughtn't to put yourself
out for me. I ain't worth it, my dear ; I ain't, really."
"Not worth it," I echoed. "There is no one in the
place worth anything if you are not. Why, you are my
right hand, Matty, and you know it."
"Am I-now? " she said, with a smile. " Ay, I'm glad
of that. I love you, Jo-an ; I think o' you day and night.
There ain't nothing I wouldn't do for you—nothing—
nothing."
" Dear girl," I said, " you must lie still for me now and
get well nursed. I wish you had not to go back to that
horrid shop."
"I'll be all right come Tuesday," she said restlessly.
2 a
i86
fl&ates
" They said I might take one day. If I'm not back
Tuesday morning they'll fill my place."
" What a shame," I said. " Would it do any good if I
went to speak to them."
" No, Jo-an ; it's the rule. One day's grace you get if
you are bad, and then your place is filled up. What can
you expect when there are fifty to sixty gels clamouring
to get it. Oh, never fear> dear; I'll be well by Tuesday."
" You must be," I said ; " that is, if good nursing will
make you. Now, I want to talk to you about Lucy Ash."
" Oh, Jo-an."
Martha pressed her hand suddenly to her chest. She
gave a gasp for breath, and then lay back pale and
panting.
" What is it, Martha ? are you in pain?"
" A bit," she answered. " 'Twill pass. What about
Lucy, miss ? "
" I met her just now," I answered. " I met her walking
with Michael Lee; the man you spoke to me about once
or twice."
" She was with Michael; that's right; I'm glad o' that;
I'm real glad o' that. Maybe it's best as I'm knocked
up. Lots o' things as seem 'ard are all for the best when
you come to consider o' them."
" What is the matter with you, Martha ? and what is
the matter with Lucy ? " I asked suddenly. " A cloud has
come between you ; what is it ? "
" Oh, miss, can't you guess. Don't you know the sort
o' thing as often divides mates like Lucy and me. There,
I can't tell you now, but maybe I will to-morrow. I can't
speak to-day ; my chest 'urts me awful."
" Poor Martha! how thoughtless of me to try to make
/Hiates
187
you talk ; only I am anxious about Lucy ; she's changed.
She was a different girl when she was really fond of you,
Martha."
" Oh, miss, she's as fond o' me as ever. Nothing can
kill the real love in 'er 'eart, nor the real love in my 'eart
for 'er. Why, we was mates when we was little tots at
Board School together, an' mates we'll be as long as we
live."
" You girls in East London think a great deal of being
mates."
" It's as close as marriage," said Martha, in a husky
whisper ; " it's till death do us part. I'm strong ; Lucy's
weak. She ain't much gumption in her, and a little thing
frets her, and she ain't got all the faith she might 'ave;
but the love is there all the same, miss, and it's till death
do us part, that it is."
" And there you are with your eyes brighter than ever,"
I said, " and your poor voice as husky as a rasp. I will
come down to see yon by-and-by. Now, you must eat
your orange and try to sleep."
" You are real good, Jo-an," repeated Martha.
I left the room and went slowly upstairs. As I did
so, I could not help saying to myself that I should not
mind having a mate like Martha, so faithful, strong, and
firm, so brave and true—so above all small and mean
jealousies. Was Lucy in love with that rough-looking
Michael Lee ? and did she imagine even for a moment that
Martha would come between her sweetheart and herself ?
I spent the afternoon helping Father Moore with a
large class of boys, and came back rather fagged to tea.
I hoped Lucy would come, and would not go to evening
church for fear of missing her. Mrs. Keys went, and I
/Ibates
had my rooms to myself. Just when the bells for service
had ceased ringing I heard a rather timid knock at my
door, and opening it, saw Lucy. The change in her
personal appearance was very marked. Iler face looked
wan and painfully thin ; her eyes were half starting
out of her head ; her hair was not arranged with the
usual East London girl's due regard to the charms of the
fringe—the hair was pushed back now from the somewhat
high brow, adding much to the character of the face, but
giving it a very pathetic and worn aspect. Lucy came in
hastily and dropped into a chair.
"There," she said, "I 'ave kept my word. Are you
sure, Jo-an, you're true to me—you're quite certain
that Martha won't come up ? "
" No; poor girl, she is very ill with bronchitis," I said.
" Werry bad; in danger, is she ?" asked Lucy.
" You would be sorry if she were, Lucy, would you
not ? "
" No ; I'd be glad," said Lucy, in a fierce voice.
" What do you mean ? what is the matter, Lucy ? How
can I help you if you won't confide in me ? Lucy, what
is it ? "
" My 'eart's broke," said Lucy.
She unfastened her shawl, flung it off, crouched
down on a low chair, and buried her face in her thin
hands.
I knew enough now about the girls in East London to
be quite sure that there was no use in trying to press for
Lucy's confidence. I brought her, therefore, a glass of
water, poked up the fire into a pleasant blaze, and sat down
quietly not far away. If she meant to tell me what was
the matter, she would ; if not, no power would wring it
/IDates
189
from her. After a time she dried her eyes and looked
fixedly at me, with the ghost of a smile trembling round
her lips.
" Look," she said, thrusting out her left hand; " look."
I did look. A thick wedding-ring (evidently not gold)
encircled the third finger.
"Why, Lucy," I exclaimed, "you are married?"
" Yes, it's true; I'm a real wife," she answered. "It's a
good bit back now since we was wed."
" You are Michael Lee's wife ? "
She nodded.
"Worse luck," she muttered, with a heavy sigh. "I'm
going to have a baby soon," she continued. " We was
married afore the register. Yes, I'm a real wife, but
'e don't care that fer me—no, not that. He thinks o'
no one but Martha. I'm fit to kill 'im, that I am."
" Lucy, you must be mistaken," I said.
She gave me another smile, about the saddest that
could be seen.
" Do you think I don't know ? " she answered. " Ain't
I watched it for a long time ? 'E's mad about Martha ; I
ain't nothing to 'im. They all 'ates me at 'onie for having
gone and spoilt my life, and for a man as don't think that
o' me."
" Does Martha know of this?" I asked.
" Does Martha know ? 0' course she knows. Why, it
was 'cause o' 'im that she left the public. I thought 'er
true enough then. Michael were fond o' me once, and
when 'e found I wouldn't live with 'im except we was
wed proper, 'e took me afore the register, and I'm 'is
true wife. But, lor, when 'e see Martha, I were noth'ng
to 'im, and worse than nothing; but Martha, I thought
190
/Ifcates
she were true. And win n Mike followed 'er to the ' Bed
Dragon' night after night, she give up going there;
but now 'e's found out the shop she works in in 'Igh
Street, and 'e's always after 'er—always. Yes, it'd be a
good thing ef she were dead. Maybe I'd 'ave a chance
then—maybe 'e'd come back to me then."
She sobbed pitifully, dropping her head lower and lower.
I looked at her anxiously.
" Half the wives are forsook like me," she said, after a
pause. " The men yere 'ave 110 sort o' conscience. I
wouldn't mind so much ef I weren't wed proper, and ef I
'adn't my lines. 'E knows there'll be a baby, and 'e don't
care nothink. 'Ow am I to support it ? 'E won't do it.
'E laughs when I talk o' it. Oh ! I wish I were dead, or
that Martha were dead, or that 'e were dead. There's
a devil inside o' me, Jo-an. I'm driven to despair, that
I be!"
" Before you say anything more," I interrupted briskly,
" you must have your tea. And here, that stool on which
you are sitting is not comfortable. Get into this arm¬
chair, and lean back. Put your feet on the footstool
before the fire. Why, you poor girl, your feet are
sopping. Haven't you better shoes than these, Lucy ? "
" Never mind me, Jo-an; they'll do well enough. No,
I ain't got another pair. Some'ow there's no 'eart in
me o' late, and I don't keep back none of my money
fer clothes. I'm that peckish I 'ave to eat it all. It's
the awful cold weather, and the baby that's coming.
Oh, paw mite, paw mite, to think as its father won't
own it!"
She began to sob afresh, taking no notice of my words
of comfort.
/Ifcates
191
I made tea, and gave it to her. I saw that she ate not
only bread and butter, but meat. The good food brought
some colour into her cheeks, and her tears flowed less
freely.
" I am glad you have told me," I said then. "As to
Martha, you are mistaken about her. Martha loves you as
much as ever. She tried to tell me the truth to-day, but
she was too ill to speak long. Martha would no more
take your husband away from you, Lucy, than she would
cut her own throat. You must believe that. You must
believe that she is faithful to you."
" I don't care whether she be or not," was the reply.
" 'E ain't—that's the pint. 'E's set on winning Martha
some day. 'E 'opes I'll die when the baby comes. 'E
thinks nothing o' me; 'e says I'm a paw sort."
" But he is your husband ; he can't leave you."
"You don't know the men down here, Jo-an," was the
reply. " It's all up. 'E don't love me; nothing else
matters."
She turned her face to the wall and wept afresh. I
found it impossible to comfort her. Try as I would, I
could not inspire her with even a spark of hope. She
was married, and her husband had forsaken her. There
was a baby coming, and no one in all the world, not even
its mother, was prepared to welcome it. The case was a
very difficult one for me to deal with; in short, I was at
my wits' end.
Lucy went away after a time, and Mrs. Keys returned
from church. I told her Lucy's story from beginning to
end. She did not express the least surprise, nor even
much concern.
"That kind of thing is as common as the air they
/Ifcates
breathe down here," she said. "A gel has no sort of
hold on that sort of man. He's here one minute, and
gone the next; but she has her marriage lines, that's
one comfort. She'd better let the man go; she'll never
get any sort of comfort out of him."
"But she loves him," I said.
" That sort don't know much about loving," said Mrs.
Keys, in a somewhat contemptuous voice.
"You are wrong there, Honey," T said. "Lucy has a
very affectionate heart—she is fond of her husband—
she would be true to him, if he were true to her. There
is something in Lucy which, if it were properly guided,
would turn her into a good and loving wife and mother.
Think for yourself, Honey; what chance has she under
existing circumstances ? She is a wife, and yet she is no
wife. Her own people scorn her because she has not
been able to keep her husband's affection. Even its
mother does not want the poor baby. Lucy is very
delicate, too; she has no stamina to weather the sort of
storm through which she has to pass. Oh, I wish I could
help her!"
"Well, my dear, I'll see if I can't put some baby
clothes together," said Honey, in her practical voice.
" And now, don't fret any more, my dearie. You can't
do more for these East End folks than you are doing.
Why, Miss Joan, if you take their troubles as your own,
you'll be dead in a year."
I smiled faintly as I rose from my seat. Notwith¬
standing Mrs. Key's warning, I could not sleep much
that night. The thought of Lucy and Martha came
between me and my rest.
CHAPTER XVII
A DARE-DEVIL
HE next day Martha was worse. Her breath
was so troublesome, that the hard-worked parish
doctor had to be called in. He forbade her to
think of going out until the weather improved,
and all hope of her retaining her place behind the counter
was over. Martha took the inevitable with the stoicism
of her class. I did not hear one repining word pass her
lips.
" It can't be 'elped," she said; " 'ef I ain't well, I ain't, and
that's all about it. Oh yes, I'll find something to do easy
enough. I can take the watercress business off mother's
hands fer a bit. It's 'ard on an old woman like mother to
'ave to be off and away to the market at six o'clock in
weather like this, and Farringdon Street is a good way from
'ere, too. There ain't a spark o' daylight when mother gets
there. Oh yes, it's a rough life, and mother's rheumatism
'as been rather bad lately. I'm thinking that I'll take it
off 'er 'ands fer the winter when I get over this bout."
" But you ought not to be out at six in the morning
after such an illness as this," I said.
"Dear me, Jo-an," she answered, with a smile, "we
paw folks can't cosset ourselves ; when I'm well, I'm well,
153 2 B
1?4
H Daredevil
and that's all about it. I'll be all right by the end of the
week, see ef I ain't, and then I'll take the watercress till
the weather turns. Yes, mother, that's best," she added,
speaking in her husky voice, and turning her feverish
eyes full on the old woman as she stood, bent and crooked,
at the foot of the bed.
" Paw Martha," said Mrs. Mace, turning to me and
speaking solemnly, " is well meaning; she knows wot
she torks about, do Martha."
The old woman then slowly and deliberately left the room.
" Listen to me, Martha," I said suddenly. " I have come
h"re, as you know, to learn something about girls like
you, and how you live. May I go with you some day to
Farringdon Street market and see the thing for myself?"
" To be sure you may, Jo-an, but it's werry rough."
"I shall know more about it, and be able to'sympathise
better with you when I have felt the roughness," I
added.
"It'll be fun ter take yer, Jo-an," said Martha.
She lay back against her pillows breathing with diffi¬
culty, but looking at me with a pleased expression on
her face.
" You 'a' done a deal fer me," she said; " it's wonder¬
ful ; it's a sort of pleasure to lie 'ere and look at yer. I
alius think o' the angel in the church winder wen I see
ver; you're like that angel—wonderful like. I 'ope I
shall see yer face when I'm a-dying; I don't ax fer any¬
thing better."
I smiled, and patted her hand. Martha's compliments
were like draughts of champagne—strong, fresh, invigor¬
ating, direct. I prized them more than I could say. No
girl with her lover could enjoy sweet praise more than I
H H>are*2De\nl
T95
did from the lips of this strong maiden of the East End.
After a time she said suddenly—
" Lucy were with yer last night."
" She was," I said.
"I 'spect, Jo-an," continued Martha, "that she told
yer everything ? "
" She did," I answered. " She is very unhappy, Martha.
Her story is a miserable one. I wish I could do some¬
thing to help her."
"Well now, I wonder ef you couldn't. I lie 'ere and
think o' 'er most o' the time. I love 'er—I'm true to 'er
to the 'eart's core. I don't want never ter see Michael
Lee agen. Sometimes I think the best thing I can do is
ter emigrate, and go right clean away; then, perhaps,
'e'll think o' Lucy and forget me. The fact is this, Jo-an.
I a' known Michael from three to four years. We used to
keep company, and we often thought that we'd some day
be wed; but I were away in hospital fer two months,
that time when I broke my leg badly, and then Michael
took up with Lucy, and when I came out they 'ad gone
to the register together, and Lucy were his wife. I won't
say as I didn't feel it a bit; but wot's a mate good for ef
she allows 'er own individial inklenations ter stand in
the way o' bein' true ter the gel she's mate to, so I soon
got over the jealous feel, and I love paw little Lucy
more'n ever; but bless yer, Jo-an, there were plenty o'
mischief in the fire, fer when Mike saw me once again
'e said bold out that 'e 'ad made a mistake in taking Lucy
afore the register; 'e told Lucy to 'er face, that 'e didn't
care anything for 'er, and that I were 'is true wife in the
sight of Heaven. I give 'im a good bit of sauce fer
talking like that; and when I found that 'e follered me to
196
H H>are^S>ev>il
the 'Red Dragon' I left the public line, and went behind
the counter; but it seems to be no sort o' good, for 'e
follers me everywhere, and Lucy's fit to die with jealousy.
She loves me still down deep in 'er 'eart, but she's near
mad to think that Mike should think nothing o' 'er when
I'm by.' I loved 'im well once; I'm sort of faithful; I
'spect it's in me, and I can't 'elp it, but I near 'ate him
now for breaking Lucy's 'eart. Yes, it's a good thing as
I'm laid by, fer 'e can't foller me in yere, and when I'm
well again, ef it weren't for mother and paw father, why,
I'd emigrate. Yes, it's bitter 'ard, and I pities Lucy
from the bottom of my 'eart."
" I wish I could do something," I said.
"Well now, that's wot I'm thinking. S'pose you were
to tork to Mike."
" I! " I exclaimed; " do you suppose he would listen
to me ? "
" 'E would, Jo-an, fer 'e knows what I think of you.
You might take a sort of message from me, aud tell 'im
that 'e's making me very misribble, and that Lucy's 'eart
is broke. You'd know 'ow ter put it; you'd know 'ow ter
show 'im how to stick up to 'is duties like a man, and ter
turn round an' support 'is paw wife, and to be a good
father ter the kid when it's born. Ef you can't touch
'im, I don't think anybody can, fer Mike is a werry wild
sort; there's gipsy blood in 'im, and sometimes 'e don't
seem to know wot 'e's doing, not that 'e's a drunkard or
anything bad o' that sort. S'pose you were to speak to
'im, Jo-an, and tell'm straight out wot I really wishes."
" I'll try," I said.
" Will yer really—really ? you ere good. Perhaps the
best thing would be fer 'im and Lucy to emigrate, and
H 2>are*3)ev>U
197
then I'd never see 'im any more. I love 'em both. Well,
well, it'd sort o' tear me for 'em both to go; but I 'spect
that's why I'm strong, just to 'elp a wild sort like Mike
and a paw, weak, little cossetting thing like Lucy. It
don't matter when you're as strong as I am ter 'ave a bit
of pain, do it, Jo-an ? "
" I always told you, Martha," I said, " that God meant
you to be an angel. It seems to me since I have come
to live here in this dreadful part of London, that our
angel wings come to us through pain. There is no one
else in this place like you, unless it is Father Moore."
"Father Moore," said Martha, with a smile; "Father
Moore like me ? "
"You and he are the two strongest people here. Now
I will leave you, and go away and do what I can in this
matter; but first tell me where I am to find Michael ? "
"He goes to the men's shelter o' nights; you'd see 'im
there."
"Very well, I will go there this evening."
I left her and went away. My day was much occupied.
My Girls' Club, with neither Martha nor Lucy to help me,
was no light undertaking. I had made many friends
now besides these two, however. The club had become
very popular; the music was bright and good; several of
these factory girls had excellent voices, and I took care
to teach them songs with choruses, in which they all
joined with hearty abandon; then we had games, and
on cold evenings dancing, and there was a constant
supply of hot sweet coffee, which the girls could get for
a halfpenny a cup, and a junk of bread and butter for a
farthing. In consequence of this arrangement many of
my girls made their supper at the club. Mrs. Keys
198
H DaroBev>tt
superintended the commissariat. In short, this good
woman worked harder than I did. I had not forgotb n
my promise to Martha, and determined to call at the
vicarage on my way back to my own lodgings. I waited
at the club until Mrs. Keys had washed up and put things
tidy, and then she and I walked quickly through the
awful Jacob's Court on our way to Frank Street. It
was nearly half-past eleven when we did so ; but late as
the hour was, the place was alive—men were tottering
home from the public-houses, children were screaming,
women were muttering volleys of awful oaths in language
far too fearful to reproduce. Mrs. Keys could not bear
to walk through the court at this hour, but familiarity—
for I took this road every night—had caused all my fears
to slumber; and notwithstanding a coarse shout and jest
from one or two tipsy men, we found our way through
in safety, and landed in Frank Street without adventure.
"Look here, Miss Joan," said Honey; "another night
when it's as late as this we'll just take the round, for
that place ain't fit for Christian women to set their
feet in."
" Oh nonsense, Honey," I answered. " I'm a great
deal too tired at night for a walk of nearly a mile; any¬
how, we're safe through now, and to-morrow night we will
try and shut the club earlier."
"Ail right, miss," she replied. "Come along now.
I hope you won't stay long in the men's refuge; it ain't
the sort o' place for a young lady to go to so late."
"If we are to do any work here," I said, "worth
calling work, we must banish all thought of the ordinary
proprieties. I am coming here to-night, Honey, as you
know, in the cause of a forlorn hope. I want to give a
H 2Dare^2)ePil
l99
very cowardly man a piece of my mind, and I am not
going to be held back from my purpose by false shame
or anything else."
"Well, here we are," said Honey; "the door is open
still—oh, there's Thomas. Good evening, Thomas; my
young lady and me have come to see Mr. Moore. It's
rather late ; is he up yet ? "
"Up?" repeated Thomas; "is it likely he'd be in
bed at this hour? He is in the room with the men,
talking to them, and giving them a bit of supper. It's
a mortal cold night, and he got some pea-soup made for
them. I wish he'd have a bowl himself, that I do; he
took no dinner worth eating. Bless you, it's enough to
fret any one to see a good man flinging himself into
eternity at the rate he is doing; but there, what am I
talking about, and keeping you two ladies standing out
in the cold. Come in, Miss Prinsep, please; come in,
this way, Mrs. Keys. I'll take you straight up to Mr.
Moore's room, and then tell him that you are here."
We entered the house, walked through the night
refuge—for the club by day was the refuge by night—
mounted the spiral staircase, trying to shut our eyes to
the sight of the hungry, wild, horrible-looking men who,
some of them in their bunks, and some sitting about on
the floor, already filled the room to suffocation, trying to
shut our ears to language which would horrify my tenderly
nurtured sisters in the West End, and trying to shut our
nostrils to the most awful overpowering smell of mingled
gas and human beings which I have often encountered.
