Golden Grain page 65
'That man, Bob,' replied Jimmy Virtue, dabbing his face with his handkerchief, 'is Blade-o'-Grass's father. I knowed 'im agin, the thief, directly I set eyes on 'im!'
The meeting broke up in confusion; but not before the placard with the Temple of Liberty written on it had been torn into a thousand pieces.
It was but a little past nine o'clock when the meeting was over, and the night, though cold, was fine. When we were clear of the Temple of Liberty, Robert Truefit suggested that we should stroll as far as London-bridge, and talk over what had occurred. The principal question that arose in our conversation was what Mark Mallard would do. I was inclined to believe that he would make inquiries after his children, but Jimmy Virtue shook his head.
'You'll never 'eer of him agin,' Jimmy said. 'He's got no feelin' and no 'eart, and it ain't likely as he'd show his face in Stoney-alley. Sich fellers as 'im ain't got the pluck of a mouse. No, no; we sha'n't 'eer nothin' more o' Mr. Mark Mallard, and a good job too. What'd be the good of sich a father as 'im to Blade-o'-Grass?'
We agreed not to mention what had occurred to Blade-o'-Grass, as it could serve no good purpose. Jimmy Virtue and I united in praising Robert Truefit for the admirable part he had played at the meeting.
'Bob ought to do more o' that sort o' thing,' said Jimmy; 'that's what I've told 'im over and over agin.'
'And grow into an agitator!' exclaimed Robert Truefit. 'No, Jimmy; I haven't time for the business. When it comes into my way naturally, as it has come tonight, well and good. But I have my own little commonwealth at home to look after; it takes all my time to administer to that properly.'
We retraced our steps towards Stoney-alley, and found the neighbourhood in a state of great excitement. In answer to our inquiries we learned that there had been a fire in Stoney-alley. As we hurried thither, we were greeted by exclamations of
'Ah, there he is! There's the old un! Wonder bow he'll take it!'
We soon ascertained the meaning of these remarks. Jimmy Virtue's leaving-shop was a heap of ashes. A house on each side was partially burnt; but the only building completely destroyed was his shop. How long ago did it occur? A hundred tongues volunteered information. Not an hour ago; but, bless your heart! it was all over in twenty minutes. The place burnt like a piece of tinder; it was nearly all wood, you see, sir. The old man must have left a candle burning. To the questions which elicited these and other answers, Jimmy Virtue listened quietly, taking no part in them. The alley was strewn with rickety furniture and beds which, in the first alarm, the occupants of the adjoining houses had brought into the streets for safety; now that the danger was over, they were carrying their furniture back to their rooms. When it became buzzed about that Jimmy Virtue had arrived on the scene of action, there came surging around him a number of girls and women clamorously demanding their little bits of things, valueless perhaps in themselves, but a great loss doubtless to the poor people who had pledged them.
'Where's my Sunday 'at?' demanded one. 'Where's my gal's boots?' another. 'Where's my flannin-peddicoat?' another. 'Where's my crinoline?' 'Where's my chignon?' 'Where's my old man's waistcoat?'
These and a hundred other inquiries were literally hurled at Jimmy Virtue. He simply glared at the women, and told them to look for their things among the ashes.
'Are you insured, Jimmy?' asked Robert Truefit.
No; he was not insured for a shilling. His clients still continuing to badger him, he turned savagely upon them, and said he couldn't help the fire occurring; they were a parcel of fools; and they were welcome to any odds and ends of rags they could find. Suddenly he darted forward into the midst of the smouldering ruins, and fished-out an old greasy pack of cards burnt round the edges.
'Saved them!' he muttered triumphantly. 'I might 'ave lost every game with a new pack. There's one good thing--Jack's safe. When I'm out, he's never at 'ome.'
I really think that the saving of that pack of cards with which he played for great sums with his shadowy victim, Jack, was a perfect consolation to him for the burning of all the rest; but indeed he did not seem to be in any way depressed by the misfortune which had overtaken him.
'Well,' he said, 'it's no good starin' at it any longer. Bob, you'd better go 'ome. Good-night, Mr. Meadow.'
Robert Truefit and I looked at each other.
'Mr. Virtue,' I said, 'you've no bed to sleep in to-night; and you'll feel lonely by yourself after what has occurred. Will you come home with me? I can make you up a rough bed in my room.'
