Читать книгу Jessie Trim - B. L. Farjeon - Страница 11

It seemed to me as if I had closed my eyes and opened them with scarcely a moment's interval; and yet I was at home in our own little room, and my mother was bending over me tenderly. I could not immediately realise the change. The busy streets, and the glare in them, and my fear of the man who had accused me of being a thief, were still present to my mind. I clung closer to my mother.

'What is my darling frightened of?' she said soothingly. 'He is at home, and safe in his mother's arms.'

'At home!' I looked around apprehensively. 'Where's the man?'

'What man, dear child? The man who carried you home?'

I had no remembrance of being carried home.

'The man who carried me home!' I exclaimed; and repeated wonderingly, 'Carried me home! No, I don't know him.'

'There is no one here, dear child, but you and I. Taste this.'

She held a cup of tea to my lips, and I drank gratefully; and ate a slice of bread-and-butter she gave me.

'There, my dear! My darling feels better, does he not?'

'Yes.' As I looked at her, the scene I had witnessed, of which she had been the principal figure, dawned upon me. I could not check my sobs; I felt as if my heart would burst. 'O mother! mother!' I cried. 'I remember now; I remember now!'

She held me in her arms, and caressed me, and pressed me to her heart. My tears flowed upon her faithful breast.

'How did you find me, dear child? Unkind mother that I am to leave my darling hungry and alone all the day!'

'Don't say that, mother. You mustn't; you mustn't! If anybody else said it, I would kill him!'

'Hush, dear child! You must not excite yourself. Come, you shall go to bed; and you shall tell me all in the morning, please God.'

'No, I want to tell you now; I want to talk to you now. I want to lie here, and talk quietly, quietly! Oh, but I am so sorry! so sorry!'

'For what, dear child?'

Through my sobs I murmured, 'That you should have to stand in the cold, and beg for me!' My arms were round her, and I felt her shrink and tremble within them. 'Now I know what the poor woman in the forest did when she went to look for food for her bird. If any one saw you that knew you, would you not be ashamed? Would you not run away?'

Sadly and tearfully she replied, 'No, my own darling, I do not think I should. Who would be so cruel as to say I ought to be ashamed of doing what I do?'

'But, mother, you stand with your head down, as if you wanted to hide your face!'

The blood rose to her face and forehead pitifully.

'I cannot help it, dearest,' she said with trembling lips; it comes natural to me to stand so. I do not think of it at the time. And O, Chris! don't despise your poor mother now that you have found out her secret!'

She would have fallen at my feet if I had not kept my arms tightly around her. In the brief pause that ensued before she spoke again, I closed my eyes, and leant my head upon her shoulder, the better to think of her goodness to me. I saw all the details of the picture which now occupied my mind. I saw my mother approach the spot where she had decided to stand, to solicit charity for me; I saw her hesitate, and tremble, and look around warily and timidly, as though she were about to commit a crime; and then I saw her glide swiftly into the road and take her station there, with her dear head drooping on her breast from shame. Yes, from shame. And it was for me she did this!

'If I could get work to do,' she presently said, in low meek tones, such as one who was crushed and who despaired might use if wrongfully accused, 'I would not beg. Heaven knows I have tried hard enough; I have implored, have almost gone on my knees for it, in vain. What was I to do? We could not starve, and I would not go to the parish; I would not bring that shame upon my darling's life, until everything else in the world had failed. I did not intend my child to know. I tried to keep the knowledge from him--I tried, I tried! O, my dear boy! my heart is fit to break!'

I listened in awe, and could say no word to comfort her.

'It is no shame to me to do as I have done,' she said half appealingly, half defiantly. 'It is for bread for my dear child's life. I should stand with my face open to the people, if I had the courage. But I am a coward--a coward! and I shrink and tremble, as if I were a thief, with terror in my heart!'

She a coward! Dear heart! Brave soul! Her voice grew softer.

'And O, Chris, my child! since I have stood there I have learnt so much that I did not know before. It has made me better--humbler. Never again, never again can I doubt the goodness of God! What good there is in the world of which we are ignorant, until sorrow brings us to the knowledge of it! When I first stood there, the world seemed to pass away from me, so dreadful a feeling took possession of me. In my fancy, harsh voices clamoured at me, cruel faces mocked me from all sides; I did not dare raise my head. But in the midst of my soul's agony, soft fingers touched mine, and the sweet voice of a child brought comfort to my heart. And then poor women gave, and I was ashamed to take. I held it out to them again, begging them with my eyes to take it back again; and they ran away, some of them.'