We entered Mr. Moore's sitting-room; being exactly
overhead, it had the full benefit of the surcharged atmos¬
phere below, and wailed for him to appear.
200
H Daredevil
He ran up presently.
" What is this ! " he exclaimed. " You ought not to
burn the candle at both ends. Why are you not in bed
two hours ago ? "
"You forget my Girls' Club," I said.
" True, true, more shame for me. Now, what can I do
for you ? "
" Is there a man in the Refuge of the name of Michael
Lee?"
" Michael Lee," repeated Father Moore. " Lee ! Do
you mean a swarthy gipsy chap, very uncouth and
savage ? "
" Yes, that is the man. Is he here?"
" He came in about five minutes ago. He is sitting by
the fire having some soup."
" I want to speak to him."
"You, my dear child; why?"
In a few words I told Mr. Moore something of the state
of the case.
He shook his head as he listened.
"That is one of the devil's favourite tricks to damn
souls," he said, when I had finished. "I doubt that
you can do anything," he continued, after a pause. " A
man like that won't be touched; if he does not love
his unfortunate wife, no words of yours can inspire
the feeling."
"I promised Martha Mace to do my best," I said.
" WTell, you must redeem your promise. I will send the
fellow here."
He rushed downstairs, returning in a few minutes
accompanied by Lee.
"Miss Prinsep has been kind enough to come here to
H 2>are*2>ct>U
201
say a word to you, Lee," he remarked by way of intro¬
duction. " I will leave you for two or three minutes, and
then come back again."
He went away, leaving the door open behind him.
Lee stood a step or two from the open door, holding his
fur cap in his hand, and glancing sheepishly from Mrs.
Keys to me.
" What's up, miss ? " he said at last.
"I have brought you. a message from Martha," I
said.
He drew himself up when I said this, and looked
straight at me; his lips half opened as if to speak, but
he shut them again.
"The fact is this," I said abruptly; "you are per¬
secuting Martha, and- making her very unhappy; your
wife, also, is broken-hearted. Martha has begged of me
to come to you; she wants to know if you will be brave
enough to be a man ? "
He gave a low laugh and turned his head aside.
"It's 'ard on a feller," he said, after a pause; "there's
a gel wot would make a man o' me, and we was sweet-
hearting together for a good while back, and there's
another gel wot I don't think anything of."
" But she is your wife," I interrupted.
"Well, yer see, miss, that were a bit of a took in,"
he said. "Martha and me we used to go out together
and keep company, and then Martha broke her leg and
were took to hospital, and when she were away Lucy
talked o' 'er; she talked and talked, and I liked to listen,
and some'ow or other I thought I fancied Lucy, and I
were lonesone without Martha, and I asked Lucy to keep
company with me, and we was wed afore I knew wot I
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H H>aroE>ev>U
was doing. It's a mistake, miss, to 'ave marriage lines,
fer I don't think anything o' Lucy now."
"Then you are very cowardly," I answered. "Clearly
understand that Martha will have nothing whatever to do
with you. If you persecute lier any more, she will go
away. "Will nothing induce you to go back to your wife
and do your duty by her ? "
He laughed again, and walked to the window.
"I don't care that for Lucy," he said, turning presently,
and looking me full in the face. " It's Martha, or it's
nothing. I made a fool of myself, and Martha knows it,
and ef she weren't so straight laced, she'd never cast it up
to a feller. As to Lucy "
"As to Lucy," suddenly said Father Moore, coming
back into the room, "she is your lawful wife, Michael
Lee, and you have no right to break her heart. Go down¬
stairs, and think over what this young lady has said to
you. If you have a spark of manhood in you, you will
try and provide a home for your wife, and cease to per¬
secute a brave girl who is fifty times too good to have
anything to do with a fellow like you. Now go; I am
ashamed to see such a poltroon as you in the place."
The man turned sulkily, and marched downstairs.
" I have not made the least impression," I said.
"He is ashamed of himself, anyhow," said Father
Moore, "and that's something. The fact is, he is not
worth either of those girls; he is nothing but a wild
sort of dare-devil. I am sorry for Lucy, but I don't
believe she will get him to go back to her. As to
Martha, we must do something for her. I will speak
about her to-morrow to some of the ladies at St.
Agnes's Settlement; she is such a fine girl in many
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203
ways, tliat the best possible thing would be for her to
emigrate."
"She will not leave her old father and mother," I
answered.
"Ah, that is it; difficulties seem to crop up at every
turn. Well, good-night now. Would you like me to
see you home ? "
"No, thank you, I have got Mrs. Keys," I answered.
I shook hands with him, and went away; the gas was
turned low in the Kefuge, and as I went hastily by I saw
the men stretched out on the floor. Not far from the
entrance door lay Michael Lee. His bold, flashing, gipsy
eyes looked full at me as I passed out into the winter night.
I had gone about half-way down the street when some
one touched me on the arm. I turned with a start, and
to my amazement saw Lucy, who, huddled in a big shawl,
began to walk quickly by my side.
"I can't sleep," she said, in a low voice of intense
passion. "I think there's a devil in me; it never seems
to let me go day nor night; 'e's in there, ain't 'e ? "
" Yes, Lucy ; yes. Dear Lucy, you ought not to be out
at this hour."
" Wot's the hour to me when my 'eart's on fire. Jo-an,
do you think 'e'll ever come back ter me ? "
"We must hope for the best," I murmured.
"I know wot that means," she retorted. 'Ope for the
best, and expect the worst; and 'is child presses agin my
'eart. I love 'im—I 'ate 'im and I love 'im all in the same
breath—it's cursing 'im one minute I be, and it's blessing
'im the next—I'm in a sort of despair—a sort of 'elf, where
nothing seems right and everything wrong. I bore it
till this come on me, and now I'm lost—I'm lost."
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H 2)are^H)e\nt
"No you are not, dear Lucy; come home with me."
" Home with you, Jo-an ? "
"Yes, I have got some rooms—two rooms to spare in
my house. Mrs. Keys, we won't be long in making up a
bed for Lucy."
"No, paw gel, of course not," answered my dear Honey.
" Come, Lucy, you shall lay warm for once. Half that
sort of wild talk of yours is because you are not fed as
you ought to be. Miss Joan and me'll give you a good
meal, and you shall lay warm, and see how bright you'll
be in the morning."
" I don't care ef I do lay warm for once," said Lucy,
evidently attracted by the prospect.
I took her icy hand in mine.
" Come, then," I said t > her.
We went upstairs and entered my bright little sitting-
room. Mrs. Keys insisted on it's being kept bright,
whether we were in or not. The fire was built to last for
several hours, and the lamp burned clear and well.
When we entered the room now I saw some one sitting
over the fire. I could not help uttering an exclamation
when I saw who it was—I even forgot Lucy in my
astonishment.
CHAPTER XVIII
ANNE
RS. KEYS took Lucy into the kitclien imme¬
diately.
"Come along," I heard her say, "you want
to be warmed through and through. Why, you
are icy cold."
She closed the door behind her, and I went to greet
the person who had been warming herself by my fire.
" Why, Anne," I cried; " why, Anne."
"Yes, it is me," said Anne Bannerman.
As she spoke she lifted her right hand and slowly and
deliberately removed the pins from her hat. She laid her
hat on my table, and then as deliberately took off her
jacket; she then pushed her thick hair from her high
brow, and gave me a very long penetrating glance.
" I have come," she said, speaking with great emphasis,
" to stay."
" To stay, Anne," I cried. " Oh, kiss me, won't you ;
I. am so very glad to see you."
Anne bent forward and allowed me to kiss her cheek.
She did not return my salute ; her eyes were full of
anxiety.
"I can't stand it at home any longer," she said ; "it
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lias been worse than ever since you went away. Francesca
does nothing but flirt, and mother does nothing but
grumble. In short, there's no niche for me, and I
thought I'd try living with yon ; that is, if you will
have me ? "
"I will have you with pleasure, Anne; there is room
enough for you here. You can try it for a few days,
won't you ? "
"No, I am not going to try it; I am going to stick to
it if I begin. It's all horrible, isn't it ? "
" Horrible ! No, it's delightful."
" Delightful," echoed Anne, " when you bring a girl
like the sort I just saw into the room ; but you always
were a bit crazy, and I expect your head is quite turned
now. Well, never mind; I may as well be unhappy in
one place as in another. I like you because you are
earnest and unaffected. If I come, I stick to you. Are
you willing to take me and give me my food ? "
"Yes, of course, of course."
" Father will see to my dress and that sort of thing,
but I'll cost you my keep, as the saying is. Have you a
bedroom for me here ? "
" You shall sleep with me to-night."
" Very well; I don't much care. I'm so dead beat and
so wretched that I could sleep on the floor."
" You will have some supper now, Anne."
" I don't mind. What have you ? "
" Bread and butter, stewed fruit and milk."
" How like you," said Anne, with a ghost of a smile,
" to indulge in that rustic sort of fare in East London.
All right, I'll join you. I declare, though you are work¬
ing, you are looking well."
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" I never was better in my life," I answered; " never
better, never more interested, never more completely
taken out of myself. We see life without any sham at
all down here, Anne. It seems a shame even to think of
all the little petty worries which used to make one
wretched in the old life."
" Do you think that really," said Anne, giving me a
queer, earnest glance. " Then if that is the case the life
will suit me, for I hate shams."
" It will suit you splendidly," I answered. " Now,
here's your supper—eat away ; we can talk while we eat.
Does Aunt Fanny know that you are coming here ? "
" Mother ? Not she ; she is under the impression that
I am safe in bed at this moment."
" Oh, Anne, what do you mean ?"
" What I say. I have been in a rage all day. Mother
and Francesca think of no one but Frederic. Frederic
hasn't proposed yet, you know, and they are simply mad
to get him. It is my private impression that father
is up to his ears in money difficulties. He doesn't say so,
but I am sharp enough, and there are indications. Yes,
I am certain that I am right; and what is more, I'm con¬
vinced that mother knows it too; but there she is, pressing
him for money every day of his life; and to-night they
are having a big dance—of course for Frederic—and
Francesca had a new dress—thick cream-coloured silk
and real lace. I don't know how the dress is to be paid
for, and I don't know where father is to find money for
the supper, or the band, or any of the expenses. I saw
him turn white when mother spoke about the dance, and
then I resolved that I would not have a dress, and that I
would not go to it. I offered to play all the dance music
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Unite
for mother if she would forego the expense of a, band,
but nothing would induce her to listen to me. She
ordered me a dress too, but I went to the dressmaker
myself and countermanded it, and then there was a row.
I don't know what mother didn't say to me, and of me,
and so I declared that I would not attend the dance at
all. 1 helped them all day, but I made up my mind that
I would not go down in the evening. I can't tell you
what a day I have had, only that it has been exactly like
many days before it. I have been thinking of you all the
time, and somehow, although you never guessed that I
could have such a feeling towards you, hungering for you
—for you are real and brave, and I respect those qualities
in any one. All of a sudden it darted into my mind that
I would go to you, I would throw myself on your com¬
passion, and ask you if I might stay. There was no better
opportunity than to-night. They were all in the thick of
their fun, and did not give me a thought; so I put on my
roughest, toughest garments and slipped downstairs, and
took one of the hansoms waiting on the stand near the
house and drove straight away here. I have been here
now for the last two hours. May I stay, Joan ? I don't
pretend that I won't be an awful worry to you, for I am
all moods and tenses, and that of no regular verb either;
but may I stay, Joan ? "
" Of course, of course," I replied, " and you will love
the life," I added; " and it will do you a lot of good; and
I do want your help awfully; for although I have made
friends here, real friends—yes, you need not smile, Anne
—friends among the sort of girls, a specimen of whom
you have just seen—yet I do long for one of my own
people. It will be delightful for me to have you, but
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209
don't promise to stay until you have seen something more
of the life. But, of course, you must ask Aunt Fanny ;
she is your mother, you know."
"Yes, I know it well enough," replied Anne. "I will
go and see her to-morrow. I don't believe she'll really
mind, and I can tell'her that I am coming at first only
on a visit to you. Not that I ever mean to go back. To
tell the truth, I believe she'll be delighted ; for I am quite
a thorn in her side of late, and she can think of nothing
but Frederic,"
"Well, come to bed now," I said.
I took Anne into my room ; it was long past one
o'clock. I had worked hard all day, and felt very tired.
Flaving seen that she had everything she wanted, I
ran away to look after Lucy. The upper part of the
house was perfectly quiet. I slipped softly upstairs, and
knocked at the door of the attic, where I expected to
find her asleep. I held a candle in my hand, and shaded
the light as I entered the little room.
Yes, Lucy was asleep, breathing gently: her childish,
rather pretty face had been carefully washed; her hair
was combed out neatly ; Mrs. Keys had lent her a white
nightdress. She looked almost like a West End girl in
her sleep—quite refined and sweet and gentle. Her
coarse, toil-worn hands were invisible under the bed¬
clothes; her young, rounded throat looked pathetic be¬
neath its white nightdress frill. I stooped down and
kissed her on her forehead.
" Poor little waif and stray," I murmured to myself.
" I vow to God that whatever happens, I will be good to
you, Lucy."
I then went downstairs, and returned to Anne.
2 d
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" There is one thing you can do to help me," I said.
" What is that ? " she asked.
"You can exorcise evil spirits by the magic of your
music. You must come to the Girls' Club and play for
the girls. When you see them, you won't mind putting
your heart into what you do. That girl upstairs "
"The girl upstairs," repeated Anne. "You don't
mean to say the creature I saw coming in with you is
asleep in the house ? "
" She is; she is one of my great friends; she is in
terrible trouble; she is a wife, and will soon be a mother ;
and—and her husband does not care for her, and has prac¬
tically forsaken her. She is almost mad with grief and
jealousy. Think of her when next you play something,
Anne. Oh, Anne, it is horrible to think of what the
people suffer here, and in some way or other it seems to
be all our fault. We grind the life out of them; we take
everything, and leave them nothing; but I can't talk of
it; only if you would devote your music to them, if you
would consecrate it to their cause, you would do good."
" I will," said Anne suddenly ; " I will."
Tears dimmed her eyes; I had never seen her cry
before in all my life; the tears did not fall, however.
She got into bed, and laid her head on the pillow. As I
lay down by her side, she bent forward and kissed me on
my cheek.
"You are the only girl I know," she said, "who would
give up fortune and fun, ancl the chance of a jolly life,
for an'existence like this. I respect you; you make me.
believe in goodness. There now, don't talk any more;
I'm dead tired, if you are not."
Lucy left before I saw her the next morning. Anne
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211
and I liad breakfast together. She then returned to
Gordon Square to break the news of her determination
to her mother, and promised to come I ack to me, bring¬
ing some clothes, music, and books in the course of the
afternoon. Mrs. Keys gave up her own bedroom to Anne,
and moved herself into the attic, near the one where
Lucy had slept the night before.
"I am glad the young lady is coming," said Honey.
"It is well for people to have some one in their own
sphere to talk to; and if I don't think anything at all of
Miss Anne Bannerman beside you, Miss Joan, she is in
the same class as you, and it will do you good, my dear,
to hobnob with her; and if you quarrel now and then,
and wrangle a bit, why, 'twill be all the better, for there's
no sort of good of you always keeping yourself on a
pedestal, Miss Joan, and you will as long as you have
no one but gels like Martha and Lucy and them to talk to.
Oh, I ain't angry with that Lucy; she's got her marriage
lines, and is quite respectable ; but all the same, my dear,
you can't always keep at her level, and 'twill do you good
to argue and wrangle a bit with Miss Anne."
I laughed, as I generally did, when Honey called me
over the coals. Having arranged for Anne's comfort, I
went to see Martha, who was better. I told her the
result of my interview with Michael. She did not say
much, but her face turned white. It turned whiter still
when I described my sudden encounter with Lucy in
the street, and Lucy's despairing words, and looks, and
actions.
" She slept here last night," I said in conclusion. " She
was quite beat, and I would not let her go home. She
left this morning before I saw her, and Honey gave her
2 12
Suite
her breakfast, and she said she seemed heartened up a
good bit."
" Oh, if any one could save her, you could, Jo-an," said
Martha; "but I have my doubts about 'er. Lucy ain't
strong, not a bit; and it's an awful blow, fer lier 'eart's
set on Mike, and 'e's 'er 'usband, an' 'ow she'll bear up
when the child comes "
" Will she go to hospital for her illness ? " I asked.
"Not ef 'er mother will give 'er a corner in the 'ouse,"
replied Martha. " Lucy 'as a mortal terror o' hospitals,
and nothing I could ever say would turn 'er. When I were
in the London I were treated real well, and didn't mind
it a bit—in fact, I 'ad a good time; but when I told Lucy
about it she didn't believe me, not a scrap. She were
'appy jest then, paw Lucy. Oh, if I only didn't a had
the misfortune to break my leg, all this awful trouble
mightn't 'ave 'appened."
"But didn't Lucy know," I asked, "that you and
Michael were fond of each other ? "
" She did, and she didn't. Mike and me 'ave kep'
company sence I were that 'igh," pointing with her hand
as she spoke; "and maybe Lucy thought it were a joke,
for I never minded 'is torking to 'er, and often when I
couldn't take 'er out on Sundays, 'e'd keep 'er company. I
knotf she meant nothing; and Mike can be real masterful
when 'e pleases. There, Jo-an, don't tork of it. When
I come out o' hospital, and Lucy told me that she were
Mike's wedded wife, I felt mad fer a whole day and a
whole night, but it's over now; and ef Mike would only
forget me, and be true to his wife, I'd be as 'appy as the
day's long."
"lie must; he shall," I answered. "When he does
Unite
not see yon, Martha, he will turn to Lucy; when he
really knows that he is the father of a clear little baby,
he won't be able to help loving it."
" Yes, I think o' that," said Martha, her eyes brightening.
" See, Jo-an, I am making a cliristening-robe for the bit
o' a kid; I 'ave made up my miud as everything shall
be done proper for it. Many and many a gel 'ere isn't
married when she 'as 'er baby; but Lucy's married.
Whatever 'appens, she's real 'spectable — she can show
her lines; I 'ave made up my mind that when the
baby comes, Lucy and me'll be friends once again, and
I'll 'elp 'er to nurse it and attend to it, and it must be
christened all light and proper—Father Moore'll roe to
that. And this is its dress for the christening; see, Jo-an.
And you'll be its godmother; won't you now, Jo-an ? "
I smiled, but tears were very near my eyes. Martha
pulled a basket forward, and showed me a little white
nainsook dress, which she was trimming with some coarse
lace for Lucy's baby.
I had to hurry away soon afterwards, and the rest of
my day was a very busy one. Father Moore came to see
me early in the day, and I had to go with him to consult
with the architect who was building the new model
houses. I had very strong views on the subject of these
houses. I insisted on having large windows which would
let in plenty of light. I could not forget what Mrs. Keys
had said about her model rooms on Saffron Hill. The
rooms should have light, should be papered with very
light, cheerful papers, and should have excellent supplies
of water laid on. My architect friend, Mr. Foster, in¬
formed me, with a somewhat indulgent smile, that I
should certainly spoil my tenants.
Bnite
" Not a bit of it," I answered; " I have not tlie faintest
idea of pauperising them. They must pay fair rents for
these rooms, and there must be no overcrowding. All I
want is to do my part, to give them comfortable rooms
where they can live like civilised beings, instead of wild
beasts."
"Well, these will be the most comfortable model
lodgings in London," was the response.
" And when will they be fit for occupation ? " I asked.
" Early in the spring; they are nearly finished now."
In my block of buildings there were ten new houses.
Some were made with a view to accommodate families—
being divided into little flats of from two to three or even
four rooms each. These rooms had their kitchen, tiny
scullery, bedrooms, and one bright little sitting-room : the
sanitary arrangements were perfect; and ventilation was
made not only thorough, but also of such a nature that,
in spite of themselves, the tenants of the room would have
a certain current of fresh air always coming in to ventilate
their dwellings. The ventilators for this purpose were
put high up in the walls, and the doors of the sleeping-
rooms were an inch short at top and bottom.
"They will find the benefit, and never think of the
draught when once they have slept in the rooms a few
times," said Mr. Foster.
Father Moore, however, with more practical knowledge,
shook his head.
" If there is a thing an inhabitant of East London has
a horror of, it is fresh air," he said. "The very first
thing your new tenants will do, Miss Prinsep, is to stop
the doors, top and bottom, with rags; the ventilators will
be disposed of in the same way, and the windows will be
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215
hermetically sealed. I have never yet come across a
family in this part of the world who had not a pious
horror of air. It is a fact, that some of those whom I
visit, sick people, too, have not had their windows open
once in ten years. Yes, it is dreadful; but their one idea
is warmth. They consider it a tempting of Providence to
let in outside air."