'Thank you, sir,' he replied, with a set expression on his face; 'I was afraid you or Bob 'd say somethink o' that sort to me. I shouldn't be surprised, now, if you'd orfer to 'elp me in other ways. How long 'ave you and me known each other. Bob?'
'For more than ten years, old fellow.'
'I'll trouble you, Bob, not to "old-feller" me; it sounds special, and it don't suit me jist now. More than ten year, eh? So it is, Bob; so it is. You've found me a pretty obstinate old chap--pig'eaded you might say, eh?'
'Well, Jimmy, you are rather--'
'Pig-'eaded--that's the word. Now, look 'ere, you two! Pig'eaded I am, and pig-'eaded I'm goin' to be, to the last. If either o' you--you, Bob, or you, sir--ever orfers me anythink agin--bed, money, grub, I don't care what!--you can say good-bye from that blessed minute to Jimmy Virtue. I must be nigh on seventy year old--I can't speak for two or three year one way or another, but I must be nigh on seventy if I'm a day--and I've never took charity yet; and I don't mean to begin now. I've never pocketed no money as I didn't work for--except Jack's, and that's a matter 'twixt 'im and me--and I ain't a-going to begin that game at my time o' life. So I'll thank you to say good-night, and leave Jimmy Virtue to 'isself.'
'You might as well talk to the Monument,' said Robert Truefit, as we walked home, 'as talk to Jimmy after what he has said. He'll die before he'll take a penny-piece. We must humour the old fellow, and hope for the best.'
The following day I learned that Tom Beadle was undergoing another term of six months' imprisonment for pickpocketing. I went to him to tell him of the death of his child, and I took a piece of black crape with me for his cap. I had never spoken to him before, and I was wishful to know something of his nature, so that I might judge in what way I could best impress him to act for the good of the girl who clung to him with so much devotion. He received me with cunning civility; his lynx eyes watched every word from my lips, as if in every word might be concealed a trap. In his mind he classed me with those who wished Blade-o'-Grass to desert him, and therefore I was his enemy. I knew, also, that the fact of my being a minister was an additional argument against me in his eyes. But he must be civil to me, because Blade-o'-Grass had told him I had been kind to her. His eyes moistened when he heard of the death of his child, and his grief grew stronger in the brief pause that ensued. But after a time he said it was the best thing that could have happened to the little thing. I told him, also, of the kindness of Mr. Merrywhistle, and that it was he who had borne the expenses of the funeral.
'Yes,' was Tom Beadle's careless comment, 'the old chap's 'elped Blade-o'-Grass a good many times, on and off. He's knowed 'er since she was a kid.'
There was not a trace of gratitude in his voice.
'She has made other friends as well,' I said.
A jealous gleam shot into his eyes.
'What friends? Swells?'
'Friends,' I answered, 'who sympathise deeply with her, and who would help her if they could.'
'What's to 'inder 'em?'
I did not answer him. I left it to him to gather from my silence that it was he who barred the way to a better kind of life for the poor girl; that it was her entire devotion to him that kept her down.
'I know what you're drivin' at; it's me as 'inders 'em,' he said, with a sneer. 'Well, that's nothink new. Blade-o'-Grass and me's 'eerd that often enough. The way they'd 'elp 'er is by tellin' 'er to cut away from me. I don't think the old gal 'd do that. I'd bet a pennyyou'vebeen tryin' to persuade 'er.'
'On the contrary; I have begged her to ask you to do something that will bring her closer to you.'
'Gammon!' he sneered. 'What is it you wanted 'er to ask me?
'That you should marry her.'
He looked at me in blank wonder. 'Marry 'er!' he exclaimed. He was evidently puzzled, and he ransacked his mind for motives and reasons; but all his cunning wit could not assist him.
'It's me as 'inders people from 'elpin' Blade-o'-Grass, and yet the parson wants me to many 'er!'
I saw this expressed in his face, and I saw also a deep suspicion that some treachery to himself lay behind the proposition.
'I'll think on it,' he said aloud. 'Will you take 'er a letter from me?'
'Yes; I will write it for you if you like.'
'Thank you for nothink!' he replied with a leer. 'I'll get it done through the governor. He'll 'ave to read it, you know, before it goes. Will you take your solemn oath you won't open it?'
'I promise you not to open it.'
'And you won't read it to 'er? You'll give it to the old gal 'erself, and tell 'er she's got to git some one else to read it?