The floodgates of my mother's heart were open, and she was talking now as much to herself as to me, recalling what had touched her most deeply.

'Two weeks ago a young woman came and stood before me. God knows what she was thinking of as she stood there in a way it made my heart ache to see. She was very, very pretty; very, very young. She stood looking at me so long in silence that I began almost to be afraid. I dared not speak to her first. I have never yet spoken unbidden in that place; I seem to myself to have no right to speak. But, seeking to soften any hard thought she may have had in her mind for me or for herself, I returned her look, kindly I hope, and pityingly too. "I thought I'd make you look at me," she said in a hard voice that I felt was not natural to her; "beggars like you haven't much to be proud of, I should say. Thank the Lord I haven't come to that yet!" I tried to shape an answer, but the words wouldn't leave my lips, and I could only look at her appealingly. Poor girl! she seemed to resent this, and tossed her head, and went away singing. But there was no singing in her heart. I followed her with my eyes, and saw her stop at a public-house; but she hesitated at the door, and did not enter. No; she came back, and stood before me again. "What do you come here for?" she asked, after a little pause. "For food," I answered. She sneered at my answer, and I waited in sorrow for her next words. "Have you got a husband?" "No," I said, wondering why she asked. "No more have I," she said. My thoughts wandered to a happier time, and pictures of brighter days which seem to have passed away for ever came to my mind; but the girl soon brought me back to reality. "Are you a mother?" she asked. "Oh, yes!" I answered, with a sob of thankfulness, for the dear Lord has made my boy a blessing to me. "So am I," she said, with a little laugh that struck me like a knife. "Here--take this; I was going to spend it in drink." And she put sixpence in coppers into my hand, and ran away. But I ran after her, and entreated her to take the money back; but she would not, and grew sullen. I still entreated, and she said, "Very well; give it to me; I'll spend it in gin." What I said to her after this I do not know, I was so grieved and sorry for her; but I told her I would keep the money, and she thanked me for the promise, oh! so humbly and gratefully, and began to cry so piteously and passionately, that my own sorrows seemed light compared with hers. I drew her away to a quiet street, and kissed her and soothed her, and although we had never met before, she clung to me, and blessed me with broken words and sobs. Then, when she was quieter, I asked her where her little one was, and might I go with her and see it? She took me to her room, and I saw her baby--such a pretty little thing!--and I nursed it till it fell asleep, and then tidied up the room, and put the bed straight. Ah, my darling! I could not repeat all that the poor girl said. I went out and spent fourpence of the sixpence she gave me in food for the baby, and she was not angry with me for it. I have been to see her and her baby twice since that night, and my heart has ached often when I have thought of them. If I were not as poor as I am, I would try to be a friend to them. But, alas! what can I do? Yet there is not a night I have stood in that place that I have not lifted my heart to God for the goodness that has been shown to me. How good a thing it is for the poor to help the poor as they do! God sweeten their lives for them!'

We were silent for a long time after this. I broke the silence by whispering,

'Mother, I didn't spend the halfpenny; it is on the mantelshelf now.'

'Dear child! I am sorry and glad. It is the first halfpenny I ever received in charity, and it was given to me by a little child.'

'Let me look at it, mother.'

She took it from the mantelshelf, and placed it in my hands.

'I can see the angel's face now,' I said. 'It is the fairy in a cotton-print dress.'

My mother nodded with a sweet smile.

'And the fairy is a little girl?'

'Yes, dear.'

'And she came every Saturday night afterwards, with a basket on her arm, and gave you a halfpenny?'

'Yes, dear. How do you know?'

'I saw her to-night, and I guessed the rest. I am so glad you kissed her! Mother, we will never, never spend this halfpenny!'

'Very well, my darling; but you haven't told me yet how it was you found me out.'

I had barely finished my recital when a knock came at our door. On opening it, our landlady was discovered, puffing and blowing. A great basket was hanging from her hand. Benignant confidence in her lodger reigned in her face; curiosity dwelt in her eye. As she entered, the air became spirituously perfumed.