" They must be trained," I said, " and these comfort¬
able rooms are a step in the right direction."
As I looked at the rooms I thought of Martha and Lucy.
If only Michael Lee could be turned into a good aver¬
age British father, proud of his family, and devoted to his
wife, what a nice little suite of rooms I could give them
in my model lodgings. Martha, too, might be moved,
with her old father and mother, from the damp basement
where they now lived. Perhaps some of the people from
dreadful Jasper Court could be induced to come here. I
sighed, and my heart aohed with longing to relieve them
all. The model lodgings would certainly look most invit¬
ing when finished, and I arranged with Father Moore to
have a day of high festival in Frank Street on the day they
were formally opened. One or two of the houses were for
men alone. In these the rooms were divided by wooden
partitions into the neatest little cubicles. These cubicles
were well ventilated with windows, which were not al¬
lowed to be shut at all in the summer, and with the
same arrangement with regard to the doors which I have
already mentioned. There were wooden lockers at the
foot of the beds for the men to keep their clothes in.
There was a bath-room on the ground-floor, with an
abundant supply of hot and cold water, where they could
wash whenever they pleased. And for these complete and
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most comfortable little rooms, with the use of the bath
and a large common sitting-room, they would only be
charged lxalf-a-crown a week.
"The houses must be got to pay, you know," said
Father Moore. " Oh yes, they will pay, and perhaps yield
you a dividend of from five to six per cent, when they
are full."
He and I went away together, and I spoke to him about
Lee.
" Is there no hope of his being brought to see his
duty ? " I sail.
" He is a gipsy, and they are very hopeless," was the
reply. " There is not much in the man either. He has
plenty of physical pluck, and has been useful to me once or
twice in the early days of the men's club, taking my part
when there was likely to be a hand-to-hand fight; but I
have never been able to influence him mentally, nor has
anything yet induced him to go inside the church. In
short, terrible as it is to have to say it, the one redeeming
point in his character seems to be his fierce, passionate
affection for Martha Mace; and as that, under existing
circumstances, is a crime, I don't know where we are
to touch him. It is most unfortunate that Lucy should
have married him. There is something lovable and
tractable in that girl, and she might have done better
now that you have come to humanise her."
" Such a case as Lucy's makes me almost tempted to
give up hope," I said.
" You must not do that," replied Father Moore,
facing round suddenly upon me, and giving me a
glance which was almost fierce in its intrepid courage.
" You don't suppose that we come into a stronghold of
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217
Satan like this expecting to have smooth times ? Not a
bit of it. It is all a fight. But Thine is the Kingdom,"
he added suddenly, looking up.
He said the words with passion. There was an expres¬
sion on his face which gave me a glimpse into his loyal
and steadfast heart.
" There," he said abruptly, " I don't often allow my
real self to appear. It is all a fight, Miss Trinsep—a
fight from first to last—but inch by inch I think we are
gaining ground. As to your own special work, you have
done much since you arrived. Your Girls' Club has dis¬
tinctly humanised from sixty to eighty girls. These girls
having been taught to think, having been taught to love
—for they absolutely need even to be taught that, most
of them—go back to their homes, and unconsciously,
yet most surely, sow a little of the seed which you have
planted in their hearts amongst others. Then your model
lodgings, notwithstanding the closed windows and stuffed-
up ventilators, will not fail to do wonders. I own that a
case like Lee's is one to make one despair. But never
mind, he may be given to us yet; and your present duty is
to keep his poor little wife in good heart. That you can
do, and will, I am certain. Now, I must hurry off to
my work. I wish a few more girls with money at their
disposal would be induced to follow your example."
He rushed away, not waiting for my " Good-bye." He
never did seem to wait for the ordinary courtesies of life.
The pressure was too great, the strain of every nerve in
the awful fight he was waging too tremendous.
I went home to find Anne comfortably established
there, and in a very good humour.
" Mother is agreeable," she said ; " in fact, I think she
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is relieved. She says I may stay with you for a month,
but after that I am to consult her again on the matter. I
know what that means; she'll let me stay always, so we
may consider that fixed up. By the way, Francesca is in
state of bliss. Frederic really proposed last night. It
was the band did it. He was quite impressed with the
band, and evidently thought that we were really well off.
It was a good thing I did not stay to do the music. Now,
don't let us think any more about them. What a good
thing I am not at Gordon Square to-night. IIow done
to death I should be with Frederic and his charms.
What can I do for you, Joan? You look quite white
aud tii'ed."
"I'm all right," I answered. " Will you come and play
at the Girls' Club to-night ? "
" With pleasure. What would they like ? "
" No written music, I beg," I continued. "Just some¬
thing out of your head, Anne.''
" All right."
" And have you brought your violin ? "
"Do you think I would leave home without it?" said
Anne, glancing lovingly at where the violin lay in its
case.
" Then that is splendid. The club does not open until
eight o'clock, but there is a girl in this house who would
give a good year out of her life to hear you play on your
violin."
" A girl in this house?" inquired Anne. "Not the
girl who came in last night ? "
" No, no, poor little soul; I wish she were near enough
to hear you. The girl I mean is called Martha. No, I
won't tell you anything whatever about her. She is ill,
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210
however, and it would comfort her to hear you play softly
on the violin. She has got a kind of idea that there are
angels somewhere in the universe. Carry out that thought
on the violin when you play for her, Anne."
" I will," said Anne, " I will. After all, I believe it is
going to be exciting down here."
" The life is full, full to the brim," I answered.
CHAPTER XIX
THE MATCH-BOX MAKERS
BOUT a month after Anne's arrival, just when
the days were beginning perceptibly to lengthen,
and a few of us even talked of the coming
spring, Lucy's baby was born. One of Lucy's
small brothers brought the news to Frank Street; he
further brought a request from Lucy, that I would go to
see her immediately.
" I will go with you, dearie," said Mrs. Keys.
"No, no," I answered; "you have heaps to do, and it
is broad daylight. I shan't stay very long; I promise
faithfully to be back long before dusk."
Anne had now taken up her distinct work in the place.
As I had hoped, she was an excellent worker. There
was something very thorough about her. She undertook
a district for Father Moore, and visited regularly and
systematically. She took her violin with her almost every¬
where. Very often her entire visit consisted in standing
in the first convenient position and playing something
straight out of her heart to the children and women
who crowded round to listen to her. Anne's violin
was becoming a power in the place. The quality of the
music which she gave was calculated to stimulate emotion,
220
Ufoe /n>atcb*boj /ifcafters
221
to raise enthusiasm, and to cause just shame in the
presence of sin. I don't think Anne ever attempted to
preach or expostulate except through her violin. She
was out now, busy as usual. Martha was also away.
Martha had quite recovered her health, but the old mother
was down very bad with rheumatism. The cellar in which
they lived was really horribly damp; it was not a fit place
for any of them, and I longed for the day when I could
move them into the " Joan Mansions," as the people had
insisted on calling my new block of buildings. Martha
spent her entire day now hawking watercress about. She
looked very attractive as she shouldered her big basket,
making her waives as appetising as possible, but the work
was unworthy of her; she had talent enough for almost
anything.
With a bundle of baby clothes, which Mrs. Keys had
made, I hurried off to see Lucy. Lucy's home was nearly
a mile away, at the farthest end of Bethnal Green. I
had to go up Mape Street, and to pass Balliol House in
order to get to her. As I did so, Mr. Wingate suddenly
came out. I had spoken to him once or twice, and to
my pleasure he recognised me. He came up now,
gave me a quick short word of cheer, and then hurried
on his way. No one was doing a more exhaustive and
splendid work in East London than he was. The
main object of him and his workers was to bring the
university life of Oxford with its intellectual refine¬
ments into the midst of the men and women of the East
End.
Far off, and remote truly, seemed the dawn of that
golden day; nevertheless, the pioneers were never dis¬
heartened. I felt now that I belonged to this brave little
222
XCbe /lfoatcb=t?0£ /Ibafters
band, and went on my way with a sense of rejoicing, and
with little thought of troubles ahead.
After half-an-hour's brisk walking I reached Lucy's
home. To get to it, I had to go down a narrow passage
into one of the invariable courts which are a disgrace to
civilised England. Lucy lived in No. io Chivey Court.
Her home was also in the basement. I went boldly down
the steps, not regarding the fixed stare of an inquisitively
small boy who had accompanied me right down the passage
and across the court to No. io, turning head over heels
the entire way. When I entered No. io, he stuck his
tongue in his cheek and said, "My stars, ain't yer a
poppin' swell." I took an orange out of the bag which
I carried, and gave it to him; he then pronounced me a
"howler," and a "gi'eat 'un," and darted away to tell his
companions.
I went down a dozen steps, and presently found myself
outside Lucy's door. I knocked; a squeaking old voice
said " Come in," and I entered the room which did duty
as kitchen, general sitting-room, and bed-room for the
entire family. There were altogether three beds in the
room. A small one leant up against the side of a
damp wall; in this Lucy half sat, half lay, holding her
baby wrapped up in pink flannel in her arms. In a
bigger bed at the opposite side of the room sat the old
father, busily employed cobbling old boots. A child with
bright cheeks and feverish eyes lay on some rags on the
floor coughing lustily; three or four other children were
seated in different parts of the room, and an elderly woman,
with a face begrimed with dirt and grey for want of
fresh air and sunlight, was seated by the centre table
doleing out match-boxes in different stages of completion
Zhc /ll>atcb=boi' /Ibafcers
223
to the children scattered round. The entire family,
with the exception of the old man, who was doing a
more profitable business with his boots and shoes, were
making match-boxes. There was a faint smell of drying-
paste in the air. The child lying 011 the floor, and
spent with her cough, held an unfinished match-box in
her hand. On Lucy's bed they lay in dozens and dozens.
She had only laid them aside a minute to nurse her
baby.
"Oh, dear Miss Jo-an," she said, looking at me affec¬
tionately, and giving a smile which showed her pretty,
even teeth.
I went up to her and kissed her, moved aside the pink
flannel from the baby's face, and admired it. It was a
lusty creature, strong and well made.
"When did it come, Lucy?" I asked.
Lucy laid it deftly beside her 011 the pillow.
•"At four o'clock this morning," she answered.
She took up a match-box as she spoke, and began to
work at it.
"You shouldn't be doing work to-day, Lucy," I
expostulated.
"It won't hurt me, miss," she answered.
She began to dab on the paste, and press the boxes into
shape.
"We must work ter live," growled the woman in the
centre of the room. " Katey,' she continued, raising
her voice and speaking to the child on the floor, "you
are over that spell of coughing, and the light is goin',
you might as well turn to, and make up your dozen.
I give 'em a dozen each, miss," she continued, turning
and speaking in a tone of apology to me, " and I 'spect
224 tlbe /lfcatcb=bo£ flbafcers
'em to do their dozen in a certain time. It's thruppence
farthing a gross we gets for insides and outsides, and it
takes a 'a'penny out o' that to get our paste, that's tup¬
pence three farthings profit. You sees for yerself, miss,
that it takes a deal o' making of match-boxes to keep
us in vittals."
" Oh, we 'ave nothing to complain of," said the old man
from the middle of the bed; " it's a great thing to find
the work, and we don't want no fuss made, and no
parley men tary interfering. A time back some meddling
folks took it into their heads as we wasn't paid enough.
But lor, it's better nor nothing. In Germany they makes
all the boxes by the machines, and the poor folks are out
o' it altogether; we don't complain, though it means
busy fingers. Oh yes, busy fingers, but maybe that's all
for the best. You mind o' the hymn, miss, wot says,
' Satan finds some mischief still for idle 'ands to do.'
Well, our 'ands ain't idle, so it's clear agin Satan in
this yere house. Now then, set to work, gels, set to
work, and make yer kivers neat, wotever yer does. You
'and me over that piece o' leather, miss, and I'll be
much obleeged."
" But you get better paid for your cobbling, don't
you ?" I said, as I gave him the sheet of leather in
question.
" To be sure, to be sure; but I'm the head o' the fam'l}T.
Oh, I'm werry content."
" But are you ill that you stay in bed ? "
"It's the rheumatis, miss," he answered; "you see
the room walls ere damp. Water's always pouring off
the walls, and rising up through the floor. It's the
ground damp, and there's 110 cure but to pull down the
Uhe fli>atcb*foo£ Makers
225
houses, and landlord won't do that, fer 'e makes his cent,
per cent, by 'em. I'm warmer in bed this cold weather.
I couldn't stand ef I got up. Well, it's a good thing
to have a bed, ain't it, miss ? Oh, I'm werry content, and
so's th' ould wife; ef it weren't fer Lucy there, wot 'as
gone and brought another mouth into the world, why,
there isn't anythin' to fret us."
"Well, father,you sha'n't 'ave the support 0' my child,"
said Lucy, from the other side of the room.
" H'all right, child, h'all right; I ain't agoin' to complain.
While the child's 'ere, it'll 'ave its bite and sup; but you
'as got a 'usband, Lucy, and 'e ought in fairness ter per-
vide fer 'is own kid."
Lucy had once more taken the little pink bundle in
her arms; she lowered her sad eyes to hide the tears
which filled them. I left the old man and went close
to her.
" See," I said, "I have brought you these for the baby.
Mrs. Keys helped me to make them. See, aren't they
pretty ? "
The baby clothes were so pretty and so unexpected,
that not only Lucy, but th' ould wife and all the children,
including Katey, got up to cluster round the bed to handle
and admire.
" Sakes, how neat," said Mrs. Ash ; " do see, ain't this
a heligant pattern ? "
She alluded to a little lilac print frock with a tiny sprig
upon its purple ground.
" Bring 'em along 'ere and let me see em," shouted the
old man from the bed.
Lucy, however, clasped them tight.
" They're mine," she said ; " you'll see 'em, father, when
2 F
226 ube /lfcatcb=bo£ /ll>afeers
baby 'as 'em on. I'm real obleeged ; I am indeed, Jo-an;
it were like you. Jo-an, that it were."
"No, it wasn't like me at all," I replied. "I may as
well honestly confess that I should not have thought of
baby clothes. It was all dear Honey's doing. She bought
the stuff, and made the clothes at odd moments. To¬
morrow she will probably come to see you, and judge foi
herself whether they fit baby or not."
Lucy was about to reply, when a short imperative
knock at the door caused us all to turn our heads. The
door was opened almost immediately, and Martha, with
a bunch of fresh, crisp watercress in her hand, entered
the room. Her face had that queer, intense concentration
of purpose about it which it wore at those times when
emotion was strongest. She was always dressed of late
very neatly and becomiugly. Her coal black hair shone
like rich satin; it was twisted in great coils round her
head. Her red flannel blouse was once more called again
into requisition; but it was put on trimly and neatly now.
The black skirt which she wore beneath was whole, and
revealed her neatly shod feet. She looked neither to
right nor left, but walked straight up to Lucy, whose
anxious eyes were devouring her. She put her water¬
cress on the bed, and sweeping her strong arms round
Lucy, lifted her, baby and all, into her embrace.
"Paw matey," she said; "paw dear little matey."
I saw Lucy struggle for a brief moment, then she lay
quiet, her head resting on Martha's shoulder. Her face
looked weak and white. Martha's blooming cheek touched
it in sharp and lovely contrast.
" See," said Martha, " I a' brought this watercress. I'm
in the cress line now, and these are the very freshest
Ube rtl>atdb*bos /Ifeafeers
227
bunches. I thought they'd come as a sort o' relish; you 11
see to 'em, won't you, Mrs. Ash ? "
" That I will," said Mrs. Ash, swooping down on the
tempting green stuff, and preparing to place it in a basin
of water.
"For the Lord's sake, give me a bunch without waiting
fer tea," called out the cobbler from the bed.
The wife flung him half a bundle ; he began to chew,
shutting his eyes as he did so in order the better to
enjoy the unlooked-for treat. Martha still kept kneeling
by Lucy; she had neither eyes nor ears for any one else.
After a long, long silence, in which Lucy rested against
Martha's heart, the sick girl began feebly, and with a
touching mixture of pride and pain, to unfold the pink
flannel and exhibit the tiny, downy face beneath.
Martha began immediately to examine the baby's
features, and to make low remarks about them, intended
only for Lucy's ears, who laughed and blushed when
Martha said the baby was a Lee, and no mistake.
" It's a little gel, ain't it ? " said Martha.
" Yes," answered Lucy; " and I'm sort o' sorry for
that. I thought maybe as 'e'd rather 'ave a man child
as'd take arter 'im by-and-by."
"No, no; the woman child '11 sofen 'im; it's much the
best as it is," answered Martha.
"Matty, said Lucy, in her low voice, "I'm wonder¬
fully 'ungering like for the father o' the child; I'm not
jealous to-day, Martha, but I'd like well to see the father o'
the child. Do you think as yer could bring 'im along ? "
"Dear love," answered Martha, "I would ef I could.
I don't know where Mike is, but I'll find 'im, and bring
'im to yer, ef you'll trust me, Lucy."
2-8 ube /inmtcb=boj /iDafcers
Lucy hesitated for a moment; her breath came fast in
little pants.
" Yes, Martha, I'll trust yer," she said then.
"You may," replied Martha; "I swear by the angel
in the church winder as I'm true to yer—yes, I'm
true to yer, Lucy Lee. I swear it by the angel in the
church."
" I b'lieve yer," said Lucy, panting again; " I were
mad to be jealous o' yer."
"You were, Lucy, you were ; you never, never had no
cause to be."
" And you'll bring Mike 'ere, you'll promise ? "
" I'll look fer 'im day and night till I find 'im, and
I'll bring 'im 'ere. He'll love this little kid; lor, ain't it
purty an' soft. It's jest 'is mor'al image—-jest the set o'
the chin—obstinate. Lor' love yer! ain't it an obsti¬
nate chin. Why, Lucy, it'll be another Mike, only a
gel; lor, I guess this baby'11 turn into a fierce sort 'o
woman. You won't be able to control 'er, Lucy; she'll
be a woman Michael Lee. My word, ain't it 'tr'ordinary
ter see the likeness there be."
Lucy smiled and blushed.
" Yes," said Martha, turning round to include me in
the conversation ; " I 'as it all settled ; we'll find Michael,
and when you're well again, Lucy, we'll set you and
Michael up in a room by yer two selves, you and Michael,
and the little baby; and when the baby's big enuff it
shall be christened, yes, it shall be christened, Lucy, in
the church where the angel is, and Jo-an 'erself '11 be
godmother, an' ef you'll 'ave me, I'll be t'other godmother,
and we'll find a godfather somehow. There'll be a
christening, and the little baby'11 be there, and it'll be a
Ube /Jbatcb=bo£ /SDakcrB 229
sort o' peep into 'eaven, Lucy, and the angel in the
church'll look on. My word, that angel s eyes seem to
draw me out o' myself; and you'll be appy, dear, dear
little Lucy, and Mike '11 be so proud o' a daughter of 'is
own, that you won't know 'im."
"Do yer think '©'11 love me when 'e sees the kid?
asked Lucy.
"Love yer? to be sure; why, you're real purty, Lucy;
you're wot I calls genteel, and it's the genteel sort that
men like Mike go fair mad on. Oh yes, 'e'll love yer; 'ow
can 'e 'elp it ? "
"But you—you are worth twenty o' me," said Lucy,
looking up with the old jealous fire in her eyes as she
noticed Martha's comely figure, brilliant eyes, and shining
hair.
"No, no, I'm too fierce," said Martha quietly. "I've
t'. ought of a dodge, too, for sickening Mike o' me;
'e'll never give me another thought when once 'e sees
you and the kid. Bless yer 'eatt, why, wot was I
thinking of; see, I never give yer the christening
robe. I made it fer yer, and I 'as it in my pocket;
'ere it be."
She pulled a piece of dirty newspaper out of her
pocket, opened it with pride, and showed the nainsook
frock with the sparse trimming of cheap lace.
Mrs. Ash and all the little Ashes once more surrounded
the bed. The christening robe was duly admired, was, in
short, considered only fit to put upon an angel, not an
ordinary baby. Lucy s baby would look like one of the
quality when dressed in its white and badly made dress.
Martha's cheeks flushed with pleasure as Lucy handled
the robe timidly, and almost reverently.
230
Ube rtbatcb^boj flbafcers
"Well, I'm werry 'appy," she said at last, with a sigh.
" It's quite wonderful wot I feels fer the baby; seems as
ef I could most die fer it. An' now as you've come,
Martha, and say as you'll look fer Mike, and Mike can
see the child dressed in white, all pure white, as ef it
were a hangel, why, of course 'e'll love it, and 'e'll come
back to me. Yes, I'm werry 'appy, and I think I'll sleep
fer a bit, ef mother'll 'skuse me going on. with the match¬
box making."
" You go off to sleep this minit," said Martha; " I'll do
your share o' the boxes; go to sleep."