I made this promise as well; and when I left with the letter, I think he was half inclined to believe that my words and sympathy were genuine. I gave an account of this interview to Mrs. Silver.
'I have been thinking all the morning of the poor girl,' she said. 'My servant is going to leave me to get married. I will take Blade-o'-Grass in her place, if she will come. It will be a home for her, and I may be able to do her some good.'
The proposal delighted me, and I went at once to Blade-o'-Grass to acquaint her with it. She thanked me and Mrs. Silver most gratefully, but said she could not accept the offer. 'No, sir, not to save my life.'
'But why?' I asked in grief and annoyance. 'Your refusal is unreasonable.'
'You don't understand, sir. Read Tom's letter. You'll see what part of it I mean.'
She gave me the letter I had brought her from Tom Beadle. The words she referred to were these:
'When I come out, we'll get married. And mind! So long as you are true to me, I will be true to you. But if you run away from Stoney-alley, and go with them friends of yours, I shall know what that means.'
'It means, sir,' said Blade-o'-Grass, 'as Tom'll think I've deserted 'im. So you see, sir, I can't go to Mrs. Silver's. Don't you fear for me, sir; Mr. Wirtue is a real good friend to me now; he's took the next room to this, and he's always bringin' things to me.'
Since the night of the fire I had not seen Jimmy Virtue; and I went at once to his room. He did not reply to my knock; and when I opened the door, I found him playing cribbage with his shadow-companion. He was so intent upon the game that he did not know I was in the room until I was close to him.
'Ah, Mr. Meadow, sir, I didn't 'eer yer. Take a chair.'
I noticed that his face was pinched and careworn; and I asked him if he was not well.
'Well enough,' he replied. 'I can't expect to be too well. My time's comin'. Yes, I'm near the end on it. I dreamt last night they was diggin' my grave.' He pushed the cards from him impatiently. 'Look 'ere, Mr. Meadow, take an old man's advice. Don't lead a lonely life; git somethin' about you to love, and as'll love you; if ever you git a chance, snap at it, or you'll rue the day! A nice thing for a man to play a game--it's life as I'm talkin' of--and when he comes to the end of it, to find out that he's played it all wrong! Do you think it's worth 'avin'?'
'What?'
'Life. Is it worth 'avin'?'
'Surely, surely. It would be sinful to think otherwise.'
'O, I don't put myself up for anythink good! And don't you think I'm different to what I was because I've been dropped upon by bad luck. But what's it worth 'avin' for?'
'For itself; for the good that there is in it; for the good that one can do; for that it is a preparation for the better life to come.'
'Yes, yes; Blade-o'-Grass 'as been tellin' me. She says 'er baby's there. Well, it's a good thing for her to look forward to. There's nobody there for me, though; a good job then for me that I don't believe. No,' he said, holding up a warning finger; 'don't preach to me! I won't stand it! I've made my bed, and I've got to lay on it.'
As I wished to divert his mind from gloomy thought, I did not pursue the subject, but related what had passed concerning Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass, and asked if he had anything to advise.
'Why not marry 'em at once,' he said, 'if you think sich a lot o' good is comin' out of it?Ithink it's about the worst thing as could 'appen to 'er.'
'I have my plan already settled,' I replied, 'and if I can carry it out, it will be the redemption of both of them. Marry them at once, you say. But Tom is in prison!'
'Is there any law agin marryin' 'em there? I daresay you could manage it if you tried.'
I had not thought of that, and I resolved to act at once upon the suggestion. There were serious difficulties in the way, but I was fortunate enough to gain the sympathy of the governor and the chaplain of the prison, who, when they heard the story of Blade-o'-Grass, were most eager to aid me in carrying out my design. With their assistance, then, all obstacles were overcome, and the day was fixed for the ceremony. I decided that the marriage should be consecrated early in the morning of Christmas-day.
''Ow about the weddin'-ring?' asked Jimmy Virtue.
I said that I would have it ready on the morning of the ceremony.
'You'll 'ave to measure 'er finger,' he said; 'let's do it now.'
We were conversing in his room. He called Blade-o'-Grass, and she entered.
'We're a-goin' to measure your finger for the weddin'-ring. Hold on, Mr. Meadow, don't you say a word! Give us your 'and, Blade-o'-Grass.'
The blood mounted to her face as she held out her hand. Jimmy Virtue took a wedding-ring from his pocket, looked at it curiously, and placed it on her finger.