'O, them stairs!' she panted. They ketch me in the side! If you'll excuse me, my dear!' And she sat down, still retaining her hold of the basket. She went through many stages before she quite recovered herself, gazing at us the while with that imploring look peculiar to women who are liable to be 'ketched in the side.' Then she brightened up, and spoke again. 'I thought I'd bring it up myself,' she said; the stairs ain't been long cleaned, and the boy's boots are that muddy that I told him to wait in the passage for the basket. If you'll empty it, I'll take it down to him. Oh,' she continued, seeing that my mother was in doubt, I don't mind the trouble the least bit in the world! If all lodgers was as regular with their rent as you, my dear, I shouldn't be put upon as I am!'

Still my mother hesitated; she did not understand it. I saw that the basket was well filled, for the lid bulged up. The landlady, declaring that it was very heavy, placed it on the table, and was about to lift the lid, when my mother's hand restrained her.

'There is some mistake; these things are not for me.'

'Why, my dear creature!' exclaimed the landlady, growing exceedingly confidential, 'didn't you order 'em?'

'No, I haven't marketed yet. My poor boy has been ill, and I haven't been able to go out.'

'Well, but there can't be any mistake, my dear;' and the landlady, scenting a mystery, became very inquisitive indeed; here's your name on a bit of paper.'

The writing was plain enough, certainly: 'For Mrs. Carey. Paid for. Basket to be returned.'

'Do you know the boy who brought them?' asked my mother.

'To be sure I do, my dear creature! He belongs to Mrs. Strangeways, the greengrocer round the corner.'

'I should like to speak to him. May he come up?'

'Certainly, my dear soul!'

And the landlady, in her eagerness to get at the heart of the mystery, disregarded the effect of muddy boots on clean stairs, and called the boy up. But he could throw no light upon the matter. All that he knew was that his mistress directed him to bring the things round to Mrs. Carey's, and to make haste back with the basket. 'And please, will you look sharp about it?' he adjured in a tone of injured innocence, digging his knuckles into his eyes, and working them round so forcibly that it almost seemed as though he were trying to gouge out his eyeballs; if you keep me here much longer, missis'll swear when I get back that I've been stopping on the road playing pitch and toss.'

The landlady, whose curiosity had now reached the highest point, protested that it would be flying in the face of Providence to hesitate another moment, and whipped open the basket.

'Half a pound of salt butter,' she said, calling out the things as she placed them on the table; half a pound of tea; sixpennorth of eggs--they're Mrs. Chizlett's eggs, my dear, sixteen a shilling--I know 'em by the bag; a pound of brown sugar; a cabbage; taters--seven pound for tuppence, my dear; and a lovely shoulder of mutton--none of your scrag! There!'

My eyes glistened as I saw the good things, and my mother was gratefully puzzled. The garrulous landlady stopped in the room for a quarter of an hour, placing all kinds of possible constructions upon the mystery, and inviting, in the most insinuating manner, the confidence of my mother, whom she evidently regarded as a very artful creature. It was sufficient for me that the food was lawfully ours, and I blessed the generous donor in my heart. On the following day my mother took me for a walk in the Park, and we arrived home in time to get the baked dish from the baker's, which my mother had prepared. We had a grand dinner, and we fared tolerably well during the week. On the Saturday, however, our cupboard and treasury were bare, and my mother was once more racked by those pin-and-needle anxieties which, insignificant as they seem by the side of matters of public interest, form the sum of the lives of hundreds of thousands of our fellow creatures. My mother watched me very nervously. I knew what was in her mind. She was striving to gather courage to bid me stop at home while she went out to beg. My heart was very full as, watching her furtively, I saw her put on her bonnet and shawl. Then she stood irresolutely by the mantelshelf. I crept to her side.

'Mother?'

'My child!'

'Let me go with you,' I implored.

'No, no, dear child! No, no!' she cried, and she knelt before me, and twined her arms around my neck. She was entreating me in the tenderest manner to stop at home, when the simplest thing in the world changed the current of our lives. A postman's knock was heard at the street-door, and a minute afterwards the landlady came running upstairs, almost breathless. My mother started to her feet. In one hand the landlady held a letter by the corner of her apron; the other hand was pressed to her side; and she panted as if her last moments had arrived.