She sat down by the side of the bed as she spoke, and
piled a quantity into her lap.
" You must all have a good supper to-night," I said
to Mrs. Ash before I left the room. "Here is half-a-
crown."
She clutched it, asked God Almighty to bless me, and
I left the room with the old man's words following me up
the stairs that they were " really very content, all of
them, and had nothing to grumble of."
CHAPTEE XX
JOAN MANSIONS
UCY'S baby was a week old before Martha found
Michael Lee. I had not seen much of Martha
during these days. Once or twice I came across
her, and noticed a wild, hunted sort of look in
her eyes. On one occasion I went into the church and
noticed her kneeling just under the painted figure of the
angel in the window. I don't think she saw me. Tears
were streaming down her cheeks ; her hands were clasped.
She was gazing at the angel as though she meant to
gather strength from it. After a time she rose slowly
and went out of the church. What was the matter with
her ? Was it possible that she really loved the man who
was her mate's husband ? It would go hard with a girl
of Martha's nature to love in vain. As the thought came
to me I followed her out of the church.
"Where are you going?" I said, touching her on the
arm.
She turned round and faced me.
" Did you see me jest now, Miss Jo-au ?" she said.
"Well, I'm all right again. Now and then there comes
an awful grip at my 'eart, and I'm mad like. Things
'ave gone contrary with me ; things 'ave gone bitter 'ard
231
232
3oan Mansions
for me. Oh, I'm not goin' to complain. No one loves
Lucy better nor I love 'er, but sometimes—yer see, Jo-an,
we're mortal, and I "
"I know," I said suddenly. "I know, poor Martha,
you still love Michael Lee."
" Don't dare say it," she replied fiercely. " I won't
'ave it. I was avowing now afore the angel in the
church tliat I'd 'ate 'im. I must, Jo-an ; I must. There
were a time when I thought I might do neither—that I
might neither love nor 'ate—but it ain't in me, Joan, so
I'm turning round to 'ate 'im. I'm trying 'ard to get
that sort o' feeling, and I'm asking the angel in the
church to 'elp me."
" God will help you to do what is right," I said. " I wish
you would ask Him to help you, not the angel, Martha."
" Perhaps' He is 'elping me through the angel," said
Martha. " Seems as ef I must get to God in my own
way, Jo-an. I can't see God in everything, but I can see
Him through the angel with the outspread wings and the
grand sort o' strong face ; and sometimes I can see Him
in you when you talk werry kind ; and sometimes, agen,
when your 'air is down, and the light is behind yer, then I
'ear His voice, and I think it not a bit 'ard to do right.
But at other times, Jo-an, it's 'ard ; and I loved Mike, and
Mike loved me, sence we were little tots so high."
She rushed away, sobbing as she spoke. Her whole
frame was torn with the violence of her sobs. She was so
strong that she took everything, both grief and pleasure,
at high pressure.
The next day she brought me word that she had found
Mike. She said more—that he was going to see the baby
that evening. I was not present at the interview, but
5oan jflDnnsfons
233
Martha came to me when it was over with very satisfactory
news. Mike, she said, was quite penitent. His heart
was absolutely softened at the sight of the pretty little
Lucy and the bonny, strong, healthy baby. The baby
was in its lilac frock, and Mike had taken it in his arms,
and laughed, and said that it was something like a bit o'
chaney, and he was mortal afraid that it would break;
and then Martha had taken it from him and given it back
to Lucy, and Mike had sat down by Lucy and put his arm
round her, and Lucy had rested her head on his huge
shoulder ; and Martha said, " Ef ever there were a happy
fam'ly, those three were!" I then talked further with
Martha about Lucy's future prospects. The " Joan Man¬
sions " were to be opened the following week, and I pro¬
posed to Martha that Lucy and the baby and Mike should
move into a tiny suite of rooms there on the day of the
christening. I arranged to furnish the rooms for them,
with the proviso that they should pay off the price of the
furniture by small weekly instalments. I would more
than gladly have given the furniture to this young pair,
but Father Moore had made me promise from the first on
no account to pauperise. The rooms were to be furnished,
however, and what is more, Mike was to be started as a
costermonger. He was to leave his wretched quarters in
Jasper Court, and move to his new home on the christen¬
ing day. He was also to give up the fur trade, which was
bad and uncertain, and was to provide for himself, wife,
and child by means of the costermongering business.
Lucy was to leave the match factory, and was to add to
the home earnings by needlework, which she could really
do skilfully, and orders for which, through different
private sources, I was already obtaining for her. Alto-
2 G
234
Joan /iDansfons
gether it was a bright prospect, and Lucy looked better
and happier and prettier day by day.
" I have conquered," I said to Father Moore.
I made this somewhat conceited speech to him on the
morning of the day of the christening.
" In what way ? " he answered.
" Why, Mike, Michael Lee—wild Mike, as we some¬
times call him—has returned to his wife and baby.
He and his wife and child are going to take up their
abode in their own little home in 'Joan Mansions' this
evening."
Father Moore looked thoughtful, and asked me a few
questions.
" Don't you think we have done very well ? " I said, in
conclusion.
" You have acted with great promptitude and wisdom,"
he replied, " but "
" Why do you say ' but' ? "
" How long will it last ? " he said.
" How long ? Always," I replied. " Lucy loves him
most sincerely; and now that the baby is here, he loves her."
Father Moore sighed.
"But Martha is still in the neighbourhood," he said;
" and Lee is an untrained sort of devil, with the maddest
passions. I must say what I think, sorry as I am to cloud
your happiness. I don't trust Lee. He has no stability.
However you take the man, there is no principle in him."
I felt angry, and expressed myself with some heat.
"We will see who is right," I said. "As to Martha, she
is so splendid that she will soon cure Mike of his hopeless
passion. Lucy is a new being since her baby came. Oh
yes, you must not destroy my hope."
Soait /l&ansfotts
" I will not," he said kindly. " I sincerely trust you
are right. You are doing good work here. The 'Joan
Mansions ' will in themselves effect wonders."
" They are nearly full," I said. " In fact, I am almost
tempted to give up the rooms at the top of the A block
which I secured for Mrs. Keys and myself."
"You must not on any account do that. Your pre¬
sence in the buildings will do immense good, and teach
the people who come to live there that they must
behave properly if they are worthy to be close to
you. In what block have you taken rooms for the
Lees?"
" In the same one with myself," I said, " on the second
floor. The rooms look to the back, and are very small.
They consist of a tiny bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a
little scullery. There is also a place for coals large
enough to hold half a ton. The rooms are all furnished
and ready. Mrs. Keys, Miss Bannerman, and I move
into our rooms to-morrow."
"Yes, yes," he said; then he added, after a pause,
" What about Martha Mace ? "
" The Maces have taken rooms in the furthest block
from the Lees. Martha objected to go into the buildings
at all at first, but her mother's rheumatism, and the very
persistent cough which the old man has, finally decided
her. I am only too delighted to have Martha in the
neighbourhood, except for the Lees."
"The best thing possible for your protegees would be
for Martha to go right away," said Father Moore. " She
is the sort of girl who ought to emigrate. Why should
she not go to the next meeting of the Emigration Com¬
mittee ? She is certain to be selected at once for free
236
3oan Mansions
emigration. Young, strong unmarried women are what
they want."
" She won't go while her father and mother live," I
said. " The old woman is very nearly past work, and
Martha has to provide now for two, for the old man does
not get many jobs as a waterman."
"No, that trade is very nearly extinct," said Father
Moore.
"It is very touching the way they live," I continued.
" Martha and the mother are so proud of the old man,
they do everything in their power to make him imagine
he is well off. Sunday is their grand day. These two
women, I am firmly convinced, scarcely touch nourishing
food throughout the entire week in order to have a good
dinner, with a little bit of meat and a boiled cabbage or
something of that sort on Sunday. Then the old man
wears his Sunday coat, and goes for a shave and a general
wash up, and they both consider him quite a gentleman.
But that coat, Father Moore, has a history. Early every
Monday morning it goes to the pawnshop, and is redeemed
by Martha late on Saturday night. The old man imagines
that it lies in his drawer all through the week, and the
great minor terror of" these two poor women's lives is the
fear that he will by any chance miss it. But I must
not keep you any longer. You will be sure to be in the
church to-night in good time."
" Yes ; the christening is arranged for seven, is it not ? "
"It is; Martha could not manage to get home at an
earlier hour."
" And who is to be godfather?"
" Old Mace has promised to stand. I redeemed the
coat for the express purpose this morning."
3oan /iDanstoits
237
" Well, that is right, I hope you won't be discouraged
by what I have said with regard to Lee. I have had
many men of his order to deal with, and have always
found them incorrigible; but, of course, he may be the
exception, and I sincerely trust he will be. He has been
brought into touch with you, and this Martha is no ordi¬
nary girl. It is Lucy whom I fear. Lucy is essentially
weak and commonplace. There is nothing in her to keep
an unprincipled man to her side. She shows her best at
present, but she is certain to nag, and a man like Lee
won't stand that, more particularly when he never loved
her. Your club building is making rapid progress, by
the way. Oh, and I have good news for you. I believe
you can buy the buildings in front of the club for six'
thousand pounds. Thus you get your open-air space.
This will reduce your yearly income, however."
" That does not matter," I said. " I must have an
open space in front of the club to make a playground
for some of the children, and for the girls and women
to sit in in summer evenings. I must plant trees, and
do something to bring a sense of the country into their
midst."
" Your trees won't grow," said Father Moore. " You
had better be content with marcpiees and large Japanese
umbrellas. Oh yes, w'e can make our open space look
very bright, and there are certain flowers still left that
will stand the London smuts; but how disgracefully I
am keeping you."
He shook hand-, and disappeared at his usually rapid
rate. I hurried into the "Joan Mansions" to give the
final touches to Lucy's rooms. She was not to see them
until after the christening was over. Then she and her
2 38
5oan /i&anstons
liusband and baby, accompanied by Martha, Mrs. Keys,
Anne, and myself, were to go with her to her house-
warming. I had insisted on giving the supper, and
Mrs. Keys promised to run round soon after dinner to
light the fire in the little stove, and prepare the eatables.
The christening cake already stood on the centre of
the deal table. Mrs. Keys had made it, and frosted it.
None of our neighbours had seen a frosted cake before,
and those who had already seen the baby's christening
cake pronounced it of the celestial order, and unfit for
those who walked on this mortal plain. The rooms
looked very bright and comfortable. The furniture was of
the neatest, and there was not a speck of dirt anywhere.
'The tiny stove shone like a looking-glass. The plates,
cups and saucers, the different articles of china and glass,
though truly the coarsest of their kind, made a goodly show
on the dresser. There was a little rug placed in front of
the stove. An American rocking-chair, made of plain deal,
stood near, and I had insisted on adding a hassock. Lucy
could rock herself in that chair while she nursed her
baby. I pictured the look on her face when she sat
there and watched for her husband's return. Might she
never watch in vain. Oh for the success of this experi¬
ment of mine! My whole heart and soul were in it. I
looked upon this couple and upon Martha as first-fruits
of all future work and endeavour. I felt somehow
as though I had a sort of claim on God for the safety
of these souls. I was not really vain nor conceited, but
I fancied I had done well, and I looked for success as
my due reward. Alas, how can a mortal understand the
mysterious workings of the Divine! Those souls might
indeed be saved, but truly as by fire.
3oan Mansions
239
Having examined the Lees' quarters to my heart's con¬
tent, I ran up to the top of the big house where my own
rooms would in future be. At Father Moore's request I had
provided myself with a good suite of rooms. I had taken
care to select pretty paper, and light bright paint. I had
also chosen some fresh furniture. Everything was of the
plainest, but also of the neatest. I had taken great pains
to get really good pictures to decorate my walls. I felt
that I might be very happy in those rooms, and might do
a good work from there. They might be looked upon
by my sisters as a little haven of rest, where a welcome
was always sure, and kind and loving words the order of
the day. I had made up my mind from the first not to
preach much. Example—example—example—was all
that would really go down in a place like this. From
morning to night, therefore, I must think nothing of self,
and all of others. From morning to night I must live the
higher life, if I were really to point the way to my sisters
in their despair. My heart glowed as the thought came
to me. I fell on my knees in my little bedroom, and
asked God to consecrate both the new home and the great
work. I then went away, feeling happy and refreshed.
The Maces had moved into their quarters that morning,
and Maitha met me as I was hurrying back to my old
lodgings in Frank Street.
" I am doing real well to-day," she said, with a smile.
"I've sold all my watercress, and am going fer a fresh
lot. You 'aveu't come with me yet, Jo-an, to the cress
market."
"No," I said, "but I have not forgotten my promise.
Will you take me some morning next week, Martha ? "
"Ay, that I will, with pleasure."
3oan /libanstons
Her face brightened. She gave me one of her queer
an 1 intensely earnest glances.
" I 'a been a-wondering ef you'd do something fer me,"
she asked, after a pause.
" You know I will," I answered.
" I wants sorter ter fill up my mind," she said, " an'
I'm werry ignorant. Oh yes, I'm smart enough. I could
learn most anything; but what I thought was this—now
that we have tidy rooms and mother's rheumatis is safe
to get better—I might 'ave time evenings to improve
myself; and ef you'd set me a task or two, Jo-an,
why, I could learn. I can read fine, but I ain't a
schollard ; and my writin' and spellin'—well, they're back-
'ard, to say the least of 'em ; an' I thought ef I were to
set to and employ myself that "
" You need not say any more," I interrupted, for I
guessed what was in her heart. "You shall come to me
every evening before I go to the Grirls' Club, and I will
just see you myself through some of the difficulties of
learning to write and spell well. When you have over¬
come these, you shall add other things. You are fond of
music, for instance, are you not ? "
" Music," she said, her eyes filling with a very bright
light; " ay, I can't talk o' what I feels about it."
" Well, suppose Miss Anne were to teach you to play a
little for yourself."
" No, no, Jo-an," she interrupted. " No, no; I couldn't
a-bear to murder the beautiful thing. S'pose I were to
play wrong—why, it'd drive me mad. No, no, I couldn't;
I'd rayther listen. I think I could listen for ever and
ever. Tell me, Jo-an dear, is there much music of the
sort Miss Anne plays on her fiddle up in 'eaven ?"
Soait Mansions
241
"The Bible says so," I replied.
" I ain't never read the Bible," said Martha.
" You shall read to me some night the parts that tell
about heaven."
" Thank you, Jo-an; now I must hurry off about my
cress."
She disappeared, her eyes said "Thank you" as she
went. She was not a girl of many words.
The evening drew on, and at seven o'clock a queer
little party met in Father Moore's beautiful church. It
is the only church in London upstairs. Beneath the
church is a large room, which is partly occupied as a
men's club, as a place for mothers' meetings, as an ex¬
cellent place of gathering for children on all sorts of
occasions, as a men's refuge by night; and beneath that
again, in the basement, is the gymnasium. Thus the
people of Father Moore's parish have all temporary wants
supplied to them beneath the church, whilst the spiritual
wants are attended to above. The church itself is very
beautiful. No pains have been spared to give it the need¬
ful decoration. The windows, of rich Munich glass, are
alone a lovely feature of the building. Martha's angel,
glorious with outspread wings, occupies the west window.
The Saviour performing many miracles of mercy is de¬
picted in the side windows of the chancel. The east
window represents the Crucifixion. At night the light
streams out through these coloured windows in many
rainbow beams of hope, pardon, and strength for the
lost sheep without. The church had long ere this been
overfilled 011 Sunday evenings. Already it was much too
small for its purpose.
On this week-night, however, there were few present.
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242
Bom /iftansicms
The little christening party looked shadowy and almost
indistinct as they entered the building. Anne, Mrs. Keys,
and I were all in our places, but I stepped forward to
take my position at once as one of the sponsors when I
saw Martha come in. I started when I saw her. She did
not look as usual. She was untidily 'dressed; her dress
was out at the gathers, her bodice was pinned together;
her hair was rough and unkempt; she kept her eyes
lowered, and there was a flush of excitement and distress
on her cheeks. Her unexpected appearance in this guise,
which I had never observed in her since the Sunday
evening when she had first visited me in my lodgings,
distressed me a good deal. She was evidently ashamed
of herself, and ill at ease. She stood with her back to
the west window ; her hands were locked tightly together,
and she fixed her intense gaze upon the little pattern of
the parqueterie flooring of the chancel. There v. as a slight
commotion near the door, and the father of the child came
clumsily forward. He was dressed with a certain attempt
at smartness. A greasy frockcoat which was too small
for him, an old flowered waistcoat, and worn checked
trousers, completed his attire. Lucy, trim and sweet
looking, followed him immediately, holding the baby in
her arms. The baby was in Martha's christening robe.
As soon as it was brought into the church it began to
cry. It was a strong baby, and it cried lustily. Lucy
tried to hush its sobs, but in vain. Martha turned
abruptly, took the child, rocked it, pressed it to her
ample bosom, soothed its fears, and gave it gently and
deftly back to its mother. She had completely forgotten
herself while engaged with the baby, and in these brief
moments Lucy and Michael both looked at her. Lucy,
5oan Mansions
243
all anxiety for the child, forgot her husband, and most
undoubtedly Lee forgot Lucy. There was a passionate,
angry, moody look in his wild gipsy eyes. He moved
a step or two away from Lucy, and when the service
began, was standing close to Martha's side. She would
not glance once at him. To me had been given the
delicate task of naming the child. As a special favour,
too, I had been asked not to communicate my choice to
any of the rest of the party in advance. I had thought of
many titles for this poor, unwished-for little one ; but all
of a sudden, as the service went on, an idea came to me.
" Name this child," said Father Moore.
I whispered a name to him. He gave me a queer
glance, a look of approval darting from his eyes. Then
he said aloud, in a firm, rolling voice—
" Peace, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and
of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."
He paused a moment, and then went on—
"We receive this child into the congregation of
Christ's flock, and do sign her with the sign of the
cross."
Here he made the mark of the cross on the baby's
forehead. The rest of the words were quickly said, and
the infant having received the symbol of future suffering
as well as future victory, it was put back again into my
arms.
Both Martha and Lee stepped back in evident astonish¬
ment when the baby's name was proclaimed, but a very
sweet smile played about Lucy's lips. I gave the baby
into its mother's arms.
" That were a good thought," she whispered to me
when the service had come to an end. " I b'lieve that
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3oatt /l&ansions
Peace'll do wot she was meant ter do, and keep all
straight atween Mike an' me."
" God grant it," I answered.
I kissed the little one, and we all hurried from the
church.
The christening feast went off well, but Martha was
not present.
" I've a bad headache," she said to me. " Oh, 'tain't
nothing. I'll jest go and lie down, and then I'll be fit to
get up at cock-crow to-morrow morning. Don't you take
no notice, Jo-an. See that they're all gay and happy,
and bring m6 word arterwards ef Mike were really kind
to Lucy."
Lucy's mother, and even her old father, with the
numerous brothers and sisters, were waiting for her in
the new home when we arrived. She was very much
pleased and excited, and did not notice Mike's morose
behaviour.
" Where's Martha?" he said to me, when we all found
ourselves in the tiny kitchen, and Lucy was bending
over the cake, almost worshipping it. " Where's Martha
Mace ? " he added. " Why don't she come here and do
'er duty as one of the godparents ? "
"Never mind her now," I said abruptly; "she has
a headache, and has gone to bed. Come, Mike," I added,
" this is your chair; I chose it specially for you. Men like a
good roomy arm-chair when they come in tired at night."
" Maybe, miss," he answered.
He sat down in it clumsily. He was such a great giant,
that the chair creaked under his huge limbs.
"And now you must nurse little Peace," I said,
bringing the child in her christening robe and putting
$oan flfcansfons
^45
her into his arms. "Aren't you glad to be the father
of such a little darling ? "
"To be sure; to be sure," he answered.
He looked down sheepishly at the child, not well know¬
ing how to handle it. It suddenly began to cry, and Lucy
with one bound sprang to its side.
" Why, wot a beauty of a chair," she cried; " why, I
declare, Mike, you look real handsome in it. Did you
ever see anything like Miss Jo-an the way she thinks
of everything. Here, give me Peace, and I'll soon
quiet 'er. Ay, little one," she added, as she pressed
the infant to her breast, "you must live up ter Miss
Jo-an's name fer yer. Oh, Peace, you air a little
beauty, that you air. Ef it weren't fer you, little baby,
I wouldn't be 'aving my 'usband and my lovely 'ome
this 'appy night."
Lucy looked so pretty, that I saw Michael Lee's brows
unbend as he glanced at her.
"You set on my knee," he said suddenly, "and then
we three'll all be cosy together."
The supper was now spread upon the hospitable board.
Mrs. Keys, Anne, and I had done our parts. Hot quite
all, however, for Anne suddenly, and unexpectedly, pro¬
posed to play for them. She had brought her violin.