'See, Mr. Meadow,' he said, 'it just fits. This is my present, Blade-o'-Grass.'
She thanked him tearfully, and kissed the ring, and held it to her lips.
'It's 'er mother's,' whispered Jimmy Virtue to me.
The sun rose bright and clear on Christmas-day. How well I remember the morning! It is three years since that time, and every incident is as clear to my mind as if it had occurred but yesterday. Punctually at half-past eight o'clock Blade-o'-Grass was at my lodgings; she was nervous and very pale, and had evidently had but little sleep during the night. I had never seen her so neatly dressed, and I expressed my pleasure at her appearance.
'Mrs. Silver and Miss Rachel brought the things to me yesterday, sir,' she said. 'They are too good to me, sir--too good.'
'It gives them pleasure.'
'I don't deserve it, sir.'
'You can deserve it. If you could do something for them in return for their kindness, you would?'
'That I would, sir, and grateful to be able to.'
'Come, we are going to walk to their house now. It is a bright Christmas morning, is it not?'
'Yes, sir, I never remember sich a Christmas as this.'
'May it prove the commencement of a happy life for you, my dear!'
She turned from me and sobbed quietly. When she recovered we walked together to Buttercup-square. Then Blade-o'-Grass told me how one Christmas night, very soon after her baby was born, she had stood for more than an hour at the door of Mrs. Silver's house, in the midst of a heavy fall of snow, with her dear in her arms, waiting for Mr. Merrywhistle.
'If it 'adn't been for 'im, sir, we should 'ave been found dead in the snow, baby and me!'
'He is a good man, my dear. He is coming with us this morning. Do not cry. This is a bright day for all of us. Rachel, also, is coming.'
'O, sir!' she said, with quivering lips. 'What 'ave I done that you should all be so good to me?'
'It will be in your power to repay us all, my dear.'
'Will you tell me 'ow, sir?'
'By and by, my dear. The time will come.'
We found Rachel with her hat and shawl on, ready to accompany us. She gave Blade-o'-Grass a little present--a silk neckguard which she had worked, with a jet cross hanging to it. Mr. Merrywhistle came in almost at our heels, rubbing his hands, and saying what a fine morning it was. By a quarter to ten o'clock we four were at the prison gates, where Jimmy Virtue was waiting for us; he had smartened himself up for the occasion, but his face looked worn and aged. Time was telling fast upon him.
The governor of the prison had kindly set apart a private room for us, and there the ceremony was performed. Tom Beadle, when he first entered, looked half shamefaced and half defiant; but the solemnity of the prayers had its effect upon him, and after a time he drew his breath in short gasps, and the words he had to repeat after me came tremblingly from his lips. Jimmy Virtue gave Blade-o'-Grass away. So these two human waifs were joined together according to God's holy ordinance, and were made man and wife.
The last words were said, and I prepared to go to my church. Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass were standing a little apart from us; there was a dazed expression in his face, as if he could not fully realise what had occurred, but it softened as he gazed into Blade-o'-Grass's eyes, and saw the look of full-hearted love with which she was regarding him.
'Are you glad, old woman?' he asked.
'I am very, very 'appy, Tom!' she said.
Then Rachel, as had been arranged between us, asked Tom whether his wife might spend the day with her. He hesitated a moment or two, but the better part of his nature had been awakened, and he could not resist Blade-o'-Grass's pleading look.
'Tom told me,' said Blade-o'-Grass, as we walked to church, 'that he feels as if he was just born like.'
We wanted Jimmy Virtue to spend the day with the Silvers, but he refused, saying that he could pass the time well enough with Jack. 'I'm pig-'eaded, you know,' he added; 'that's what I am; and you ain't goin' to redemptionme!' And so left us abruptly.
That happy Christmas day was an era indeed in Blade-o'-Grass's life. It was spent very peacefully; and every one strove in a quiet way to make Blade-o'-Grass feel that she was in the midst of friends. I watched her closely during the day, and I saw that new thoughts were stirring in her mind. In the evening we were sitting together in the parlour; the candles were not lighted, and the conversation was carried on in low tones. Blade-o'-Grass had removed to the window, where she sat, watching the birth of night. I drew a chair close to her.
'Mr. Meadow,' she whispered, 'I've been thinkin'----'
'Yes, my dear.'