'O them stairs!' she exclaimed. 'They'll be the death of me! For you, my dear.' And she held the letter towards my mother.

the receipt of a letter threw us all into a state of excitement. It was certainly an event in my life. My mother was very agitated as she looked at the address, and the landlady took a seat, and waited in the expectation of hearing the news. But the letter was not opened until that worthy woman had retired, which she did in a very dignified, not to say offended, manner, as a proof that she had not the slightest wish--not she! to pry into our private concerns.

'There's no mistake, mother,' I said.

'No, my dear; it is addressed to me.'

Then, with great care, she opened the letter, and read aloud:

'14 Paradise-row, Windmill-street.

'Emma Carey,--Personally you will have not the slightest knowledge of me, for I do not think you ever set eyes on me; but you will know my name. I was not aware until a few days ago that your husband was dead. I am poor, but not as poor as you are. I offer you and your boy a home. You can both come and live with me if you like. If you decide to come, you must not expect much. I am not a pleasant character, and my disposition is not amiable. But the probability is, if you accept my offer, that you and your boy will have regular meals, such as they are. I keep a shop; you can help me in it. You can come at once if you like--this very day. I don't suppose it will take you long to pack up.

'Bryan Carey.'

I started when I heard the name, for it was our own.

'It is from your uncle Bryan,' said my mother; 'your dear father's elder brother, who disappeared many years ago.'

'I thought he was dead, mother.'

'We all supposed so, never having heard from him.'

'Was he nice, mother?'

'I have no idea, child; I never saw him. But he says that he is neither amiable nor pleasant.'

Two words in the letter had especially attracted my attention.

'Regular meals,' I murmured, somewhat timidly.

My mother rose instantly. Unless she accepted the offer, there was but one alternative before her; and no one knew better than I how her sensitive nature shrank from it. It was the bitterest necessity only that had driven her to beg.

'I will go at once and see your uncle, my dear. I don't know where Paradise-row is, but I shall be able to find it out. I will be back as soon as possible. Keep indoors, there's a dear child!'

She was absent for nearly three hours.

'Well, mother?' I said, running to the door as I heard her step on the stairs.

She drew me into the room, and sat down, with her arms round my neck.

'We will go, dear,' she said, and my heart beat joyfully at the words. 'it will be a home for us. Situated as we are, what would become of my dear child if I were to fall really ill? And I have been afraid of it many times. Yes, we will go. Your uncle Bryan keeps a grocer's shop. I told him I should have to give a week's warning here, and he gave me the money to pay the rent, so that we might go to him at once.'

My mother looked about her regretfully. It belonged to her nature to become attached to everything with which she was associated, and she could not help having a tender feeling even for our one little room in which we had seen so much trouble.

'Now, Chris, We will pack up.'

As uncle Bryan predicted in his letter, it did not take us long. Everything we possessed went into one small trunk, and there was room for more when everything was in. The smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone--the precious relic I had inherited from my grandmother--had been carefully taken care of, and now lay at the bottom of the trunk. It had not brought us much luck, and I regarded it with something like aversion.

From the inscrutable eye of a landlady living in the house nothing can be concealed, and our landlady hovered in the passage, divining (with that peculiar inspiration with which all of her class are gifted) that something important was taking place. My mother called her in, and paid her the week's rent in lieu of a week's notice. She was deeply moved, after the fashion of landladies (living in the house), when lodgers who have paid regularly take their departure. The fear of another lodger not so punctual in paying as the last harrows their souls. As my mother did not enter into particulars, not even mentioning to the landlady where we were moving to, the inquisitive creature invited confidence by producing from a mysterious recess in her flannel petticoat a bottle of gin and a glass. My mother, however, declined to be bribed, much to the landlady's chagrin; after this she evidently regarded us with less favour.

'Uncle Bryan sent a boy with a wheelbarrow, Chris,' said my mother, 'to wheel your trunk home. He's waiting at the door now.'

'With the wheelbarrow?' I asked gaily. I was in high spirits at the better prospect which lay before us.

'Yes, dear. With the wheelbarrow.'

I could not help laughing, it seemed to me such a comical idea. My mother cast an affectionate look at the humble room we were leaving for ever, and then we carried the trunk down to the street door, the landlady not assisting. There stood the boy with the wheelbarrow. The trunk was lifted in, and we marched away, the boy trundling the barrow, we holding on in front, for fear the trunk should fall into the road. All the neighbours rushed into the street to look at the procession.