She did not take long tuning it; then she began to play.
I never quite understood how Anne managed that mar¬
vellous gift of hers. She possessed the trick, or the
genius, of suiting her playing to each individual listener.
The best in each heart rose to the surface as they
listened to that softest, saddest, most marvellous music,
which rose at her bidding from the very heart of the
violin. Mike looked tenderly at Lucy; the savage
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3oan Mansions
went out of his face, and the human entered it. The
empty unrest, the very devildom of which the man
was full, gave place to aspiration. Lucy laid her head
on his shoulder, and wept pure tears of happiness; and
I have not the slightest doubt, from the expression
on the baby's face, that little Peace dreamt of the
angels.
Mrs. Keys and I hurried softly away. We had plenty
of other work to attend to; and this little family were
as happy as they could be for the time being; but Anne
stayed until late. She shared the Lees' supper, and after
supper played for them again.
CHAPTER XXI
FORSAKEN
FEW mornings afterwards Martha Mace knocked
at my door between four and five. I was ready
for her; we slipped softly downstairs, and were
soon walking quickly through the lamp lit streets.
She had begged of me to allow her to lend me some
articles of wardrobe for this special visit.
"Ef yer want to see the life as it is," she said, "you
must come as one of us. Ef yer don't, they'll fight
shy o' yer, an' yer won't see anythink as it really
stands."
So she lent me an apron, and a little coloured shawl
to wear on my shoulders, and an old hat crowned with
rusty crape, and trimmed with some battered and gaily-
coloured flowers, for my head. I must confess to feel¬
ings of disinclination when I pinned the hat on my head;
but Martha assured me that she had baked it the night
before in her mother's oven, and that I had nothing to
apprehend. It turned out that she was quite right, but
I felt considerably alarmed at the time. We hurried off,
Martha chatting gaily and brightly. I was glad to see
that she had recovered her spirits.
" It's wonderful wot the new 'ouse is doing fer
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248
jforsaften
mother," slie said. " She's scarce a bit stiff now;
she makes certain she'll be able to take up the old
trade when the summer comes, or p'raps in about a
month from now."
"What do you mean, Martha?" I asked. "Have you
another plan for yourself, then?"
" Only this, Jo-an," she answered firmly and proudly ;
"you're livin' 'ere now, you're real kind and real good,
and mother's better, and she's like ter keep better, and ef
the worst, the very worst, comes, there's the work'ouse;
and now that they allows the old couples ter live
together, things ain't so bad in the work'ouse as they
used ter be; and I can't 'elp it, -Jo-an. I'm goin'
away."
"You are really," I said.
" Yes ; I am goin' ter h'emigrate. I'm certain sure it's
the only chance fer Lucy. I see it plain, plain as a pike¬
staff. I'll h'emigrate. I'll put the sea atween us, and then
my paw little mate's mind'll be at rest."
" But it is very wrong of Lucy to turn you from your
country," I said; " she ought not to be so silly; she is
really happy now. Mike seems quite kind to her, and
you certainly don't encourage him."
" Gor> knows I don't; but Lucy ain't the sort fer Mike,
Jo-an. Lucy'11 never content him while I'm by; never,
Jo-an, never. I must go out sometimes, and wherever
I turn there's Mike ; and then the worst of it is this,
though I 'ave prayed, bitter 'ard; yes, I 'ave prayed,
Jo-an, and I've asked the angel in the church winder
to 'elp me, I cccn't 'ate Mike; I've wanted to awful bad,
but I can't. I must go; there's no help fer it; I
must go."
jforsafeen
249
She dashed some tears from her eyes, drew my hand
quickly and almost fiercely through her arm, and said
abruptly—
"'Ere we air."
I found myself suddenly in the midst of a burly, rough-
looking crowd, all pushing violently in one direction. I
looked up, and saw a roof over my head. We had entered
Farringdon Market, and were now making for that part
where the merchants who sell watercress are to be found.
In the crowd were young children, as well as very old
women; boys and girls of the truly scarecrow order; a
few buxom, well set-up lasses, like Martha Mace; one or
two respectably-dressed women; and also a motley crowd
of the decidedly wizened, and down at heel multitude.
The vendors, on the contrary, bore a marked contrast to
the buyers. They were mostly of the cheery, and well-
to-do class; they were very good-humoured, and chaffed
the buyers one by one as they came up for their wares.
I discovered that the rule in selling watercress is to
measure it to the buyers by the handful. The seller
takes up a piece of the tightly compressed green stuff,
and spans his thumb and forefinger about the stalks,
the tops of thumb and linger touching constitutes the
measure. When the buyers are rich enough to secure a
certain amount, what is called " a blessing " is thrown in;
this means a handful for nothing.
Martha had begged of me to carry out my character
to the end, and to appear on this strange scene as one
of the buyers. She was evidently looked upon with great
respect by most of the rest of the crew. There were at
east a hundred and fifty buyers standing in dozens
round the stalls of the wholesale dealers. The vendors
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jforsaftett
seemed to me to deal very fairly; but the poor buyers
were full of suspicion, always measuring their own
bundles when' they got them, and making many sar¬
castic remarks on their size. The " blessing" was the
great thing to be wrangled for, some dealers being
much more chary of this precious gift than others.
Martha, who got a good supply of the weed, received
her blessing as a matter of course. I also got a large
bundle thrown in for nothing ; but a little ragged girl
who stood near, and who could only spend fourpence in
watercress, had to do without the extra bundle.
"Yer might be generous, jest fer once, this morning,
Sammy," she pleaded, looking up at the dealer with her
sharply - peaked face and small wizened, anxious eyes.
"Yer might throw in the ' blessin" jest fer once,
Sammy."
I could not resist it. I flung mine into her basket.
This action arrested the sob in her throat. She looked
at me with eyes too frightened to be thankful, and
shuffled off before I had time to change my mind.
The look on her face expressed this fear very strongly.
At a stall near by a very old woman was wrangling for
her blessing.
"It's with it I buys me gin," she said; "no blessin',
no gin; and gin is the blessin' o' life fer a poor
body like me; it stops the inside trimblings, that it
does."
Martha and I hurried away, and sitting down in a con¬
venient place outside, began to arrange our bundles.
"Cresses ai'e at their height now," said Martha, "and
we ought ter do well with 'em. I do a tidy lot with
mine," she continued. "I buys eighteenpenn'orth every
jforsafeen - 251
morning, and ef I'm in luck, and I mostly am, I makes
jest double that sum. I takes one and six home to
mother, and the other one and six goes fer stock the
next morning. Mother don't earn as much as that; she
gets her ninepence to a shilling a day, and 'as ter work
double as 'ard; but I'm so strong, I can go into the really
good streets; and I always make my cresses look real
tempting; and folks as likes a relish for their breakfas'
buy a penny'orth or a ha'p'peth like winking; I soon
clears off my lot, and then in the afternoons goes
fer a new basket full. I could do tidy with the trade
ef I put 'eart in it—but there, we won't tork o' troubles
now."
When I had arranged my watercress, under Martha's
skilful training, I put the whole supply into her basket
and returned home, feeling more tired tban I cared to own.
A couple of days afterwards I ran downstairs and
knocked at Lucy's door. She was in, and in high spirits.
" Do set down, Jo-an," she said. " I am getting on with
my sewing nicely; and wot do yer think a' 'appened ?"
"What?" I asked.
" Well, set down, and I'll tell yer. There ! ef yer will
hold Peace, yer may. That child, she is a blessin'; she's
true to 'er name, ef ever baby were. You know Mike 'e can't
a-bear a baby squealing, but sence she were baptized, she
seems ter know that it were 'er bounden duty ter be true
to wot she's called, and she only smiles, and lays straight
in her cradle and looks at yer so knowing like. Oh,
you're mother's blessin', that you air, pretty lamb."
She laid the child in my arms. It really was a very
sweet little baby. Its eyes were full and dark and
solemn; it had lovely black eyelashes, and a sweet
iforsafcen
comical little mouth. Its hair, of the red tone of its
father's, was brushed straight up off its head, and sur¬
rounded it something like a halo. Lucy disliked the red
hair, but I thought it one of the baby's charms. I sat
down on the rocking-chair and held the child on my
knees, swaying myself gently backwards and forwards.
Lucy's home was as neat as a new pin, and she sat down
opposite to me, and took up some needlework which she
was busy over.
"Yes," she said, "I'm as 'appy as the day's long.
Mike's real good ; I 'spect 'e's reformed. 'E comes iu
every night as reg'lar as clockwork, and eats 'is supper
like a man, and plays with baby, and torks ter me as
loving as you'd care to see; and ef 'e do go out a bit after
supper 'e seys it's to Father Moore's Club 'e's off, and I
can't say a word agin that, can I ? "
" Of course you can't, Lucy," I replied; " and there is
no manner of use in keeping a man of that sort too tight.
I am quite certain that you will never really win him if
you don't trust him."
" Well, I'm none so sure o' that," answered Lucy, with
a little pert toss of her head. " Men like Mike need a
deal o' cunnin' in their wives. I 'spect I'm winnin' 'iin
step by step, but of course I never could 'ave been sure ef
it weren't fer Martha."
" What about her ? " I asked. " Do you see her often ?"
" I never see 'er ; why should I ? She knows as it
ain't right fer 'er to come 'ere, and she don't come. I'm
thinkin' that p'raps Mike don't care fer 'er so much as
she fancies, but any'ow she's desp'rate fond o' 'im, and,
o' course, she ought ter keep away. Well, well, she's a
good gel is Martha, and I used ter love 'er very dear, and
jforsafeen
253
p'raps I loves 'er now again. Any'ow, she's done the
right thing."
" What is that ? " I asked. " What do you mean ? "
"I 'ave a letter from 'er 'ere ; it 'a jest come. Yer may
see it ef yer likes, Jo-an."
Lucy went to her dresser, opened a drawer, and took
out a very shabby, untidy-looking missive. She pulled it
tenderly out of its envelope and put it in my hands. It
was quite true that Martha could not write well. I read
the blotched and blurred lines, which ran as follows :—
" Dear Lucy,—This is ter say ' Good-bye.' I'm off down
to the country ter stay with an aunt o' mine, and I mayn't
be back fer some weeks. It's all sudden like, and I won't
leave any address. Kiss my little godchild for me. I
'ope, dear Lucy, this finds yer well, as it leaves me.—Your
faithful mate, Martha Mace."
"There!" said Lucy; "that's a real comfort. She's
gone now, and I'm safe. I don't pertend as I weren't
jealous o' 'er. Well, it's all right now, and I'll be as
'appy as the day's long. I won't say nothing ter Mike
unless 'e axes me. Yes, I'm really 'appy, Jo-an."
" But don't you think of Martha at all ?" I asked.
"Do you never feel, Lucy, that yours is not the only
happiness to be considered. Why should Martha give
up everything for your sake? I wish she had left
her address. I wish with all my heart I knew where
she had gone. She is so brave and good and true, and
then, she is your mate. She has always been true to you,
Lucy."
" She's well enough," said Lucy. " I don't mean ter be
unkind to her."
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jforsafeen
Here she began to cry.
" It's h'awful wlien yer 'usband don't love yer, miss,"
she said. " Ef ever yer marry, miss, and yer 'usband
loves somebody else and not you, you'll be fit ter murder
that somebody. Yes yer will, miss. Oh dear, dear, I'm
ieal glad as Martha is gone—I am, Miss Jo-an, that I
am."
At this moment Peace awoke. She opened her eyes,
looked straight up at my face, and gave that faint, three-
cornered smile which is a baby's exquisite prerogative.
Lucy flew to her, clasped her to her breast, and kissed
her greedily.
" My little, little love; my little sweet darlin'," she
cooed.
She sat down, and began to give the infant nourish¬
ment. She forgot everything else in the pure maternal
joy which filled her. I got up soon afterwards, and went
away. I was disappointed at Martha going without say¬
ing "good-bye" to me. I wondered if she had really
gone abroad, or what could be the matter. I went across
to Block D, and saw Mrs. Mace.
"Yes," she said, "Martha's go'n. She went early this
mornin'. I'm quite well agen, thank yer kindly, miss;
and Martha said she were restless to sniff at the sea. I
don't know where she is, but she said ter me over and
over o' late—
" ' Mother, I'm dreamin' o' the sea. I 'ave never seen
it; and it's restless, ain't it, mother ? Well, I'm restless
too,' sez she, 'and I think as the sea and me'll be sort o'
companions,' she sez.
" So this morning werry early she comes ter me, and
she sez—
fforsafeeit
255
" ' Mother,' sez she, ' you've no rheumatis this morning,
'ave you ?'
" 'No, my child,' I sez.
"'Well,' she sez, 'don't yer think yer can go h'arter
the watercress ?'
" 'Ter be sure,' I sez, sitting up in bed.
" "Ere's one and six ter buy it,' she sez, 'and good¬
bye, mother.'
" ' Good-bye ?' I sez. ' Wot do yer mean ?'
"' I'm off ter sniff at the sea,' sez Martha. ' You 'spect
me agen when yer sees me. And give this letter ter
Lucy Lee, and tell Miss Jo-an when yer sees 'er, that
she lives in the core of my 'eart. Good-bye, mother,'
she sez.
" And she kissed me, and put her h'arms round me,
strong and big and 'earty like, and then she goes right
out 0' the door, and I sets stunned like a bit, thinking
it were a sort o' a dream. But presently I gets up, and
goes ter the market, and I know that Martha is gone
away to the sea. Paw gel! I s'pose as the sea'll cure 'er
restlessness."
The old woman was evidently too aged to fret very
acutely. Besides, she fully expected that Martha would
come back any day. For my part, I thought it extremely
likely that I should never see Martha Mace again.
But I had to keep my fears to myself, and comfort
myself with the reflection that I lived in the core of her
heart. It was a brave heart and true, and I felt it an
honour to have an abiding-place there.
I went to Father Moore's daily service that morning;
and when I looked at the angel in the west window I
thought of Martha, and prayed that her feet might be
256
jforsaften
kept very straight, and that she might find the rest she
was seeking for.
That evening I was kept rather late at the Girls' Club.
There was a good deal to he done, as we were giving
weekly tea-parties just then. The room was crowded
almost to overflowing, for the new club-room was not
yet completed, and Anne's music was more attractive
than even the tea, cake, and bread and butter.
When I returned home, Lucy suddenly opened the door
of her room. She must have been watching for me. She
came eagerly up. to my side, took my hand with an im¬
perative gesture, and drew me into her kitchen. Lucy's
face was as white as a sheet. The room, hitherto tidy, was
in complete disorder. The fire was out in the range, and
the baby was crying feebly in its cot. The poor little thing
was evidently cold, neglected, and uncomfortable.
" What has happened ?" I said, looking in astonish¬
ment at the distraught-looking girl.
" Mike 'ave never come 'ome," she said, in a hoarse
whisper. " I know wot it means; yes, I know wot it
means."
" Nonsense," I said. " You are quite nervous; you
know you are, Lucy. Why should not Mike be out once
in a way ? "
"Where should he go to, miss? This is 'is 'ome. It's
past twelve o'clock, and 'e ain't never come back. 'E
ain't never come back sence the mornin'; and when I
went to inquire o' Peter Jenkins, wot 'elps 'im with 'is
barrer, 'e sed 'e weren't out selling weg'tables at all to¬
day. Peter showed me the barrer in the shed, so I know
it's true. Oh yes, Jo-an—yes, Jo-an, 'e's gone arter
her ; there ain't no doubt o' it—no doubt wotever. I
jforsafeett
257
can't stand it; I can't stand it. Oh, I could kill em both,
that I could."
Lucy was trembling violently from head to foot.
" Sit down," I said. " I am positive what you fear is
not the case. I don't know where Mike is, but that he is
not with Martha I am firmly convinced. I know Martha
too well. Nothing would induce her to agree to such
wickedness. Mike will probably be home in the morning,
Lucy; indeed, he may come back any moment."
" No, no; he'll never come back no more," sobbed Lucy.
" 'E never loved me, 'e never did; and I 'ate 'im, and I
could kill 'im. Oh, I 'ate 'em both. False—false. Oh,
Jo-an, my 'eart's broke. I'll go mad—I'll go mad."
" You're mistaken," I repeated ; " I know you are mis¬
taken. You'll see that I'm right, and you are wrong. Do
listen to your poor baby crying. When did you feed it
last ? "
" I don't know—hours ago. It's best fer it ter die.
Why should it live, seeing the sort o' father it 'ave."
"Come," I said, speaking firmly, " this is nonsense. If
you wish me to help you, you must do what I ask you.
Light the fire at once ; this room is a great deal too cold
for the child. I will take it up and comfort it until you
are ready to feed it. Come, Lucy, you are acting in a
very selfish manner; you are showing great want of self-
control."
The poor thing, who had thrown herself across the little
settle, rose up with a long, shivering sigh. She dashed
the tears from her eyes, pushed tack her untidy hair, and
going to her little coal cellar, brought out a shovelful of
coals and some wood.
" There," I said, pleased to find that she was willing to
2 K
258
jforsafceit
rouse herself, " I am glad you are doing what I asked
you. Do you suppose Mike would like to see you looking
like that if he came in ? "
" Oh, he won't come in; no such luck," she replied, but
instinctively she pushed back her hair as she spoke.
The fire was lit, and the poor baby fed and comforted;
but try as I would, I could not get Lucy to touch food
herself.
" For the baby's sake," I pleaded, but even that was of
no avail.
" I want ter die," she said. " I'll touch nothin' more ef
'e don't come back. 'E's forsook me, I know 'e 'ave, and
I'll neither eat nor drink at all till 'e comes back."
In the end she sank down upon the bed, and, overcome
with her grief and misery, fell into a restless slumber.
I kept the baby in my arms that night, and did not
leave Lucy's room.
CHAPTER XXII
THE DEVIL AND HIS ANGELS
WEEK passed by, and during the whole of
that time there were no tidings of either
Martha Mace or Michael Lee. In those sad
days Lucy lived like one in purgatory. Her
face lost its comeliness; it grew sharp, white, and peaked.
Fortunately for the baby, her first resolve, not to eat
and drink until her husband's return, was broken down;
but the child suffered from the state of fret and tension
in which the mother lived, and looked so ill that the
neighbours suggested it should be weaned. After the
first day of ceaseless murmuring and passionate com¬
plaining, Lucy had sunk into the apathy of despair ; she
scarcely spoke, but the restlessness, of which Martha had
complained, seemed to have fallen upon her. She could
not keep still for a single moment. From her bedroom
to her kitchen she walked, from her kitchen to her little
scullery, from that again to the passage outside. She kept
her head slightly bent to one side, as if she were always
in the attitude of listening. She would have recognised
her husband's step amongst all the others which hour
after hour passed her door. I was forced to leave her
alone at night; but the neighbours who slept in the
259
260 ftbe Devil attb bis Hnaels
adjoining rooms said that she spent almost all the hours
of darkness pacing up and down, up and down, watching
and waiting, waiting and watching.
All the dawning of reform which had begun in her
slight, untrained nature vanished completely under the
strain and stress of this terrible trial. Her kitchen was
always now in disorder, her glass and ware unwashed and
unpolished, her neat little stove looked rusty, her baby
was untidy and not properly washed. The wails of the
poor little thing, no longer in any respect true to its
name, would have pierced any heart less surcharged with
grief than Lucy's. Mrs. Keys and I did what we could
for the child, and Mrs. Keys rounded on Lucy for her
shameful neglect of the poor little innocent.
" Let that man o' yourn go," she said to her, more
than once; " he were never up to much, and so I said.
As to Martha Mace, he have nothing whatever to do
with her, nor she with him, that I can take my Bible
oath on. It's the man hisself. Them gipsies are never
quiet—they're a roving, good-for-nothing lot; and ef
you'll hear my honest opinion, I'll tell yer—you're well
quit o' him. You turn round and nurse your baby, eat
well, and sleep well, and you'll see Miss Joan will be good
to you, and you'll be provided with a way of earning your
living. It is not only a folly, but it's downright wicked
the way you're going on, a-fretting and a-fretting over
a good-for-nought like that."
Lucy used to stare at Mrs. Keys when she poured out
her soul in these indignant words; but I thought, as I
watched her, that there was very little comprehension of
the older woman's meaning in those dull, pale-blue eyes.
The young wife evidently lived in a state of stupor. She was
Ghc 2>e\?U anb Ms Hnsels
261
conscious of a horrible blow, of an aching, maddening pain,
and all the world beyond that pain and that blow was a
blank to her. On a certain evening the crisis came. I shall
never forget that evening, with all its terrible events. I had
left Lucy in a state of outward quiet. She had scarcely
spoken during the entire day, but at my request she had
taken her tea, and even tidied up her little kitchen.