'That if me and Tom 'ad 'ad a 'ome like this we might 'ave been different to what we are.' She paused, and I did not speak, for I saw that she was struggling to say something more. 'I'm almost sorry I came 'ere, sir.'
'Why, my dear?'
'It's ungrateful of me to say it; but seein' what I've seen 'ere today'll make me miserable to-morrer in Stoney-alley.'
I made no attempt to console her. I strove to prepare her for the end I had in view.
'This is a happy home, indeed, Blade-o'-Grass, and other homes as happy have sprung from it.'
I recalled to her mind the circumstance, which Rachel had narrated to me, of Ruth assisting her one day when she was beseeching Tom Beadle to bring home some money as there was no bread in the cupboard.
'I remember the young lady well, sir,' said Blade-o'-Grass; 'and I thought of 'er orfen, though I never set eyes on 'er since then.'
'She will be here presently. She is married, and has a baby.'
Blade-o'-Grass turned from me, trembling, and hid her face in her hands.
'She and her husband have a very happy home, not far from where we are sitting. If you had a home like theirs----'
'O, sir! for pity's sake, don't mock me!'
'Listen, my dear. Do you believe that we have your happiness and well-doing very close to our hearts?'
'If I didn't believe it, sir, I wouldn't be fit to live.'
'Then believe this as well. Such a happy home as Ruth's and this may be yours, if you have the courage to make a sacrifice. No, not yet! nor will I tell you what it is until the time comes. But think of it, and believe in it. Even if you doubted me, and Rachel told you it would be a good thing to do----'
She looked lovingly at Rachel.
'I think, sir, that whatever she told me to do I would do, though I was sure to die the next minute.'
'You would be right, Blade-o'-Grass. All that she says and does is sweet and good.'
Ah, Rachel, my wife, how my heart yearned to you then! How tenderly, in the dim twilight of that Holy Day, did my thoughts dwell upon you in purest love! In the solemn pause that ensued I endeavoured to strengthen my heart by inward prayer. If the priceless gift of your love were denied to me, I might still hope that your friendship would sweeten my life.
Blade-o'-Grass laid her hand timidly upon mine, and whispered to me that the prospect I had held out was like heaven to her.
Soon after this, Charley, and Ruth with her baby, came in quietly, and I brought Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass together.
I see them standing side by side at the window. I see Ruth showing her baby to Blade-o'-Grass. I see Blade-o'-Grass's hands tremble and wander. I see her stretch forth her arms convulsively, and presently I see her sitting on a low stool, with the baby in her lap, sobbing quietly over the child, whose fingers caress her face, pityingly as it seems. Ruth sinks upon her knees by the side of the bereaved mother, and their arms are round each other's neck. Night's shadows steal upon them, and wrap them in a peaceful embrace.
I had many opportunities of seeing Tom Beadle during his term of imprisonment, and I soon became engaged in the contemplation of a subject which has been studied and pondered over by thousands of earnest minds, but never, I believe, with greater seriousness than at the present time. Here was a man, with a man's strength, not unwilling to do his work in the world, if he knew the way to do it. Of a low type he certainly was, but he had grown into his condition through no fault of his own. I penetrated the crust of his character, and I found behind it much material which could be worked to a good end. Gradually I won his confidence, and, in answer to certain remarks of mine affecting his career and character, he answered me in plain terms and with a rough shrewdness which greatly impressed me in his favour, I saw that he was helpless; that, in this country, society could do nothing for him, and that he would be utterly lost if he were left to himself and his own resources. If he were lost, Blade-o'-Grass would be lost also.
Golden Grain page 73
'It will be a happy task accomplished,' I thought, 'if I can save these two from the certain degradation which lies before them--if I can make their after-life happy in an honourable way, and worthy of the respect of men.'
Tom Beadle gave me a great proof of his confidence. I asked him to allow Blade-o'-Grass to visit the Silvers and Ruth, and he consented with but little pressure. I took care that she was frequently in one or other of the houses. She liked best to be with Ruth and Ruth's baby, whom she often begged to be allowed to nurse. I said to her one day when she was in Ruth's house, having spent a few happy hours there,
'If you and Tom had such a home as this----'
'It'd be like 'eaven, sir,' she answered. 'Don't speak of it, sir. It breaks my 'eart to think of it!'
But I knew that the plan I had in view would give them such a home, after a time, if they were willing to endure a present sacrifice. I knew it from a letter which I had received from Canada a week after Christmas. The letter was from Richard. I give it in its entirety:
'My dear Mr. Meadow,--I can now, I think, send you a letter which will give you satisfaction. My dear mother, and Ruth, and Mary, write so much about you, that I feel, although I have never seen you, as if I was talking to an old friend; and I feel very proud, I assure you, that you should write to me as you have written, and should place so much confidence in me. I cannot express to you how much I have thought of the story you have told me. I can see Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass as plainly as if they stood before me. I can see what they were when they were children (I saw it often, my dear Mr. Meadow, when I was in London), and what they are likely to become, if a helping hand is not stretched forth to save them. You say you place your hopes in me, and that if it is out of my power to help you, you will not know which way to turn to accomplish what you desire. My dearly-beloved mother has written to me also, urging me to try and do something, and I need not say what an incentive that has been to me.
'Now let me tell you. It has been my good fortune to make the acquaintance of a farmer, at whose house I spend my day of rest every week. His name is Gibson. Is it letting you into a secret, when I tell you that he has a daughter, and that I hope some day, please God!----Well, dear Mr. Meadow, you must finish the uncompleted sentence yourself. And yet I must tell you that I do love her, with all my heart! You are not the first I have told. My dear mother knows all about it.
'Mr. Gibson has a large farm, and employs eighteen hands, who all receive fair wages, and have made comfortable homes for themselves. The Sabbath before last, Mr. Gibson was telling me the history of some of the men he has employed, and it suddenly flashed upon me that it was in his power to do what you desire with respect to Tom Beadle.
'Well, dear Mr. Meadow, I told him the story, and I gave him your letters and my dear mother's letters to read. Annie--that is his daughter--was present, and I spoke with all my earnestness. When I had finished, Annie was crying, and I myself was very nearly crying too. It would take too long for me to tell all that passed, but Mr. Gibson said he would keep the letters for a week, and that he would consider whether he could do anything. When I wished Annie good-night, I asked her if she would help me with her father, and she said she would--and said, too, how she wished that she knew you and my dear mother and sisters! You have no idea, Mr. Meadow, what a dear good girl she is.
'I didn't have one good night's rest all the week for thinking of what Mr. Gibson would say, and last Sabbath I went to his house with a trembling heart. We go to the same church, and after church we took a walk. It was a fine cold morning--you should have seen how Annie looked! Well, but I must not wander from the subject. Then Mr. Gibson told me he had read all your letters, more than once he said, and that he had made up his mind. This is what he says. If Tom Beadle will come out to us, Mr. Gibson will take him into his service, and will give him fair wages. He will work and live on the farm, and Mr. Gibson will do all he can for him. But Mr. Gibson made conditions. Tom Beadle must come out by himself, and must bind himself to work for Mr. Gibson for five years. "At the end of that time," Mr. Gibson said, "he will, if he is industrious, have a home of his own and money in his pocket. Then he can send for his wife, and they will have a good future before them." Mr. Gibson put it this way. "Tom Beadle," he says, "must do something to show that he is worthy of the confidence that is to be placed in him; he has to grow out of old bad ways into new good ones. Give him something to work for," said Mr. Gibson, "something to look forward to, and the chances of his turning out right are more in his favour." Well, dear Mr. Meadow, that is how it stands. If Tom Beadle will come over, there is a home for him at once, and there is honest good work, with fair wages, for him to commence at, right away.
'I hope you will be satisfied and pleased with this. I am sure it will turn out right.Iwill make a friend of Tom Beadle, and he shall not go wrong, if we can help it. Annie will help too, I am sure. I do not write any news about myself; dear mother will tell you all about me. I am getting along famously. With affectionate esteem, my dear Mr. Meadow, believe me to be most faithfully yours,
'Richard Silver.'
I deemed it wise not to disclose the contents of this letter to Blade-o'-Grass until the day before Tom Beadle was to come out of prison. I had persuaded her to spend a few hours of that day with Ruth, and when I went to Ruth's house in the evening, I found that Blade-o'-Grass had gone to her home in Stoney-alley. About nine o'clock in the night I went to her room, to play the great stake upon which her future rested, and as I walked through the labyrinth of narrow thoroughfares which led to Stoney-alley, I prayed fervently that my mission would be successful. Blade-o'-Grass's room was very clean and tidy; she had been busy making preparations for the return of Tom Beadle. When I entered, her work was done, and she was sitting with her head resting on her hand.