I left her with the baby lying flat out on her knee, pro¬
mised to look in on her on my return, and then hurried
off to the Girls' Club. It was one of the nights for the
public tea, and Mrs. Keys, Anne, and I were, in conse¬
quence, more busy than usual. We had now two or three
other girls who helped us in our different entertainments,
and some ladies from St. Agnes's Settlement always
made a point of coming over on these nights. Still, the
task of supplying between eighty and ninety girls with
refreshments and keeping them in order was no light one,
and we were all too busy to have time to think of any¬
thing outside our immediate duties. When the tea was
over, however, the cups and saucers washed up, and all
the remains of the feast put away, Mrs. Keys came and
asked if I would like her to go back to Lucy.
"I'll come back for you, my dear, at eleven o'clock,"
she said; " but I don't like leaving that poor thing so
long by herself."
"Yes; do go to her, of course," I said. "And you
need not come back again, Honey; Anne and I can easily
get home together."
"No, no," answered Mrs. Keys; I don't want you
two young ladies to go through that Jacob's Court by
yourselves."
"Two of us together will be perfectly safe. I insist
262 ftbe S>e\nl anb bis Bitoels
on yonr going back, Honey, and not thinking of ns.
We'll be home by half-past eleven or a quarter to twelve
at the latest."
" Very well, then," said Honey, somewhat unsatisfied ;
perhaps fer once it won't matter."
She hurried away, and Anne took up her violin to play.
She had scarcely begun to do so before a messenger
entered the room and asked to see her.
The boy was evidently a stranger in the East End.
His dress showed him to belong to the Boy Messenger
Corps. He asked for Miss Bannerman, and gave Anne a
note. She read it, uttered a hasty exclamation, and came
quickly to my side.
" 1 must go home at once," she said; " father is very ill."
I read the note ; it was in Aunt Fanny's handwriting.
Uncle Bannerman had been poorly for some days, and
was evidently now suffering from a slight stroke of para¬
lysis. Anne's presence was earnestly required at home,
and she was requested to accompany the boy messenger
to the nearest omnibus stand. My cousin's face looktd
very white as she put her violin into its case.
'• I will leave the violin here with you ; you'll take
care of it, Joan," she said.
" I will," I answered; " and I'll come to see you as soon
as I can to-morrow."
She kissed me abruptly, and a moment or two later
had left the club with the boy who brought the note.
The usual entertainment, consisting of games, song-,
and music, went on as usual. But the refining influence
of Anne's violin was withdrawn, and I think the rest
of the evening turned out a little flat. It was not until
all the girls had left, and the ladies from St. Agnes's
Zhc Devil anfc bts Hitoels
263
Settlement were preparing to return to their home, that
I suddenly remembered that I had either to take a very
long round, which I was much too tired to attempt,
or should he obliged to go through Jacob's Court by
myself at this late hour of the evening.
Miss Kennedy, one of the ladies, noticed a look of con¬
sternation on my face.
" I have to take the club subscriptions back with me
this evening," I said, " and must go home alone."
" Are you afraid ? " she asked, in some astonishment.
"No, no," I answered; "not really afraid, only Jacob's
Court is a bad place, and Father Moore has always begged
of me to take some one with me when I go through there."
" If you like, I will come with you ; not, I am sure,
that there is the least danger."
"No, you must not think of it," I replied ; " you look
too tired to do another scrap of additional work. I am
certain nothing will happen to me. I am well known in
the court, and I don't think any one there would willingly
hurt me. The only thing I really regret is being obliged
to take the subscriptions home. There are ninety pence,
rather heavy to carry, and yet of value to the poor wretches
who live in such places as Jacob's Court. On the other
hand, it would be very unsafe to leave the money here.
Oh, I am certain there will be no danger."
"I tell you what it is," said Miss Kennedy. "You
shall give me the money. I will take it back to St.
Agnes's with me, then you will be all right."
I thanked her, agreed to her proposal, and a moment
or two later the sisters left me. I locked up the club,
put the key in my pocket, and started for home. Just
for a moment I hesitated whether to take the extra mile.
264
Ube Bevnl anb bte Hnoels
which would enable me to escape the awful court; but
110, there was of course no danger, and I was too tired to
undertake a longer walk. I went along rapidly, keeping
as much in the shadow and out of the gaslight as possible.
Presently I found myself in the very narrow passage
which led direct into Jacob's Court. As I did so, I was
startled and dismayed to hear the sharp, pert voice of a
very young girl say—
" 'Ere she is; 'ere she is."
Eager feet rushed across the court, and a moment later,
to my astonishment, and at first to my relief, three girls
who had lately joined my club came up and accosted me.
One of these girls immediately planted herself at my right
side, another on my left, while the third walked in front
of me.
" I'm real glad ter see yer, Miss Prinsep," said the girl
at my left hand, speaking in a very eager voice.
" What do you want ? " I said. " I am very tired, and
am on my way home now."
" Oh, but you won't refuse to see mother. She 'ave had
a bad fall and 'urt 'erself h'awful; she's a-screeching out
with pain. We can't get a doctor—'es out—and there
ain't a nurse ter be found fer love or money. You come
in, miss, do. The sight o' you'll quiet her. Mother's
werry bad, ain't she, Nancy?" continued this girl, Jane
Price by name, addressing her taller companion, who
walked at my right side.
" Yes, h'awful; dyin', I think," said Nancy. "The fall
brought on a stitch, and she's near doubled up in two.
You'll do her good, miss, ef anybody will."
" This way, miss," said the girl in front.
She caught my dress in her hand as she spoke, and
ZTbe Devil anb bis Bngels
265
pulled it violently. I wanted to resist the trio, but felt
powerless. I knew that if I attempted to struggle with
them I should get the worst people in the court about me.
My only chance was to hope that Jane Price's story was
true, that there was a woman badly hurt whom I could
rescue and help.
" Of course I will go and see your mother," I said,
turning and facing Jane as I spoke.
To my surprise and disgust she burst into a loud laugh.
" That's right," she said. " We'll 'elp yer a bit. Come
along, Nancy."
They each of them thrust their coarse hands through
my arms, and pulled me fiercely along. We passed the
corner of the court which led into Prank Street, and
turned suddenly and quickly sharp to the left. At this
instant I saw a face which I knew. With her arms
folded, and her back to the slimy, filthy wall, stood
Martha Mace. She did not see me, but I saw her dis¬
tinctly. The lamp-light fell upon her—upon her proud,
upright figure, her folded arms and compressed lips—
upon her gloomy eyes, which looked straight before her.
" Martha, Martha," I called.
She started, hearing my voice distinctly, but unable to see
me in the great gloom which filled the interior of the court.
" Come on, come quick; we don't want 'er," said Jane
Price. " This way, this way."
I opened my lips to shout to Martha again. I knew at
that moment that I was in great danger. Before I could
turn, however, the girl in front wheeled round abruptly,
and clapped her hand across my mouth.
• " Ef you cry out or utter a sound, ye're a dead woman,"
she hissed in my ear.
2l
266
TTbe 2>einl attb bis Hnoels
The next instant we had reached our destination. The
girls dragged me down seven or eight stairs, pushed me
into a room, and locked the door upon me. This room
was in total darkness. I listened to their retreating foot¬
steps, to their burst of excited laughter, and then followed
a very few moments of absolute stillness. I did not
hear a sound except that made by my wildly beating
heart. I was frightened, I confess it; I did not want to
be murdered in cold blood. I knew well that I was at
the mercy of cruel and desperate people. I was willing,
abundantly willing, to give these people my life, but not
my death. I fell on my knees, and began to pray. In a
moment, however, I started up again. The floor on which
I had sunk was reeking wet. The wet penetrated right
through my serge dress. When I stood up it invaded my
boots. The place was damp, chilly—like a grave. The
darkness was the most absolute I had ever felt. It was
thick, and had an awful mouldy smell. I wondered what
I was shut into this awful place for, and what was to be
my immediate fate? Was I to be left here long? On
reflection, I did not think this likely. The people in
Jacob's Court could have no spite against me. They
must simply have taken me here to rob me. I was
thankful to know that I had very little on me worth
robbing. I was glad that I had left the pence with
Miss Kennedy.
After a time I heard footsteps outside the cellar; they
came down the steps; they were heavy footsteps; the
feet which approached were evidently clad in hobnailed
shoes. I felt that an hour of great danger was near at
hand. The next moment the key turned gratingly in the
lock, the door was flung open, and two men with crape
Zhc Devil anb bis Hitoels z6i
over their faces, the foremost one carrying a dark-lantern,
entered the cellar. They shut the door carefully behind
them, and approached my side.
"Now," said one, "you 'and out that money, or I'll
cut yer throat."
I found it difficult to get back my voice. There was
an indescribable note in that man's tone which pierced
right down to my soul. I felt for the first time in my
life the full effect of the most abject terror.
" Speak up, or I'll make yer," said the other man.
"Out with the swag, and be quick about it, or ."
lie made a meaning gesture.
Tremblingly I put my hand into my pocket, and
turned it inside out before them. The men had now
withdrawn one of the slides of the lantern, and its full
rays fell upon my shaking figure and face. The men
themselves stood in deep shadow. When they saw the
empty pocket, which contained nothing more valuable
than a handkerchief, one of the ruffians suddenly caught
me by the shoulder.
"We must get Mother Slick down," he said. "She
'ave 'id the money. Mother Slick must search 'er."
"I'll 'old the bloomin' lass while you go and fetch
Mother Slick," said the man who held the lantern.
He placed his coarse, grimy hand on my shoulder;
his awful breath came close to me. My heart, which
had been bounding like a sledge-hammer, suddenly grew
weak, and almost stopped. I felt my head reeling. If
that man's face came closer to mine, I felt certain that
I should faint. I uttered a wild prayer to God to keep
me from becoming unconscious. Quick as the flash of a
thought He answered it.
268
ZTbe Devil anb bis Bn^els
Yes, God answered my prayer, but in tbe most awful
way. There suddenly rang out on the night air—even
Jacob's Court was comparatively still at this hour—there
rang out on the stillness of this night the most blood¬
curdling, terrific scream of some one whose life was being
taken.
" Merciful God," said the man who held me; the ter¬
rible sound seemed to paralyze even him.
With a bound he left the cellar, carrying his lantern
with him; he rushed up the steps into the court, and
disappeared. The one fierce and awful yell—a yell, truly
of mortal agony—was not followed by a second. There
was plenty of confusion ; rushing feet, noisy voices, excla¬
mations, oaths, ejaculations, but no second scream. Quick
as thought, I knew that my moment of deliverance had
come. I rushed to the door of the cellar, flew up the
steps, and entered the court. There was a black mass
of shadow in one corner. I saw the great form of the
man with the dark lantern swaying it backwards and
forwards. Like a shade of the night I glided along in
the darkness, reached the outer entrance to the court,
and found myself in Frank Street. About ten minutes
later I had reached the "Joan Mansions," tottered up¬
stairs to my own rooms, opened the door with a latch-key,
and let myself in. As soon as I got safe into the house
I believe I fainted; at any rate, I remember nothing
further.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE SCREAM IN THE DARK
HEN I awoke I found myself lying in the little
stone passage which led to my sitting-room.
I must have hurt my head in my fall, for
it ached a good deal. I could remember
nothing at first, and the night still brooded heavy
over everything. But after a time consciousness re¬
turned to me. I remembered the awful and narrow
escape which I had just gone through. I put my hand
to my head, and felt my face carefully. My face was
uninjured, but a great lump at the back of my head
told me that I must have had a severe fall. I lay still,
allowing the waves of memory to come over me slowly
and gradually. In a short time full consciousness
retnrned; I remembered all that had happened—my
walk through the court, the lies the three girls had
told me, the face and figure of Martha Mace as she
stood bold and defiant near the entrance to Frank
Street; then the terrible cellar, the frightful damp, the
sopping moisture, the awful grave-like silence; then
the more terrible sound and light, the looks and tones
cf the horrible men; the clutch of the man's hand on
my shoulder, his evil breath on my face, the glare in
369
270
tlbe Scream in tbe S>arfe
his wild base eyes; and then, beyond and above all
tin's, as the climax to the awful agony, that scream
in the silence of the ni<?ht. That scream, awful as it
was, had saved me. Yes, I was safe; but, without
any doubt, something awful had happened.
"Honey," I called, finding my voice presently.
It was Mrs. Keys' practice never to go to bed until I
came home. I was surprised, therefore, that my little
flat should be in total darkness, that nobody should be
there to welcome me on my arrival.
" She must, without any doubt, be safe in bed," I said
to myself; " but how strange of her not to have waited
for me."
I staggered to a sitting posture, pressed my hand to
my aching, bewildered head, and after a time found,
that although I felt both sick and giddy, I could stand.
I knew where the matches were sure to be, groped my
way to the spot, found a candlestick with a match-box
beside it, struck a light, and went to Honey's bedroom.
To my astonishment and fear it was empty; the bed was
made tidily, the sheets were turned down properly for
repose, but no one had slept in that bed that night.
I went to my own room, to Anne's room, to the little
kitchen, the little parlour—the entire flat was empty.
Where in the world was Honey? Was Lucy worse?
Had Honey decided to spend the night with her? My
head was much better now, but I felt strangely, un¬
accountably nervous. I felt that I did not dare to go
to bed with that awful scream ringing in my ears.
I went to the kitchen, drank a little milk and ate
a morsel of bread; then washed my face and hands,
brushed back my disordered hair, and taking up my
ZTbe Scream in tbe Barb
candle, unlocked the door of the flat, and went down¬
stairs. I would, at least, knock at Lucy's door on the
chance of her being up. The action of going down¬
stairs brought on a great access of the giddiness; but
holding tightly to the banisters, I managed to make
the descent, and presently found myself standing out¬
side the Lees' little flat. I knocked at the door, and
to my relief heard footsteps immediately within. The
door was opened with extreme caution, and Mrs. Keys
put out her head.
"Ay, my dear child," she said, coming out softly into
the passage, and closing the door behind her ; " I thought
you'd be missing me, but I really couldn't leave. My
dear Miss Joan, how bad you look."
"Never mind about me," I said, "what about Lucy—is
anything wrong ? "
" She's better now, poor thing," said Mrs. Keys.
"I think she's dropping off to sleep; anyhow, she has
laid herself down on the bed, and shut her eyes.
I think ef we don't make a noise, she'll drop off to
sleep."
" Who's that torking outside ? Come in, whoever you
are," called out Lucy.
"There, we've roused her," said Mrs Keys. "You'd
better come in, Miss Joan; the sight of you'll quiet
her."
I entered the little house. Honey had made a sort of
temporary bed for herself near the stove. In the centre
of the bed now lay the baby. Lucy alone occupied the
little bedroom.
" Wot's the matter ? " she called. " Oh, I can't sleep."
" It's me," said Mrs. Keys, " and my young lady; go to
272
sleep this minute, Lucy; my sakes, who'd have patience
with ways like yours ? "
Lucy shuddered and sighed deeply. I could hear her
sigh through the thin partition, and I felt that she
shuddered. I sat down near Honey.
"You go back to bed now, Miss Joan; won't you?"
said the good creature. "I daren't leave Lucy, that I
daren't. I don't think she's right in her head. No, she
won't hear us ef I speak very low. It ain't an hour ago
sence she came in ; yes, she were out. When I come back
this evening, if you'll believe me, there weren't a soul
in the place to look after the baby; disgracefully untidy
it were, the fire out, the poor mite crying in its cot, and
the key in the lock. I opened the door, came in and saw
to the child. I prepared a bottle for it—there ain't no
sort of use expecting a woman like that to nurse it; it's
a strong little thing, and can be reared up by hand.
When it dropped off to sleep I went to the neighbours,
and asked them if they had seen aught of Lucy; but no
one could give me no tidings of her. Just about two
o'clock in the morning she came home. I never se.e
any one in all my life look so awful; she never so much
as flung a word at me, nor looked at the baby, but went
straight to her room, and flung herself on the bed. I
went in and talked to her, but all she said was—
"'Leave me, leave me; for God's sake leave me; for
the sake of God Almighty leave me alone.'
" I could not drag another word out of her. I put my
hand on her head, and it burned. When she felt me
touching her, she buried her face right down in the sheets,
and never spoke until she heard me talking to you, Miss
Joan."
Qhe Scream in tfoe Darfe
Before I could reply, the door which separated the
bedroom from the kitchen opened, and Lucy came in.
ller face was the colour of death; her eyes had red rims
round them; but her hair was tidy, and there was none
of that madness about her which Mrs. Keys had led me
to expect. She looked straight at me. There was an
awful expression about her face, but it was very still;
her lips looked as if they were carved in wood; her whole
face was wooden and grey in tone. She came softly and
gently into the room and sat down; then she looked at
the baby, but without a vestige of change about her face;
presently she put out her hand and touched it softly.
" Now hadn't you better go to bed ? " said Mrs. Keys.
"What's the good of putting everybody in this con¬
fusion ? "
"No; I'd rayther sit up," said Lucy.
Her head sank low down on her breast as she spoke.
Mrs. Keys began to argue. I glanced at Lucy, who
evidently did not hear a word she was saying. After a
time the baby started and moaned, and Lucy stretched
out her arms to take it.
"Let me," she said to me; "I know I ain't fit, but I'd
like to."
I lifted the little creature and laid it in her arms. She
looked steadfastly at it with her hard, dry eyes; her
wooden mouth moved as if with an effort.
"You needn't begin to nurse it," said Honey. "I
gave it a bottle; it takes to it real kind, that it do, poor,
dear, little mite."
" I'm glad of that," said Lucy.
She pushed the child away from her, then she looked
full up at Mrs. Keys.
2m
274
Zhe Scream in tbe Barb
"Will you go to bed now, please, ma'am? " she said.
"Yes, if you will go."
" I'm not goin'; I can't sleep—it hurts my head to lay
flat. I'll keep the baby till the morning; leave a bottle
ready for it. I'm all right, but I can't lay flat; it 'urts
my 'ead. Will you and Miss Joan go away, please ? "
"Yes," I said suddenly, "we'll go. You will perhaps
be best by yourself, Lucy."
Mrs. Keys got up; her face was red—she looked angry.
" Of all the ungrateful ," she began, but I silenced
her with a glance.
Ten minutes later we had both reached our own rooms.
I was so tired that, without a word, I flung myself on my
bed and dropped into dreamless slumber. It was quite
nine o'clock the following morning before I awoke. When
I did so, Mrs. Keys was standing looking at me. She
had brought a. little tray to my bedside which contained
refreshing tea and toast.
"Not a word," she said, "before you have had some
breakfast."
I sat up in bed, and she fed me as if I were a baby.
When the little meal was over, I laid my head on her
shoulder and burst into tears.
" Thank the Lord," she said. " Now that awful look
will go out of your face, my dearest; now you will be able
to bear up."
"Have you any bad news for me?" I asked, noticing
something peculiar in her tone.
" My dear, you mustn't take it to heart."
"Oh, Honey, speak—speak at once," I said; "don't
keep me in suspense. Oh, Honey," I continued, "1
know what you are going to say. Some one was murdered^
Ubc Scream fit tbe 2)arfe
275
in Jacob's Court last night; I heard the scream. 011,
Honey, oh, Honey, I can never forget that awful, awful
sound."
"You heard it," said Honey, turning very pale.
" I'll tell you about that afterwards," I continued but
give me your news quick. Some one has been murdered."
" I can't hide it from you, Miss Joan."
" Who ? Oh, Honey, tell me, who ? "
" Michael Lee."
" Michael Lee," I cried, with a gasp.
"Yes, some one—a woman they say—ran a knife
through his head. He's as dead as a door nail."
" Oh, poor Lucy; does she know ? "
" She do, Miss Joan."
There was something in Mrs. Keys' tone which made
me look at her very attentively.
" What do you mean ?' I asked. " Why do you speak
in that queer voice ? "
" Miss Joan, my dear, I wish we could leave this awful
part of London. Ef I stay here much longer, I'll go mad.
Oh, Miss Joan, is it right for a young lady like you to
spoil all her beautiful life in a God-forsaken place like
this?"
" The place is forsaken by man, not God," I said.
"We are God's messengers. I won't give it up, what¬
ever happens. God means me to stay here."
" Oh, my poor child, you are an angel, that you are,"
said Mrs. Keys.
" But tell me what you mean ? " I asked.
I was standing up as I spoke. Honey looked at me,
then she averted her eyes.
" God forgive me if I have an unworthy suspicion in
276 tTbe Scream in tbe 2>arfe
my heart," she began, " but that poor creature, I don't
believe she were right in her mind, and she were out for
hours and hours last night. They said the murder took
place between twelve and one, but it were done in the
dark, jmd no one con Id swear who did it—only, 'twas a
woman, that's certain ; and Lucy looked awful when she
came in ; and, Miss Joan, I found a knife this morning—
sharp and long. Oh, I have put it away—yes, I have put
it away—but there were blood on it. Miss Joan, my
dear, how white you are."