'Don't disturb yourself, my dear,' I said; 'I have come to have a long chat with you. You have been busy, I see.'
'Yes,' she said; 'Tom's comin' 'ome to-morrer.'
I noticed that there was sadness in her tone.
'You are glad?' I said.
'Yes, sir, of course I'm glad. But I've been thinkin' of a good many things. I've been thinkin' of baby, and--and----'
She bit her lips, as if that effort were necessary to restrain the expression of what was in her mind.
'Don't hide anything from me, my dear; tell me what you've been thinking of.'
'I 'ardly know 'ow to tell it, sir. My thoughts seem as if they was turnin' agin myself. I see that I must ha' been goin' on wrong all my life, and that Tom 's been doin' the same. And my 'eart's fit to break, when I think it can't be altered now!'
'It can be altered, my child.'
She looked at me imploringly.
'You've said somethin' like that afore, sir; but it's all dark to me. Tom'll come 'ome to-morrer, and things'll go on in the old way, and per'aps he'll be took up agin before long----'
She could not proceed for her tears.
'You see, my dear, that the life he is leading is wrong.'
'I see it, sir--I see it. It'd be better, arter what you've told me, if Tom and me was to die to-morrer!'
'Our lives are not in our own hands, my dear. What has been done in the past has been done in ignorance, and the shame of it can be wiped away. Itisshame, my dear. Place yourself and Tom by the side of Ruth andherhusband.'
She uttered a cry, as if a knife had struck her. But I continued:
'Place your home by the side of theirs. See the happy future that lies before them, and think of what lies before you, if, as you have said, things go on with you in the same old way.'
She covered her face with her hands. I was striking her hard, but I knew it was necessary for the sacrifice I was about to call upon her to make. I drew a picture of the two homes. I placed children in them, and contrasted their appearance, their lives, their chances of happiness. I did not spare her; I spoke with all my strength and earnestness. Suddenly she interrupted me with wild looks and in a wild tone.
'What are you tellin' me all this for?'
'Because it is in your power to choose between them,' I replied. 'Not only for yourself, but for Tom. His future is in your hands to shape to a good end, if you have the courage to make a sacrifice. Nay, not only his future in this world--his soul is in your hands to save and purify!'
She parted the hair from her eyes, and gazed at me as if she were in a dream.
'Will you do this? Will you save your husband from the net of crime and shame in which he is entangled?'
'Will I do it?' she cried, in a tone of wonder. 'Can you arks me? Show me the way!'
I did. I told her the end I had been working for. I read Richard's letter to her, and dilated upon the prospect it held out.
'There is no chance for Tom here,' I said; 'there is in that new land, and with such friends as he will have about him. I believe it is in your power to persuade him to go. He loves you, and would do much for you. The separation will not be a very long one. Five years will soon pass, and then you will both be young. While he is working out the commencement of a good and better life there, you can stop with Mrs. Silver; she bids me offer you a home. Will you make the sacrifice?--a sacrifice that in all your after-life you will bless us for persuading you to make. My dear sister,'--she bowed her head to her breast convulsively as I thus addressed her--'it will be your salvation, and his. All our hearts are set upon it for your good and his. I know how you will suffer in parting from him, but the love's sacrifice that you will make for him will be a truer test of love than all you have hitherto done.'
She was silent for a long, long time before she spoke.
'When will he 'ave to go, sir?'
'A ship sails from Liverpool the day after to-morrow.'
'So soon!' she cried, clasping her hands.
'It is best so. Every hour that he passes here after he is out of prison is an hour of peril to you both. I will myself accompany him to Liverpool to-morrow. Let him commence his baptism at once, and in the new land work out his regeneration. He will thank you for it by and bye. Shall I tell you what I see in a few years from this present moment, my dear?'
'If you please, sir,' she said, tears streaming down her face.
'I see you and Tom in the new land living happily in your own little home. I see you standing at the door in the morning looking after him, as he goes to his work, and he turning round to smile upon you. I see him, when he is out of your sight, exchanging friendly greetings with men whose respect he has earned; no longer ashamed to look men in the face, my dear, but walking with head erect, without fear, as one can do who earns his bread honestly. I see him coming home at night, when his day's work is done, and you, perhaps, reading to him----'
'Reading, sir!'