"Oh, never mind me," I said. "I am going to that
unfortunate creature."
"Will you have anything to do with her now ? "
'•'Honey, Honey," I cried, "would Christ forsake her
now ? She is mad, poor soul; she must be mad. Any¬
how, you must not keep me from her."
I went downstairs and knocked at Lucy's door. It was
opened in a minute or two by Lucy herself. She looked
shabby, unwashed, distraught; her eyes were red, as if
she had been indulging in very violent weeping. The
half-stupid look had, however, left her face. When I
came in she was tidying up the kitchen.
"You 'a 'eard the news ?" she said, the moment I
entered the kitchen.
" Yes," I replied.
I looked full at her. She returned my gaze with
interest. There was a secretive, defiant look about her
face.
" You wonder that I ain't mad with grief," she con¬
tinued, " b t I ain't; 'e treated me too bitter sore. I
did suffer—God knows—but I don't suffer now. 'E
treated me too bad, and I don't suffer now."
XTbe Scream in tbe Darfe
277
She turned abruptly away, brought a little wooden pail,
filled it three parts full with hot water, and taking down
glass and delf, began to wash them up. She slopped
about with the plates, making a jarring noise as she put
them one on top of the other, neither washing them
properly, nor drying them properly. She had turned up
her dress. Her hay-coloured hair hung in a long wisp
half down her back; her face was unwashed. She wore
list slippers, and there were holes in her stockings. But
the terrible look had to a great extent left her face.
" I can't fret," she said solemnly, shaking her head
as she spoke. " Time were when I'd have gorn mad,
but 'e treated me too real bitter cruel."
I felt afraid to question her. I sat down by the fire
watching her now and then.
" The poor baby," she said, after a pause. " It'll never
know its pa now. I see him the last time 'e look at 'er.
" ' Little Peace,' he said, ' you're a purty little Peace.'
" And then 'e kissed her. Lor', didn't she slobber and
look at 'im quite cute like. She'll never see 'im no more,
paw baby. Some'ow or other I can't fret—no, I can't."
All the time she was talking Lucy kept moving about.
She emptied her pail, and putting fresh water into it
began to scrub the little deal table in the centre of the
kitchen.
" I can't fret," she murmured at intervals.
I was much puzzled what to do with her. Was she
mad ? Was she guilty ? My mind seemed to shudder
and reel as this last thought came to me. I shut it away
determinedly.
" No, no," I said to myself; " sorrow has turned poor
Lucy's brain, but she never went that fearful length."
278
XCbe Scream m tbe IDarb
Then I rememhered the knife, and the indescribable look
on her face the night before, and a sense of confusion came
over me, and I wondered if my own brain would stand this
shock and horror. Mrs. Keys had not come into the
room with me. I heard feet passing and passing outside.
I heard the neighbours talking in little groups ; there was
evidently a sort of suppressed excitement in the house.
Peace awoke and cried feebly; she did not look well. I
took her up, asked Lucy to give me some water, and pro¬
posed to dress her.
" No ; I'll do that," said the mother.
She became quite animated. She filled the pail once
more with hot water ; she held the baby on her knee, and
removed its night-things. The child wailed and fretted
all the time. It was hungry, and Lucy did not know
how to prepare its bottle.
"I 'ad best nurse it," she said to me. "It's all folly
about my milk doing it 'arm."
She unfastened her dress and held the baby to her
breast. In a moment she gave a sharp and wondering cry.
"I 'ave no milk for it," she said; "it's gorn."
She threw up her arms with a gesture of despair. The
child cried louder than ever. The mother did not take
the least notice of it. If I had not seized it hastily,
it would have tumbled on the floor. Wrapping it in a
shawl, I opened the door and called Mrs. Keys. Mrs.
Keys must prepare food for the infant without a moment's
delay. AYhen I opened the door, with the baby clasped
to my breast, I came face to face with Martha Mace. For
the first time since I had known her, Martha did not pay
me the least attention. She pushed me aside, entered the
room, and went straight up to Lucy. Lucy shrank as she
XTbe Scream in tfoe Barfe 279
saw her, shrank and turned away. Martha did not mind;
she opened her arms.
" Come, little mate," she said.
She clasped the slight, small woman in a great, strong
embrace. There was something about the look of these
two girls then which made me feel that I must leave them
alone. No third person must interfere in this crucial
moment of their lives. The baby was safe, with the
warm shawl flung over its little head. I asked a neigh-
hour to run up for Mrs. Keys. She came down hurriedly.
I gave her the baby.
"Here," I said, "dress the child; here are its clothes;
and then give it the bottle; when it is asleep, give it back
to me."
"Miss Joan," said Mrs. Keys, "all the folks in the
house are talking about Lucy. 0 my God, but this is a
fearful thing; they all think in this house that she must
have done it. 'Tain't right for you to be with her, miss.
Hadn't you best go up to your own room ? or hadn't you
best send for Father Moore ? "
" I will send for him presently, if necessary," I said ;
" but Lucy can't bear any fresh faces just now."
I turned away as I spoke, and re-entered the little
kitchen. During my brief absence a complete change had
come over the aspect of affairs. Lucy was seated in the
rocking-chair, and Martha was kneeling by her. Martha
was speaking in an earnest voice—a voice with a wonder¬
fully passionate thrill in it—and Lucy was gazing at
her with the strangest expression I had ever seen on
a human face. Martha did not see me until I came
in, but Lucy did; she half rose as if to go into the other
room,
280 Ufoe Scream in tbe Barft
" I will leave you two to yourselves," I said abruptly.
" Baby is with Mrs. Keys; I will bring her back when
she is asleep."
I went upstairs to my own room, and watched Honey as
she carefully and deftly managed the child. She pre¬
pared its bottle for it, and soon it was sound asleep. The
half-hour went by, and I began to wonder whether I
ought to take baby back to Lucy or not. Mrs. Keys had
left the room for a moment; she came back with a face
like a sheet.
"There," she said, "I knew it was all up. Oh, there
ain't a doubt of the truth of it; there's a warrant out for
the arrest of Lucy Lee, and two policemen are coming to
the house. Go down for God's sake, Miss Joan, and break
it to the poor thing."
"They must not see her until she is prepared," I said.
"Oh, she cannot be guilty."
I rushed downstairs, my feet trembling so that I could
scarcely stand. I entered Lucy's room without even
knocking. If I were to be before the police officers, there
was not a moment to lose. The instant I entered the
little kitchen I was struck by the change in Lucy's face.
It was much agitated, but the look of terror had com¬
pletely left it. When I came in Martha was standing up,
and so was Lucy. Lucy's arms were round Martha's
neck ; she was sobbing and kissing Martha's chin. When
she saw me she fell on her knees, and taking Martha's
hands kissed them passionately; then she went lower and
clasped Martha round the knees and began to kiss her
dress; and then lower still, until her kisses rested on
Martha's roughly shod feet.
"Get up," said Martha; "you ere silly to go on like
Ufoe Scream lit tbe 2>arfe
281
this. Oh, of course I love yer, poor thing; yes, of course
I love you. I always said it; and you ere my mate, yer
know, an' it's wonderful close an' binding the feelin'
atween mates; but get up, Lucy, and don't be silly.
Remember that knife is mine. I 'ave it in my pocket,
wrapped up in paper, so as it'll 'urt no one else. Set
down, Lucy, now, and try and stop cry in'."
"I can't 'elp it," sobbed Lucy; "there's a flood inside
o' me, and it seems as ef it would never, never be dried;
but I'm glad, yes, I'm glad as I can cry; it's better,
a sight better, than the dry sort o' grief. Oh, there's
a flood inside o' me, and it'll never stop runnin' any
more."
The tears rained from her eyes —big, full drops; she
held a handkerchief to her face ; and when Martha put her
into the rocking-chair she swayed herself backwards and
forwards in the very abandon of weeping. For the first
time, then, I looked seriously and carefully at Martha's
face. It was pale ; there was a very firm and serious look
about it. That intensity of purpose which I had always
observed in her eyes gave them now an almost fixed
expression. Martha avoided looking at me; all her
attention was lavished on Lucy.
I heard steps outside—the firm marching steps of men
who were accustomed to discipline, the steps of men who
had known drill; they came outside the door; there was
a knock, very solemn and ponderous. Lucy, sobbing in
her chair, suspected nothing. The sword was hanging
over her head, but she knew no special fear at that
moment; she must be prepared for the shock.
"Martha, one moment before you open the door," I
said. I spoke in a choking whisper.
2n
282
Ube Scream in tfoe Darfe
Martha, who had stepped half across the room, paused,
arrested by my words.
"Not to-day, Jo-an," she said. "I can talk to yer
another day, but not to-day. Let me be, Jo-an dear."
" One moment before you open the door," I interrupted.
"I must say something. Come here, come into the bed¬
room."
The knock was repeated outside. The handle was turned
by impatient fingers, then the knock was made again.
"Martha, Martha," I said, "there are men outside.
There, if you will know, they are policemen, and they
have come for "
When I began to speak Lucy paused in her crying;
her face turned white; she shook from head to foot.
" And they have come for ," I began again.
" I know," said Martha. " Don't you make a fool of
yerself, Lucy; you have nothin' to do with it; they are
coming fer me."
She opened the door as she spoke.
"Yes, wot do yer want?" she said, holding herself
upright, and looking full at the police officers.
"We have a warrant here for the arrest of Lucy Lee,"
said the elder of the two men. " She is charged with hav¬
ing murdered her husband last night in Jacob's Court."
Martha gave a short laugh.
" Paw mite," she said, " she looks as ef she could do a
job o' that sort. 'Ere she is ef you want's 'er."
" Oh, Martha, Martha, save me," shrieked Lucy;
"think o' the baby, Martha; oh, save me."
"You little fool," said Martha. "Jo-an, please take
Lucy into the bedroom; I 'as something ter say to these
men."
XTbe Scream Jit tbe Dark
283
" Stay quiet, Lucy," I said. "No, Martha, I am not going
out of the room just now. What do you want to say ? "
" Only that I'm the gel wot did the job," she answered,
speaking in a light and almost jaunty tone. " I ain't
going ter deny it; it'd be no manner o' use ef I did. I'm
the gel wot killed Michael Lee. 'E drove me mad, and I
killed 'im in a fit o' madness. I'm sane enough now, but
I remember all about it. And 'ere's the knife wot I did
it with. Lucy, paw mite, 'ad no more to do with it than
the baby wot lies in that cradle. I did it, and I'm pre¬
pared to swear the same before a magistrate. You'd
better arrest me, not her, fer she's as innercent as the
baby there."
The two police officers were too well accustomed to
dramatic scenes of all sorts to show any undue surprise.
They both looked at the handsome girl, with her glowing
cheeks, and voice like a fresh, clear trumpet. Of physical
strength Martha had plenty, and Lee was a remarkably
big man. I saw by their eyes as I watched them that
they were quite certain that Martha could do the deed,
whereas Lucy was so frail and slight, so broken down
and washed out, that it seemed very doubtful to them
that she could compass even the death of an infant.
" Why don't yer speak ? " said Martha. " Why do yer
stand there a-staring at this poor innercent thing? I'm
the one wot's a done it. I own up to it, and wot can
anybody do more? You take me afore the magistrate,
and I'll soon put the story straight fer 'im. Yes, I'll
plead guilty when it comes to the trial. I don't care.
I'm sick o' life. You mind the baby Lucy; you pull
yerself together, and live for paw little Peace ; as fer me,
I'm sick o' life."
284
TTbe Scream in tbe Darfe
" Well, well," said one of the police officers, "this is a
very queer story. But our duty is plain. The warrant
which we hold is for the arrest of Lucy Lee. The only
thing you can do is for both of you to come before the
magistrate."
"Come, Lucy," said Martha; "yer'll soon be let home
again."
She went into the little bedroom, fetched Lucy's hat
and jacket, and a moment later the girls left the house in
the company of the policemen. They were both hand¬
cuffed, and handcuffed together. A crowd of people were
waiting outside, but I did not go with them. I was too
terrified and sick at heart.
In a couple of hours' time Lucy returned. Martha's
statement had cleared her, and Martha herself was com¬
mitted for trial on the grave charge of murder at the
coming assizes.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE SENTENCE
ROM the first the case was black against Martha
Mace. No one could set down her words as
those uttered by an insane person. She gave
the solicitor who visited her at Holloway, where
she had been taken to await her trial, a perfectly cir¬
cumstantial and straightforward account of what had
occurred. She acknowledged frankly, and without the
least approach to shame in her manner, that she had
always loved Michael Lee ; she also added that of late her
feelings for him had been torn by fierce passion—by a reck¬
less sort of despair—and that she had earnestly wished
and longed to hate him. She had left London because
Lucy was jealous of her, and because Lee was sufficiently
unmanly to persecute her whenever he could by his pre¬
sence. She had gone to a little village near Walmer,
hoping to be at rest, and free from the presence of the
man who was doing all in his power to break her heart
and wreck her life. She was not prepared to say how he
managed to get her address; at any rate, he followed her,
and continued his persecutions. She came back to London
at last, determined to throw herself on Father Moore's
mercy, and to put a stop to the thing in some way. On
286
tTbe Sentence
the night of her arrival she was standing in Jacob's Court
when she heard me call her. She thought this a mere
fancy on her part, but said that the sound of my voice
on the night air gave her a queer, superstitious feeling.
Shortly afterwards Lee came up and said something. He
began to jeer at her for having come back into the lion's
den, as he called it. His presence gave her a feeling as
if her head would burst; and at last mad, unreasoning
hatred at her persecutor swept over her heart. She rushed
home, procured a knife, and came back again to the court.
He returned to her side to taunt her once again. In a
moment overwhelming passion seized her, and the deed
was done.
" 'E fell like a log at my feet," said Martha. "'E
uttered one awful scream, and then 'e fell at my feet like
a log. 'E wor dead. I knew it; and at first I was glad, for
I thought that taunting, mocking voice was stilled for ever.
I found out next mornin' that they suspected paw Lucy,
who had wandered into the court, as she did nightly, ter
look fer 'im—paw Lucy, who is as innercent as their little
baby. Yes, I deny nothin'; I give myself up. I'll be glad
ter die, and be quit o' the world. I'm sort o' tired o' life."
This was her story to the solicitor, and nothing would
ever make her change it. There was plenty of cir¬
cumstantial evidence to strengthen her brief narrative.
Several people had seen her in the court; there was no
doubt a woman had killed Lee; some people had been
standing near when the blow was struck, and they had
seen the shape of the arm and the cut of the sleeve as
the hand brandishing the knife was raised high in the
air. Yes, a woman was the murderer, and wrhy not this
woman, who was known to be present, whose life Lee had
trbe Sentence
287
turned into something like a hell on earth, and who was
sufficiently muscular to do the deed. All the hastily-
aroused suspicion with regard to Lucy was swept out of-
sight when Martha's narrative was known. Lucy, poor
thing, was much too delicate and small, too feeble and
frail, to kill any one. Yes, without doubt Martha was
the guilty person; and although she was well liked by
all who knew her, the general impression was that the
sentence at the trial would be death.
During the days which intervened between the com¬
mittal and the trial, I made several attempts to see
Martha, but to my amazement and pain she positively
refused to have an interview with me. She sent me a
message by her mother.
"Tell Miss Jo-an I'd rayther not," she said; "it'ud
sort o' upset me. Tell 'er that I ain't fretting much, and
that I'm real glad to be done with life. The fight were
too 'ard, and I'm real glad as it'll soon be over."
Martha's refusal to see me caused me not only pain, but
perplexity. I had many doubts in my mind at that time
—many qualms, many perplexities. I did not dare to
speak of my fears—I did not dare to wrong the unhappy
widow even in my thoughts. Mrs. Keys was also suspi¬
ciously silent. But there was an indescribable expression
about her mouth which I did not like. By tacit and
mutual consent she and I avoided speaking of Martha
even to one another. During these days Lucy also was
almost unapproachable. She was perfectly civil and quiet,
however, keeping her rooms once more quite neat, and
attending to her sewing. The baby was weaned, and was
thriving well on its artificial food. The mother now
attended to it carefully. When I went to visit her she
288
Ube Sentence
always received me with a sort of stony politeness, offering
me a chair, which she dusted with her apron, and standing
respectfully in my presence. A wall of ice seemed to
encompass her. All the hysterical nervous condition
which had alarmed Mrs. Keys and me so much with
regard to her case had vanished. But that she suffered
sorely, I did not doubt. Her wan but still pretty face
showed this. Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes very
dull, and that consumptive cough which I had noticed
about her in the winter had returned with aggravating
severity. There was nothing in the state of the weather
to account for this change, for day by day the spring was
advancing with quick strides.
The day before the trial I met Lucy coming downstairs
with little Peace in her anus. She stopped when she
saw me, began to speak, but was quickly interrupted by
her cough. When the paroxysm had passed away, she
took out her handkerchief and wiped the heavy moisture
from her forehead and face.
" What is the matter, Lucy ? " I said then.
" I thought I'd like ter tell yer the good news," she
said, giving me a pathetic glance.
"Is there good news ?" I asked in astonishment.
"Yes, yes, werry good. Why, Jo-an, you do look bad.
You do take the griefs of us paw folks ter 'eart."
The stoical expression left Lucy's face as she uttered
these words. There came a melting sweet tone into her
voice, and a look of indescribable love lit up her eyes.
" Tell me your news, dear," I said gently.
" It's only this—the neighbours don't think as Martha'll
'ang. Mrs. Mace come over this morning and she told
me. She says a lot of 'em 'as been a-torking, and they
tube Sentence
289
say that Martha's sure only ter get penal servitoode.
It were sech a sudden sort o' murder, yer know—not
planned like—all done in a fit o' passion ; and the neigh¬
bours say they don't 'ang fer that sort; and the jedge is
rayther a merciful sort o' man. A deal depends on the
jedge, and this one's real kind-'earted. I can't tell yer,
Jo-an, wot an ease it is to think as Martha won't swing.
Ter be sure, it's bad ter be locked up all the rest of yer
life, but wo't's that ter 'anging by yer neck until yer die.
Ugh, it makes me shudder to think o' that—the feel o'
the rope, and then yer eyes bein' blindfolded; and they
do say 'em ropes are werry coarse, and they 'urt the
tender skin. Oh, I shudder night arter night when I
think of it; and then ther's the drop. 0 my God, my
God, and Martha sech a fine gel, and brimmin' full o' life,
so ter speak. Penal servitoode 'ud be a sight better fer
Martha ; and sometimes, ef they're good and earn their
full marks, they get out, years and years arterwards. Oh,
penal servitoode's the thing, and neighbours say she's
certain ter get it. It were last night I were told, and 1
slep'—I slep' sound on the thought o' it."
Lucy coughed again. When the second paroxysm was
over, she nodded to me and went downstairs. Since the
day of the murder she had never once mentioned her
husband. As she had said herself, she did not fret for
him ; he had tried her too sore. Her one and only thought
now was about Martha. How would Martha fare in the
coming trial ?
The clay dawned, a sweet spring day. Father Moore
arranged to take me to the court, as I must appear as one
of the witnesses. I find myself almost incapable of giving
a full account of that terrible day. Martha's trial did not
2 o
290
tCbe Sentence
take very long. There were few witnesses, and the case
was a very straightforward one. I shall never forget the
moment when the prisoner stepped into the dock. She
was dressed quietly, and with extreme neatness. Her
black hair shone; it was coiled round her shapely head.
Her face was very pale ; it wore its usual intense look,
but there was nothing defiant about it, and the curves of
the grand lips were almost sweet in expression. She
held herself erect, her arms hanging at her sides. When
the jailor offered her a chair she shook her head and
went and stood near the rail which protected the front
of the dock, but did not lean against it. Her massive
figure stood out thus in bold relief. There was not a
vestige of shame in her attitude nor manner. Her full,
clear, brown eyes were fixed earnestly on the judge.
He put the usual question. There was a brief pause
before the answer came.
" Guilty, my lord," said Martha Mace, and there was a
ring in her tone.
I buried my face in my handkerchief. Suddenly the
veil was torn from my eyes ; I knew the truth. Martha
was not guilty; she was sacrificing herself for another.
The knowledge which overpowered me seemed so certain,
so clear, that I had the greatest difficulty in preserving
my outward calmness of demeanour. I turned my head
away ; I could not look at her. I cannot in the least
recall how, when my turn came, I gave my brief evidence.
Alas ! no evidence could save the prisoner. The case,
accompanied by her own simple and steadfast asseveration
that she had done the deed, was black against her from
the first. There was no doubt that her appearance and
manner made a favourable impression, that the sympathy
Ube Sentence
291
of the whole court was with her ; but what had that to
do with a case of simple justice. The judge's speech was
clearly against Martha ; and the jury, when they retired,
did not remain away five minutes.
The verdict was " Guilty," and the usual sentence of
death was pronounced. I had courage to look at Martha
just then, and I saw a sudden smile, very sweet and very
strong, pass across her lips. Her eyes looked up too, as
though she saw Some One we did not. The shame which
might have overshadowed the fine face was transfigured
into a sort of glory. The jailer motioned to her to accom¬
pany him, and she stepped down from the dock and
disappeared.
CHAPTER XXV
THE LAST DAY
DON'T know how I spent the remainder of
that day. For the first time my nerves com¬
pletely failed me. I felt too ill in body even
to sleep. A queer determination had come
over me: I would not let Martha die. Lucy was the
true murderer. Lucy must confess. How and by what
means could I get Lucy to save Martha's life. The un¬
fortunate young woman had been present at the trial,
being subpoenaed to appear as a witness. I had been too
much overcome by my own feelings to notice what she
had said on this occasion. I have a dim remembrance,
however, of her eyes avoiding Martha's, and of Martha
never once glancing at her. My first intention when I
got home was to go and visit her, to tell her what I
was certain of, and to beseech her not to commit the
great wickedness of allowing another to suffer in her
stead. But when I really returned to Joan Mansions
I was too ill to think of any one. Mrs. Keys insisted
on my going to bed. An hour or two later they sent
for the doctor. After the doctor's visit there followed a
blank. I believe I was very ill with some sort of brain
affection. I think Aunt Fanny came to see me. I am
292
Zhc Xast H>as
293
quite certain that Anne appeared once more on the scene.
There were murmurings and anxious voices, and then a
nurse, in a nurse's uniform, took her position by my bed¬
side. I was not allowed to talk nor to ask questions, nor
to do anything, but lie perfectly still and think and think
ar.d think. Mercifully, my thoughts were too confused to
be really hurtful, and so the days passed on until at last,
after what seemed an eternity, I sank into a long,
deep, and refreshing sleep, and awoke feeling like my
old self.
Anne was standing near me when I opened my eyes.
" You are much better," she said, in a cheerful tone;
"you will soon be yourself again."
" What day is this ? " I asked.
She told me. She had no suspicion why I had asked
the question. On the moment of awakening from this
long, sound, natural slumber, memory had come quickly
back. I knew that Martha was condemned to die. The
day for the execution was fixed for the 7th of April.
I was determined to be well long before that date, for
happen what would, even if I left my bed to see her, I
must have another interview with Martha Mace.
"This is the 31st of March," said Anne, in a cheerful
voice.
I uttered a sigh of relief. I had several days still left
to pull up in. I was determined now not to leave a stone
unturned to get well.
In cases like mine, such resolutions half win the battle.
The doctor was pleased when he saw me. He perceived
a mai-ked reaction on the side of life and health. lie
told Anne and the nurse how imperative it was to keep
me very quiet; but when I asked Anne, with an amount
TTbe Xast Da$
of duplicity quite foreign to my usual character, how soon
I should be better, she told me that the doctor hoped
that the sharp attack through which I had passed would
quickly and completely disappear.
From that time I took care of my health, trying to
think of nothing else, eating and sleeping all during the
prescribed hours. I was naturally strong, and I quickly
recovered. One day Aunt Fanny came and asked me if
I would not go back to Bloomsbury for a fortnight's rest.
I promised to 4° so.
" But not just yet," I said. " I am very happy and
comfortable where I am just at present. Anne plays to
me when I can bear her music, at other times she reads
novels to me. I am having a very good time."
" Well, you must be very, very careful, Joan," said
Aunt Fanny. " My dear child, you have had a narrow
escape of inflammation of the brain."
" Please don't talk about it," I said. " It hurts me to
hear it spoken about."
Aunt Fanny nodded, and was silent. After a time she
went away.
The next day I was left alone. Anne had gone out to
attend to some work for Father Moore, Mrs. Keys was
busy over some marketing, and I had my little room to
myself. I had got up early that day on purpose. The
day was the 6th of April. To-morrow morning the
execution would take place. Nothing ow should keep
me from Martha's side. I had nursed myself for this
hour. Nothing should keep me from comforting her at
such a crisis.
I went downstairs ; I felt wonderfully strong and 11.
All the self-control I had exercised was now being abun-
Ube Xast E>a£
295
dantly repaid. I reached the street, was fortunate in
soon finding an omnibus, and, getting into it, drove to the
Old Bailey. When I got there, I asked to see the Gover¬
nor. Fortunately he was in, and more fortunately still,
he did not refuse a short interview. I saw him, and told
him what my errand was. He said at once that I should
see the prisoner.
"I will send to tell her you are here," he said.
" No, don't do that," I answered. " I want to go to her
unannounced."
"Very well," he replied; "but you know, of course,
that a warder must be present."
" I do," I answered.
"She won't listen, I assure you," he continued. "All
possible indulgences are given to prisoners on the eve of
execution. The woman will sit with her back to you, and
not take the least notice."
He gave the necessary instructions, and a moment or
two later I entered the condemned cell. It was a fairly
comfortable, not ill-furnished room. When I entered I
saw Martha's figure standing between me and the light.
I looked at her for a moment without speaking; she also
looked at me, then she rushed to my side.
" Oh, Jo-an," she said, " I thought at first that the
angel in the church winder 'ad come alive, and 'ad walked
into my cell; but it's yerself, and you're better than
the angel."
She took my hands in hers, and, bending down, began
to kiss them. I put my arms round her neck, however,
and then she kissed my lips again and again, as if she
were starving, and I had given her a full and satisfying
meal.. The door was locked behind us; the female warder
296
Zhe Xast £>a£
in attendance withdrew to the most distant part of the
cell, where she sat with her back to us, stooping over
some needlework. After a long time Martha released me
from her embrace.
" Set down," she said, " and let me 'old yer 'and. It's
a feast to see yer, that it is."
" I'd have come before, only I was not well," I answered.
" I am better now, so we need not waste words over me
and my affairs. Martha," I said suddenly, changing my
voice, "look at me."
Martha started when I spoke in this tone. She began
to tremble.
" I'd rayther not," she said.
She turned very white as she spoke, her full lips trem¬
bled, and a troubled, misty expression overspread her eyes,
which up to the present moment had been very clear and
bright.
"I'm afeared," she said, after a moment's pause.
"There's peace 'ere" — she pressed her hand to her
heart. " I'm goin' away from the world; but when
I look at you, Jo-an—at you, wot I love so well—you
seem sorter to draw me back to life, so I'd rayther not
look."
" Well, don't look if you don't want to," I answered.
" But, Martha, whether you look or not, you must listen.
I have struggled to get well on purpose to come to see
you, and now I will, I must speak."
" 0 my God !" she said, crouching down on the floor,
and covering her face with her hands.
" I was present at the trial," I said, " I had to give
evidence, don't you remember ?*"
She did not speak.
XTbe Xast Dap
297
"All through the trial I watched your face, aid—
Martha, did you do right in pleading guilty ? "
" Yes," she replied, looking up at me suddenly.
She sprang to her feet, and stood before me.
"I did quite right; I spoke the truth. Oh, hear me,
Heaven! I spoke the truth. I struck him, and 'e fell
like a log. Don't tork of it, Jo-an, don't speak of it.
I don't prize my life a bit. It is quite fair, blood for
blood—that's the Bible, you know—and life fer a life,
that's as it should be."
" You did kill him ? " I repeated.
A look of agony crossed her face.
" 0 my God !" she said, changing her tone, going
down on her knees, and clasping my hands with such
force that I could have cried out with pain. " Is it right
fer you to come and tempt a paw gel ? All the pain is
over, and—and the struggle. Why should you come
here to bring it back again ? Let us tork of somethin'
else."
" I can't," I repeated; " I can't. I have a fear at my
heart."
"Jo-an, I won't listen to you," said Martha. "It's
all right—everything is right. Don't let us waste our
few moments goiug back on that. That were settled the
day the judge put on his black cap. That's all in the
past. I must die. Afore this time to-morrow I'll be a
sperit. I ain't afeard. I don't know much religion, but
I can't some'ow feel afeard. I don't think God's angry
with me; I think He has forgiven me. I never knew
religion or good sort o' ways, or anythin' o' that sort,
never at all until I met you ; but now I think I'm for¬
given, and there's a sort o' feeling o' peace here; and I
2 p
298
Ube Xast Dai?
think I'll find the other world much better tban this; and
I'm so glad that Lucy is spared to 'er little Peace. I
think o' Lucy morning, noon, and night. Lucy 'as 'ad a
'ard, 'ard time, and she were awful tempted, and she
weren't strong like me, paw Lucy ! Ef I 'adn't broke my
leg that time, all this trouble wouldn't 'ave come. You
see it were this way, Jo-an. We both paw gels loved
Michael, and I'm much the strongest; so it's fair, it's
quite fair, as the strongest should suffer. You'll promise
not to turn agen Lucy, Jo-an, won't you ? "
" I'll always do what I can for her," I replied, speak¬
ing with an effort.
" I want yer to. I like ter think o' that. And now,
Jo-an, tell me something about the world I'm agoin' to.
Wot's God like when you see Him?"
" I don't know," I replied, in some distress. After
a pause I said, " I think of Him in this way. He
is like all the love in all the world — He fills the
heart."
" That's good; I like that. I won't be afeared when I
see Him."
" I am sure you won't."
"And wot's 'eaven, Jo-an?"
" I don't know," I said again, " but I think of it "
"Yes, tell me wot yer thinks."
" I think of it with love for sunshine, and the flowers
never withering, and the streets of pure gold, and the
river in the midst, and the gates of precious stones; and
the ransomed of the Lord, those who have fought and
overcome, and conquered and forgotten themselves, and
some of them given even their very lives away for the
sake of others, walking there redeemed and splendid."
ftbe Xast IDav
299
" I know," said Martha, with an awe-struck look on her
face. " I know ; don't say any more."
I left her a moment or two after. She scarcely noticed
me when I went away. The awe-struck look was deepen¬
ing on her face.
CH \PTFE XXVI
LUCY
WENT back to my room, sat down on the first
chair I could find, and wondered if I could en¬
dure the terrible agony and suspense of this
tragedy. If Martha had really killed Michael
Lee, she had at least found peace in confession. No soldier,
after a long and weary march, was more ready to resign
his sword than she was. There was an expression about
her face which ought by right to belong to one who had
fought a good fight. Was Martha guilty ? She did not
wear the air of one who had suffered and repented.
From the first she had shown no undue shame. What
—oh, what was the meaning of it all ? Anne came
into the room at this moment, and started when she
saw me.
" My dear, what have you been doing with yourself ? "
she exclaimed.
" I will confess to you, Anne," I answered. " I went
to see Martha Mace."
" How very, very wrong of you."
" There is no use in your scolding me, Anne. Nothing
would have induced me to let her die without seeing her
again."
300
&UC£ 3ot
"You will pay for this," said Anne, sitting down and
fixing me with two gloomy eyes.
"I dare say," I answered, "but it is worth a good
price."
" By the way," said Anne, after a pause, " do you know
that little thing downstairs is ill ? "
" Do you mean Lucy ? "
" Yes, Lucy. She has been having one fit of hysterics
after another all the morning. Now, you are not to go to
her, Jo-an."
" I won't—at least at present."
I sat down on the chair, from which I had half risen.
I was too weak to stand.
" I do want to see her very badly all the same," I said.
"You must not see her, Joan; not, at least, until I
come back. I am attending to her."
She left the room. Mrs. Keys came in presently. She
gave me some dinner and then went out, too busy to
spare more than a few moments for home matters that
day. T guessed that she was also attending on Lucy, but
did not dare to question her. My own strength was at
such a low ebb that I could not waste it even on an un¬
necessary word. By-and-by Mrs. Keys, too, went away,
and I was alone. I was gazing into the fire, puzzling
once more over my problem, when there came a timid,
vacillating knock at my door. In a moment I guessed
who was there—it was Lucy. Lucy, who was so ill, had
managed to drag herself up all these stairs. No one else
would knock like that. I rose from my seat, crossed the
room, and opened the door.
Yes, Lucy stood without—Lucy, with a spot of bright
fever on each cheek, and eyes dry and shining. I noticed
3°2
that just round her lips was a stain which looked like
blood.
" May I come in for a minute ? " she said timidly.
I felt words absolutely beyond me. I took her hand
and drew her in. She sat down on the first chair she
came across, uttered a great and terrible sigh, and looked
full up at me.
" I will help her," I said to myself. " I know what she
has come for."
" Lucy," I said, " you will get great relief and peace if
you speak the truth."
" Oh, Jo-an," she answered, trembling, and turning very
white. " Oh, Jo-an."
I saw that I must be very tender with the poor thing.
Fear would terrify her into silence; harsh words would
kill her. Only the tenderness of Christ's own love could
draw her now. I went on my knees beside her, took one
of her limp hands, and said softly and almost caressingly—
"You did it, poor Lucy, and you are frightened ; and
you let Martha, who is so brave and strong, take the
punishment; but don't die with the guilt on your soul,
Lucy—tell the truth. God is not far from you. Tell the
truth, Lucy."
" Yes," said Lucy, beginning to sob ; " yes."
" You did kill your husband, did you not ? "
" Yes, Jo-an; oh yes, Jo-an. I ran the knife into
him."
She coughed as she spoke, panted for breath, and taking
her handkerchief, wiped some blood from her lips.
"It has been coming up all day," she said, looking
pitifully at the stain on the handkerchief. " Yes," she
continued, " I killed 'im. I saw 'im torking to Martha in
%l\C$ 3°3
the court. 'E was bending over 'er, and I saw 'im try
to put 'is arm round 'er neck, and she pushed 'im from
'er, and 'e fell agen me—agen me, 'is lawful wedded wife
—and I 'ad the knife in my 'and, and I stabbed 'im in
the head. I heard 'im scream, and I saw im fall, and I
ran away. I stood in the dark part of the court for over
an hour, but no one saw me. Then I come back 'ome. I
felt dazed, and my 'eart were all cold, and I couldn't cry
so much as one tear; but I knew wot I 'ad done. I
didn't think to save myself jest then, and I 'ad no fear
then. I only knew as I 'ad killed 'im—'im wot I loved.
Yes, yes, I loved 'im, though 'e 'ad forsook me. Ef 'e 'ad
said once, { Paw Lucy, I'm a bad sort, but I loves yer, gel,
and I loves the baby,' why, 'e might 'a killed me, and
I'd 'a been glad; but 'twas t'other way, and I see 'im with
Martha. I see the look on 'is face, and the love in 'is
eyes for 'er—not for me—and the devil come to me, and
I did it. But when I got home I weren't frightened, not
at first. I only thought as 'e wor dead—stone dead—and
I 'a done it, and the knife was bloody wot I done it with,
and it was 'is blood, and 'e wor stone dead, and I could
not cry one tear. Mrs. Keys looked at me werry queer,
and I thought she guessed, and I lay down on my bed,
and then I heard your voice, and I screamed out for you
to come in, and I thought I could tell yer. I got out o'
bed and stumbled into the kitchen to tell yer, but when I
saw you I couldn't. There was the baby, and there was
you and Mrs. Keys, and I only wanted you and Mrs.
Keys to go away, and leave me with the baby. And after
a time you did, and then I were alone with Peace ; and
Peace looked up at me solemn like with them big black
eyes o' 'ers—something like Michael's—and I found out
3°4
all on a sudden that I could tell 'er. And I sed, ' Peace,
I 'a' killed your pa,' and she winked at me, and gazed up
more solemn than ever, and I said it again and again and
again. 'Peace, I 'a' killed 'im wot I love,' and Peace
seemed to know all about it, and yet she wor not angry with
me. She seemed to understand, and she winked her eyes
more solemn than ever, and I kissed 'er over and over. That
were 'ow the night passed, but in the morning a change
came over me. I got shocking frightened. I looked fer
the knife, but I couldn't find it, and I thought fer sure it
'ud be known that I 'ad killed my man, an' I didn't want
to swing fer it, fer I loved Peace, and I wanted to live fer
'er. I thought perhaps I could 'ide my sin, and so I
began to clear up the kitchen and put things in order,
and try and look nateral ; an' then you come back, and I
worked 'arder than ever to pertend that I 'adn't done any¬
thing awful, and I told yer that I didn't mind, 'cause 'e
'ad been real 'ard ter me. I went on torking an' torking.
I felt I couldn't keep silent for fear you'd suspect me.
Then Martha come. She come in big and strong, like
she alius used ter be, and she seemed to sweep me up
in 'er arms, and to 'old me cuddled up agen 'er; and
oh! the strength of 'er, and the love of 'er! Oh, I
never knew anything like it; and she whispered ter me,
' Lucy, paw Lucy, I know all; but let me bear it,
Lucy, fer I ain't a mother and you air, and it wouldn't
'ave 'appened but fer me, but for my loving 'im, and 'e
loving me, though I were alius faithful to you, Lucy;
and now I'll take the punishment, fer I don't care
nothing at all for living;' an' she kissed me, and kissed
me, and whispered, and whispered to me, and I listened
to 'er, and I did feel awful frightened, and I sed,
2LUCS 3°5
' Martha, I'd go mad ef it were brought home to
me.' ' It never shall be,' she said ; ' it's me wot 'as done
it,' and she looked at me so bold and so brave, and then
yon come in, and oh, how I did love her, only I were
awful selfish, and sech a coward, an' I kissed 'er, and
I kissed 'er, an' I don't quite remember wot 'appened
next; but the police came in with a warrant, and Martha
sed she 'ad done it, and she and me were 'andcuffed and
taken afore the magistrate, an' I denied it, and she con¬
fessed to it, and I come 'ome. That's the whole story,
Jo-an, the whole of it. That story seems awful big, and
everything else in the world small and worth nothing.
Martha's goin' to swing to-morrow, an' she's as innercent
as Peace downstairs. Oh, what shall I do? oh, God
Almighty 'elp me. I don't want 'eaven, I don't even
ask fergiveness, but I do ask God Almighty to give me
a bit o' courage so that Martha mayn't die fer my sin."
Lucy stopped speaking abruptly. I think she had for¬
gotten me during most of her confession : I think part
of the time that she was under the impression that she
was talking either to herself or little Peace. She looked
straight before her now ; then her eyes, no longer bright
but dim, fixed themselves on my face.
" 'Ave I told yer anythin' ? she said, in some alarm.
" Yes; and you have also told God, and now you will
be at peace."
I had scarcely spoken before she gave something
between a cough and a scream, and blood poured in
quantities from her mouth.
I rushed out of the room to get assistance ; a neighbour
who was near went for the doctor. He came in about
a quarter of an hour. Lucy was laid on my bed; ice was
2 9
3°6
Xucs
brought, and the ordinary remedies employed, but nothing
could stop that awful flow of hemorrhage. The doctor
said that her hours were numbered, that the poor thing
had been long stricken with consumption, and that in all
probability she would not live out the night.
"She must do something before she dies," I said
excitedly.
I went out of the room with the doctor, and told him
briefly the story which I had just heard from her lips.
He said that I had better send for Father Moore. This
was done, and in a short time Father Moore was bending
over the dying woman's bed. He brought a paper with
him, and pen and ink, and asked her a few questions.
She answered them briefly, and without the least show
of hesitation or reserve. Her confession was witnessed
by Mrs. Keys and myself, and about eight o'clock that
evening Lucy died. With her confession in his hand,
Father Moore hurried off at once to the Old Bailey to
have an interview with the Governor. The Home
Secretary was quickly communicated with, and Martha's
life was saved.
The story of the beginning of my work in East
London is nearly told. The difficulties and dangers,
the darkness and gloom of that first winter have come
back, but in a lesser degree many times since then; but
I think Lucy's terrible story and her death have borne
much fruit amongst the wild untutored girls who may
be known as the "unclassed." Martha is my right hand
in all my work. Anne lives with me altogether now.
Uncle Bannerman has quite recovered; and Aunt Fanny
devotes herself to Francesca, who is the somewhat dis¬
contented wife of a society man who does not greatly
2Lucg
care for her. After all, Anne and I, who live very much
down East, are far happier than poor Erancesca, who
only touches the surface of life, and never goes down
into the strength and sweetness of its depths. 1 would
not give up my life's work for the world. Uncle Kalph
left me a fortune, but he also left me something far
better. Through him I have taken up a full life of
honest endeavour; and though the failures often seem
greater than the successes, we pioneers do not despair.
VVe look for the glorious day when these people who
sit in darkness shall see a great light. I have one last
word to add. Peace is a great comfort to us; she is
Martha's adopted child, and the sunshine and darling of
the " Joan Mansions."
Date Issued