'Yes, my dear, reading. Reading a letter, perhaps, that Mrs. Silver, or Ruth, or Mr. Merrywhistle has written to you and Tom. It will come--you will learn while he is away. I see your cupboard well stocked, your house prettily furnished, yourselves comfortably clothed. Perhaps Richard--Ruth's brother--and his wife come in to see you, and you talk together of the dear ones at home, bound to you as to him, my dear, by links of love. I hear you thank God before you sleep for all His goodness to you. I see you helping some poor child who has been left orphaned and helpless as you were left----'
'O, sir!'
'It will come, my dear, if you live, as surely as we are speaking together at this minute. I see you, perhaps, with a baby in your arms, like the dear one who has passed away from you----'
She caught my hand hysterically, and I paused. I saw that my work was done. I will not set down here what she said when she was calmer. When I left her she was animated by a high resolve, and I knew that she would not falter.
'What time will you be 'ere in the mornin', sir?' she asked, as she stood with me at the street-door in Stoney-alley.
'At twelve o'clock, my dear.'
'Tom'll be ready to go with you then, sir. It'll 'urt 'im to leave me, sir, but he'll do it for my sake. I know 'im, sir!'
'Good-night, my dear; God bless you!'
'And you, sir,' she said, kissing my hand.
I was punctual to my appointment on the following day. Blade-o'-Grass heard my step on the stairs, and came into the passage to meet me.
'Tom's inside, sir.'
I looked into her face, and saw in the anguish expressed there the marks of the conflict she had passed through.
'He's ready to go with you, sir.'
Tom Beadle's face bore marks of trouble also, and he evidently had not made up his mind whether he should receive me as a friend or an enemy.
'I feel as if I was bein' transported,' he said in a dogged manner.
'You will live to thank us, Tom,' I said, as I held out my hand to him. He hesitated a moment or two before he took it, and then he gripped it fiercely.
'Look 'ere!' he exclaimed hoarsely. 'Is it all goin' to turn out as you've told 'er? Take your oath on it! Say, May I drop down dead if it won't all come right!'
'As surely as I believe in a better life than this, so surely do I believe that this is your only chance of bestowing happiness upon the woman who loves you with her whole heart and soul.'
'I wouldn't do it but for 'er!' he said, and turned to Blade-o'-Grass. She crept into his arms, and clasped him to her faithful heart, and kissed him again and again. I went into the passage, and I heard her tell him, in a voice broken by sobs, how she loved him, and would love him, and him only, till death, and after death, and how she would count the minutes while he was away, till the blessed time came when they would be together again. Powerful as was her influence over him, it would not have been perfect if he had not had some good and tender qualities in his nature. I felt that the words that were passing between them in this crisis of their lives were sacred, and I went downstairs to the street-door. I found Mr. Merrywhistle there.
'I have a cab waiting for you,' he said, 'and a box.'
'A box!'
'With some clothes in it for Tom Beadle, my dear sir. It will make a good impression upon him. And here are two sovereigns for him.'
'Give them to him yourself, Mr. Merrywhistle,' I said; 'he will be down presently.'
Tom Beadle joined us in a few minutes.
'Mr. Merrywhistle has brought a box of clothes for you, Tom,' I said; 'and he has something else for you also.'
'It's only a matter of a couple of sovereigns, Tom,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, stammering as if he were committing an act of meanness instead of an act of kindness. 'They may come useful to you when you land in Canada.'
Tom took the money and thanked him; then said that he had forgotten to say something to Blade-o'-Grass, and ran up-stairs. I learnt afterwards that he had given her the money, and had insisted, despite her entreaties, that she should take it.
I did not leave Tom Beadle until the ship sailed. He related to me the whole story of his life, and asked me once,
'Won't the old devil break out in me when I'm on the other side o' the water?'
'Not if you are strong, Tom--not if you keep your thoughts on Blade-o'-Grass, and think of the perfect happiness you can bestow upon her by keeping in the right path.'
'I'll try to, sir. No man's ever tried 'arder than I mean to.'
When I thought of the friends that were waiting on the other side of the Atlantic to help him, and encourage him, and keep him straight, I was satisfied that all would turn out well.
I returned to London with a light heart. It was nearly nine o'clock at night when I reached home. I lit my lamp, and saw upon my table a large envelope, addressed to me in a lawyer's handwriting. I opened the letter, and found that it contained a sealed packet, and the following note, dated from Chancery-lane: