The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLittlebourne LockThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Littlebourne LockAuthor: F. Bayford HarrisonRelease date: July 3, 2008 [eBook #25959]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Chris Curnow, Lindy Walsh,and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLEBOURNE LOCK ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Littlebourne LockAuthor: F. Bayford HarrisonRelease date: July 3, 2008 [eBook #25959]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Chris Curnow, Lindy Walsh,and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net
Title: Littlebourne Lock
Author: F. Bayford Harrison
Author: F. Bayford Harrison
Release date: July 3, 2008 [eBook #25959]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Chris Curnow, Lindy Walsh,and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLEBOURNE LOCK ***
"I'VE SPILT THE SOUP, AND BROKE THE JUG.""I'VE SPILT THE SOUP, AND BROKE THE JUG."
Seal
T
he mist of a July morning shrouded the river and its banks. It was a soft thin mist, not at all like a winter fog, and through it, and high above it, the sun was shining, and the larks singing; and Edward Rowles, the lock-keeper, knew well that within an hour or two the brightest sunshine would gladden England's river Thames.
He came out from his house, which was overgrown with honeysuckle and clematis, and he looked up the stream and down the stream, and then at the weir over which the water tumbled and roared; he saw that everything was all right after its night's rest. So he put his hands in his pockets, and went round to the back of the house to see how his peas and beans were conducting themselves. They were flourishing. Next helooked at some poultry in a wired-off space; they seemed very glad to see him, even the little chickens having good appetites, and being ready for their breakfasts.
After this inspection Edward Rowles went indoors again, and looked at his son Philip, who was still asleep in his little camp-bed in the corner of the sitting-room.
"Get up, lad, get up," said the father; "don't be the last."
Philip opened his eyes and rubbed them, and within a few minutes was washing and dressing.
In the meantime Mrs. Rowles was lighting the fire in the kitchen, filling the kettle with water from the well, getting down bread and butter from a shelf, and preparing everything for the morning meal.
Presently there appeared a little girl, Emily by name, who slept in a tiny attic all by herself, and who was very slow in dressing, and generally late in coming down.
"Come, bustle about, Emily," said her mother. "Here, this slice of bread is very dry, so toast it, and then it will be extra nice."
Emily obeyed. Philip got a broom and swept out the kitchen; Mr. Rowles brought in a handful of mustard-and-cress as a relish for bread-and-butter. And soon they were all seated at the table.
"Not a boat in sight," said Mr. Rowles; "nor yet a punt."
"It is early yet," replied his wife; "wait until the first train from London comes in."
"Like enough there will be folks come by it," rejoined Rowles; "they must be precious glad to get out of London this hot day."
"Why must they be glad, father?" asked Philip.
"Because London is awful hot in hot weather; it seems as if it had not got enough air for all the folks to breathe that live in it. Millions of people, Philip. Write down a million on your slate, boy."
Philip brought his slate and pencil and wrote 1,000,000.
"Write it over again, and twice more. Now that seems a good many, eh? Well, there are more people in London than all those millions on your slate. What do you think of that?"
The boy had no idea at all of what a million of people would look like, nor a million of lemon drops, nor a million of anything. He did not even try to gain an idea on the subject.
"Mother," said Emily, "does Aunt Mary live in London? And Albert and Juliet and Florry and Neddy—and—and all the others."
"Yes, poor things! they live in London."
"And they don't like hot days in London?"
"Hot days must be better than cold ones. I say, Rowles," and his wife turned to him andspoke in a gentler tone, "do you know I have been thinking so much lately about Mary and all of them. It is a long time since we had a letter. I wonder if it is all right with them."
"As right as usual, I'll be bound," said Rowles gruffly.
"I've a sort of feeling on me," Mrs. Rowles pursued, "that they are not doing well. The saying is, that no news is good news; but I'm not so sure of that—not always."
"Mary went her own way," said the lock-keeper, "and if it turns out the wrong way it is no business of mine. When a woman marries a fine, stuck-up London printer, who works all night on a morning paper and sleeps half the day, what can you expect? Can you expect good health, or good temper, or good looks from a man who turns night into day and day into night?"
"Children, run and give these crumbs and some barley to the chickens. Now, Rowles, you know very well that I never did join you in your dislike to Thomas Mitchell. Printing was his trade, and there must be morning papers I suppose, and I daresay he'd like to work by day and sleep by night if he could. I think your sister Mary made a mistake when she married a Londoner, after being used to the country where youcandraw a breath of fresh air. And I'm afraid that Tom's money can't be any too much for eightchildren living, and two put away in the cemetery, pretty dears! And I was just thinking to myself that it would seem friendly-like if I was to journey up to London and see how they are getting on. It is less trouble than writing a letter."
"It costs more," said Rowles.
A long, distant whistle was heard.
"There they come!" and Rowles rose from his chair, and took his burly figure out into the garden-plot which lay between the cottage and the lock.
Mrs. Rowles followed him, saying, "There is a train at 10.22; and if I leave the dinner all ready you can boil the potatoes for yourself."
"What do you want to go for, at all? Women are always gadding about, just to show off their bonnets, or to look at other people's. Here they come—two of them!" he added.
For two steam launches, whistling horribly, were coming up, and required that the lock should be opened for them.
Nothing gave Philip and Emily more pleasure than to help their father open the lock-gates. They liked going to school, and they liked playing with their friends, but opening the lock-gates, and then watching them as they closed, was more delightful than any other kind of work or play.
Philip knew that a river on which large boatsand barges went to and fro must be kept up by locks, or it would run away so fast that it would become too shallow for any but small boats. Littlebourne lock is built from one bank of the river to an island in it. There are great wooden gates, opened by great wooden handles; but to explain how a lock is made and worked would be difficult, though it is easily understood when examined. Philip and Emily had lived nearly all their lives in Littlebourne lock-house, and they knew more about boating and such matters than old men and women who live all their lives in London.
The two little steamers came into the lock as soon as Rowles, assisted by his children, opened the lower gate. The men on them talked to Rowles while the lock was being filled by the water, which came through the sluices in the upper gate.
Philip listened to this talk; but Emily went up to the other gate. Her father and brother did not notice what she was doing. They came presently and opened the upper gates, talking all the time to the men on the launches. Then they heard cries.
"Look out! take care! keep in!"
Emily's voice sounded shrill and terrified.
"This side! this side!" she was crying wildly; and she jumped about on the bank of the island as if frightened at something in the water.
Rowles ran to the place. The first launch was just coming out of the lock, closely followed by the other. Across the narrow piece of water just outside the lock was a rowing boat. In it was one man. He looked scared, for the nose of his boat was stuck in the bank of the island, and the stern had swung round almost to the opposite bank. The man was standing up with a scull in his hands, poking at the bank near the bows; and at every poke his boat went further across the narrow stream, and was in imminent danger of being cut in two or swamped, or in some way destroyed by the foremost launch.
"Ah, they are at it again!" cried Rowles; "these cockney boatmen, how they do try to drown themselves! Hold hard!" he shouted to the engineer of the launch.
And the engineer of that steamer did try to hold hard, but the man behind him did not see what was the matter, or that anything was the matter, and therefore he kept his engines going, and pressed close behind on the foremost launch.
Fortunately Rowles had in his hand a long pole with which to push small boats in and out of the lock. With this he caught the side of the endangered craft, and would have drawn it into safety, but the occupant of it flourished his scull about in so foolish a manner that he hindered what Rowles was trying to do, and all the time—which was but a couple of minutes—the launches were slowly bearing down upon him.
Philip had seized an oar which was lying by, Emily had caught up a clothes-line; Philip pushed his oar at the man in the boat, Emily threw him the end of her rope. Rowles had at length caught the side of the boat with the hook at the end of his pole, and brought it close to the bank.
The man gave a spring to get out on dry land. Of course his boat went away from him, nearly jerking Rowles into the water. As for the awkward creature himself, he fell on his knees on the plank edging of the bank, and his feet dangled in the stream. The launch went on again, crushing the rudder of the small boat.
It required the help of Rowles and Philip to pull the man up on his feet, and get him to believe that he was safe. He staggered up the bank to the pathway on the top of it, and gasped for breath.
"That—that—was a narrow shave!" said he.
"Ay, for them that goes out fooling in a white shirt," said Mr. Rowles.
"It is only my feet that are wet," remarked the stranger, beginning to recover his colour; "and I did not know there was any harm in a white shirt."
"No harm in the shirt if the man who wore it knew what he was about. Why, I've seen themgo out in frock-coats and tall hats and kid gloves. I've seen them that did not know bow from stern; and then, when they are drowned, they are quite surprised."
"I don't know much about boating," returned the man; "but my gentleman said he thought I had better practise a bit, because he will want me to row him about of an evening. Well, another time I will keep out of the way of the steam-launches."
"You had better, sir. And put off your coat, and your waistcoat, and your watch and chain, and rig yourself out in a flannel shirt and a straw hat. And, pray, how are you going to get home?"
At this moment Mrs. Rowles came to the door, shading her eyes with her hand, for the sun was now bright and hot, and calling out "Phil—lip! Em—ily! time to be off."
The girl threw down her rope and obeyed her mother's call, but Philip lingered. He could not make out who and what the stranger might be.
That person said, "Perhaps, Mr. Rowles, you would let your boy come with me just to put me in the right way."
"No, no; he is going to school. You be off, Phil, before I look at you again."
So, rather unwillingly, Philip also retreated into the house, from whence he and Emily presently emerged with their books, and disappearedacross the fields in the direction of the village, where their company was requested by the schoolmaster and the schoolmistress until four o'clock, with a long interval for dinner and play.
"I would let him go with you if it was not for his schooling," remarked Mr. Rowles; "but he must waste no time if he wants to get the prize. You won't get a prize for rowing. Why, some of them that comes here don't know what you mean by feathering!"
The stranger looked very humble. He was a middle-aged man of ordinary appearance, but extremely neat in his dress. His cloth clothes were all of spotless black, his necktie was black with a small white spot; he showed a good deal of fine shirt-front, and a pair of clean cuffs. Then his hair was carefully cut, and he had trimmed whiskers, but no beard or moustache. His hands were not those of a working-man, nor had they the look of those of a gentleman. Edward Rowles could not make him out.
"I'm sure you are not a boating man," said he.
"Oh, no! oh, dear no! I never rowed a boat before. Though I have been at sea: I have crossed the Channel with Mr. Burnet. But not rowing myself, of course."
"Who's Mr. Burnet?" asked Rowles.
"We are staying at the hotel," replied the stranger; "and what's more, I must be gettingback, for he likes his breakfast at a quarter-past ten sharp. Can I get back another way? Can't I go down that river?"
He pointed up the stream which came swirling from the weir.
"No," said Rowles, "you can't go up the weir-stream, any more than you could leap a donkey over a turnpike-gate. Get into your boat, and pull yourself quietly up under the left-hand bank."
"I have no rope to pull it by," said the stranger meekly.
"They come down here," remarked Rowles with infinite contempt, and speaking to the river, "and don't know what you mean by pulling. They think it is the same as towing. If you'd rather tow your boat I will lend you a line, provided that you promise faithfully to return it. It is the missus's clothes-line. And you will keep her close under the bank of the towing-path, and you will pass under all the other lines which you meet. Do you see?"
"Oh, yes, thank you," said the stranger, anxious to be off. "My name is Roberts, with Mr. Burnet at the hotel; and you shall have the rope back again."
"Tie it round the bow thwart, as you have no mast," said Rowles.
Mr. Roberts stared.
"There, stand aside, I'll do it for you. Theysit on a thwart and don't know what it is, half of them."
Grumbling and fumbling, Rowles at length got Roberts across the lock-gates and put the line into his hands, telling him to look out for barges and rapids; and then the stranger set off on his return journey, and Rowles went into his house to tell his wife that he thought they were a stupider lot this summer than ever they had been before.
When Mrs. Rowles had put on her best gown and her Sunday bonnet she was as pleasant-looking a woman as one was likely to meet between Littlebourne and London. "Going to town" was rather an event in her life, and one that called for the best gown and bonnet as well as for three-and-fourpence to pay the fare.
"Ned never will go to see his sister," said Mrs. Rowles to herself. "I might as well try to move the lock as try to move him. And now that I have made up my mind to go I had better go, and get it over. Ned thinks that Londoners are too grand to care for their country relations. But I don't think Mary is too grand to give me a welcome. I don't want a fuss made over me, I am sure; and if I run up unexpected she won't be able to make a fuss with the dinner. And when it is six months since you heard from them it is about time for you to go and see them. I am not comfortable in my mind; six months isa long time. Suppose they had gone off to Australia! I really should not wonder!"
It was nearly time to start on her walk to the station.
Rowles looked into the cottage, and his wife explained to him how he was to manage his dinner.
"Ah, peas now!" he said, looking at the green pearls lying in water in a pudding basin. "They don't see such peas as those in London, I can tell you; and you'd be a deal welcomer, Emma, if you were to take them a basketful of green stuff. I suppose Thomas Mitchell has his supper for breakfast when he gets up at night, and begins his day's work at bed-time. He might like peas for breakfast at ten o'clockp.m.; likewise broad beans. Just you wait three minutes. I bear them no ill-will, though I never could approve of a man being an owl."
Within five minutes Rowles came back from his garden with a basket of fresh-smelling vegetables. He gave it to his wife, saying, "You be off, or you'll miss your train. Give them my love when they get up this evening. There's a call for the 'Lock a-hoy!' And here they come, girls in flannels and sailor hats, rowing for their lives, and men lolling on the cushions with fans and parasols."
The husband went to open the gates for one of those water-parties which are to be seen n but on the Thames, and Mrs. Rowles set off to walk to Littlebourne station.
She met with no adventures on her journey; reached Paddington safely, took an omnibus into the city, and then walked to one of the smaller streets on the eastern side of London.
This street was one which began with good, well-kept houses, and dwindled away into small ones out of repair. About the middle of the street Mrs. Rowles stopped, and went up on the door-step of a neat-looking house, every window of which had white curtains and flower-pots. She pulled the bell-handle which was second from the top in a row of handles at the side of the door, and put her basket down to rest herself, summoning up a kindly smile with which to greet her sister-in-law, Mary Mitchell. The air of London was heavy and the sunshine pale to Mrs. Rowles's thinking, and the sky overhead was a very pale blue. There were odd smells about; stale fish and brick-fields seemed to combine, and that strange fusty odour which infects very old clothes. Mrs. Rowles preferred the scent of broad beans and pinks.
It was some time before the door was opened, and then a young woman appeared, holding it just ajar.
"Well, Mary, my dear—oh, I declare, it is not Mary!"
"Would you please to say who you want?" The young woman was not over polite.
"I have come up from the country to see my sister-in-law, Mary Mitchell. I beg your pardon, my dear, if I rang the wrong bell."
"Mrs. Mitchell don't live here," was the short reply.
"Not live here! Whatever do you mean?"
"I mean what I say; are you deaf? Mrs. Mitchell left here near upon six months ago."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Rowles, much astonished; "I never thought of such a thing. Whatever shall I do? And all this green stuff to carry back again."
"Can't you take it to her?" asked the young woman more gently.
"I don't know where she has gone to. Australia most likely."
"Australia, indeed! She has only gone to the other end of the street, No. 103. And when you can't pay your rent, and three weeks running on to four, what can you expect from your landlord?"
The door was closed, and Mrs. Rowles left standing on the step, greatly shocked and agitated. Had the Mitchells been turned out by their landlord for not paying their rent? Had they grown dishonest? Had Mitchell taken to drink? What could it mean?
"No. 103. And this is only 42; the odd numbers are on the other side. I must cross. What a lot of rubbish on the road; and do you think I would let my girl stand out bareheaded like that, gossiping with a lot of idle young chaps?" Thus thinking and moralizing Mrs. Rowles went down the street towards the eastern end of it.
She noticed the change in the houses. Their fronts grew narrower; there was a storey less; the door-steps were not hearth-stoned; the area railings were broken. No white curtains, or but few and soiled ones; hardly a flower; windowpanes filled with brown paper instead of glass; doors standing half open; heaps of cinders and refuse lying at the edge of the pavement; girls almost without frocks nursing dirty, white-faced babies. It seemed a long way to No. 103. No. 99 stood out from its fellows, and marked the point at which the street became narrower, dirtier, noisier than before. Was it possible that Edward Rowles's sister could be living here?
The comely, well-clad woman from Littlebourne looked into the entry of No. 103. She saw a narrow passage, without floorcloth or carpet; a narrow, dirty staircase led up to the rooms above. From the front room on the ground floor came the whirring sound of a sewing-machine; it might perhaps be Mary Mitchell at work.
Mrs. Rowles knocked on the door of the room.
"Who's there?"
"Please, does Mrs. Mitchell live here?"
"Top floor, back," replied the voice, and the whirr was resumed.
Picking her way, for the stairs were thick with mud from dirty boots and with droppings from pails, beer-cans, and milk-jugs, Mrs. Rowles went up the first flight. In the front room a woman's voice was scolding in strong language; in the back room a baby was wailing piteously. On the next floor one door stood open, revealing a bare room, with filthy and torn wall-paper, with paint brown from finger-marks, with cupboard-doors off their hinges, and the grate thick with rust. The visitor shuddered. Through the next half-open door she saw linen, more brown than white, hanging from lines stretched across, and steaming as it dried in the room, which was that of five persons, eating, living, and sleeping in it.
Mrs. Rowles felt a little faint; she thought that so many stairs were very trying. From this point there was nothing in the way of hand-rail; so she kept close to the wall as she carried her basket up still higher.
At the door of the back room she knocked.
There was a sort of scuffling noise inside, and a few moments passed before it was opened.
The sisters-in-law looked at each other in amazement. Rosy Emma Rowles, in her bluegown and straw bonnet with red roses, with her stout alpaca umbrella and her strong basket packed tight with vegetables, was an unaccustomed vision at No. 103; while the pale, thin, ragged, miserable Mary Mitchell was an appalling representative of her former self.
"Mary!"
"Is it you, Emma Rowles? However did you get here?"
"I came by the train from Littlebourne," said Mrs. Rowles simply. "May I come in?"
"Oh, you may come in if you care to," was the bitter reply.
Mrs. Rowles looked round her as she entered, and was so much shocked at what she saw that for a few moments she could not speak.
In the middle of the room was a square table, on which lay a mass of thick black silk and rich trimmings, which even Emma Rowles's country eyes could see were being put together to form a very handsome mantle suitable for some rich lady. A steel thimble, a pair of large scissors, a reel of cotton and another of silk lay beside the materials. In strong contrast to this beautiful and expensive stuff was the sight which saddened the further corner of the small room. Close under the sloping, blackened ceiling was a mattress laid on the floor, and on it a wan, haggard man, whom Mrs. Rowles supposed to be ThomasMitchell, though she hardly recognized him. There was also another mattress on the floor. The blankets were few, but well-worn counterpanes covered the beds. A little washstand with broken crockery, a kettle, some jam-pots, and some medicine bottles were about all the rest of the furniture. All that she saw told Mrs. Rowles very plainly that her relations had fallen into deep poverty.
"Why, Tom," she began, "I'm afraid you are ill."
"Been ill these two months," he replied in a weak voice.
"Sit down," said Mrs. Mitchell, pushing the best chair to her sister-in-law, and standing by the table to resume her work.
"We did not know Tom was ill," said Mrs. Rowles.
"I daresay not," answered Mrs. Mitchell.
"I would have come sooner to see him if I had known."
"Oh, it is no use to bother one's relations when one falls into misfortunes. It is the rich folks who are welcome, not the poor ones."
"I hope you will makemewelcome," said Mrs. Rowles, "though I am not rich."
"Well, you are richer than we are," remarked Mrs. Mitchell, softening a little, "and you are welcome; I can't say more. But I daresay if youhad known what a place you were coming to you would have thought twice about it. Six months we have had of it. First there were the changes made at the printing-office, and then the men struck work, and there was soon very little to live on; for it's when the strike allowance doesn't come in so fast that the pinch comes."
Mrs. Rowles looked round to see where the children could be hiding. Not a child's garment was to be seen, nor a toy.
"Where are the children?" she asked, half fearing to hear that they were all dead.
"Albert has got a little place in the printing-office. He was took on when Tom was laid up with rheumatic fever. Juliet is gone to the kitchen to try if she can get a drop of soup or something. They only make it for sick people now the hot weather has set in. Florry and Tommy and Willie and Neddy are all at school, because the school-board officer came round about them the other day. But it is the church school as they go to, where they ain't kept up to it quite so sharp. They will be in presently."
"And the baby?"
"Oh, the baby is out with Amy. He's that fractious with his teeth that Thomas can hardly put up with him in the house."
Mrs. Rowles was now taking out the good things from her basket. She produced a piece ofbacon, some beans, about a peck of peas, a home-made dripping cake, and some new-laid eggs.
"Edward packed it with his own hands," she explained. "He hoped you would not be too proud to accept a few bits of things from the country."
"Proud? Me proud?" and Mrs. Mitchell burst into tears.
"We are too hungry to be proud," said the sick man, with more interest in his tone. "They do smell good. They remind me of the country."
After rubbing her eyes Mrs. Rowles looked about for a saucepan, and, having found an old one in the cupboard, began to fill it with the bacon and the broad beans. "We killed a pig in the spring," she said; "and Rowles is a rare one to keep his garden stuff going."
Little was said while Mrs. Rowles cooked, and Mrs. Mitchell sewed, and Thomas sniffed the reviving green odour of the fresh vegetables. This quiet was presently interrupted by the sound of someone coming up the stairs.
Mrs. Mitchell listened. "That is Juliet. There! I expected it!"
And a crash was heard, and a cry, and they knew that something unpleasant had happened.
"There never was such a child!" said the mother; while the father moaned out, "Oh, dear!"
Mrs. Rowles went out on the landing at thetop of the stairs, and saw a girl of about thirteen sitting crouched on the lower half of the double flight, beside her the broken remains of a jug, and some soup lying in a pool, which she was trying to scrape up with her fingers, sucking them after each attempt.
"Is that you, Juliet?" said her aunt.
"Yes. I've spilt the soup and broke the jug."
"Oh, Juliet, how could you?"
"The jug had got no handle; that's why I came to drop it. And the soup was only a teeny drop, so it's no great loss. And the bannisters was all broke away for lighting the fires, and that's how I came to fall over; and I might have broke my leg and been took to the hospital, and I should have had plenty of grub there."
The child said this in a surly tone, as if all that had happened had been an injury to her—even her escape from breaking her leg—and to no one else.
"Well, come up," said Mrs. Rowles, who would hardly have been so calm had the soup and the jug been her own; "come up and see what there is for dinner here."
"Idon't care," said Juliet, as she left the remains of the spoilt articles where they lay, and came up to the room. She was a strange-looking child, with brows knitted above her deep-set eyes, with a dark, pale skin, and dark untidy hair.
"Ah, you've been at it again!" cried Mrs. Mitchell. "Well, it was my own fault to send you for it. You are the stupidest and awkwardest girl I ever come across."
"Then, whydidyou send me?" retorted Juliet. "I didn't want to go, I'm sure."
"Hush, Juliet," interposed her father; "you must not speak so to your mother. Here is your aunt come from Littlebourne, and brought in the most splendid dinner."
"I don't want no dinner," said Juliet.
"Oh," said Mrs. Rowles very gently, "I thought you would help me dish it up."
"I'm that stupid and awkward," said the girl, "that I should spill it and spoil it for you. If they'd let me go to a place I might learn to do better."
"Who would take her?" Mrs. Mitchell appealed to her sister; "and she ought to help her own people before wanting to go out among strangers."
"Yes, of course," replied Mrs. Rowles. "Everything is like charity, and begins at home."
By this time the unwonted prospect of a really hearty dinner began to soften the stern Juliet, and her brows unknitted themselves, showing that her eyes would be pretty if they wore a pleasant expression. It seemed to Mrs. Rowles that life had latterly been too hard and sad for this girl, just beginning to grow out of the easy ignoranceof childhood which takes everything as it comes; and a little plan began to form itself in the good woman's mind for improving Juliet's disposition and habits.
Before the dinner was ready there was a loud noise of feet tramping upstairs. They were the feet of five more young Mitchells; and Amy's footsteps were very heavy, for she carried the baby. Albert, who was in the printing-office, did not come home to dinner.
Though the plates and knives and forks were all out of order, and though an old newspaper acted as tablecloth, yet the meal was thoroughly enjoyed; even Mitchell ate some of the beans, with a boiled egg, and said that they put new life into him. Mrs. Rowles's own appetite was satisfied with a slice of cake and the brightening faces around her.
Mrs. Mitchell gave a contemptuous glance at the mantle hanging on a nail in the wall, and took the baby on her knee and danced him about; and the little fellow burst into a chuckling laugh, and Thomas echoed it with a fainter and feebler one.
At that precise moment there was a knock on the door. A voice said "May I come in?" and a little elderly lady put her head into the room.
"It is Miss Sutton. Come in, miss," said Mary Mitchell.
The lady who came in was, in Mrs. Rowles's eyes, exactly like a mouse. Her eyes were bright, her nose was sharp, and her clothing was all of a soft grayish-brown. And she was as quick and brisk as one of those pretty little animals, at which silly people often think they are frightened.
"Nearly two o'clock, Mrs. Mitchell. Now, if you can get the children off to school, I have something important to say to you, and only ten minutes to say it in. Bustle away, my dears," she said to the children.
After a little clamouring they all went off except Juliet and the baby.
"Don't you go, Juliet," said Mrs. Rowles; "I want to speak to you presently, before I go home."
"Then, Juliet," said her mother, "do you thinkyou could carry baby safely downstairs, and sit on the door-step with him until Miss Sutton goes away?"
"I shall be sure to bump his head against the wall; I always do," was Juliet's sulky reply.
"Oh, you must try not to do so," put in Miss Sutton.
"And you might put his head on the side away from the wall," said Mrs. Rowles cheerfully.
"I might," returned Juliet in a doubtful voice; "but that would be on the wrong arm."
"The wrong arm will be the right arm this time;" and Mrs. Rowles laid the baby on Juliet's bony right arm, and both children arrived safely on the door-step within three minutes.
"Now," said Miss Sutton, "who may this good woman be?"
"My brother's wife from Littlebourne, miss; and she brought us a real good dinner, and we are all truly thankful. Amen."
"You come to a poor part of London," said Miss Sutton; "and I am not going to say but that the poverty is deserved, part of it, at all events. There was Thomas Mitchell, aged twenty-three, getting good wages as a journeyman printer. There was Mary Rowles, parlour-maid at the West-end, costing her mistress at the rate of fifty pounds a year, aged twenty-one. Because they could keep themselves comfortably they thoughtthey could keep ten children on Thomas's wages. So they got married, and found they could not do it, not even when the ten was reduced to eight. Because a gentleman can keep himself comfortably on a hundred and fifty pounds a year, does he try to keep a wife and ten children on it?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am," said Mrs. Rowles, thinking that she ought to say something, and yet not knowing what to say.
"Oh, no, no," murmured Mary Mitchell.
"Of course not," pursued Miss Sutton. "He says, 'What I have is only enough to keep myself, so I had better not marry.' Do you know why I have not married?"
"No, miss," replied Mrs. Mitchell, getting to work again on the mantle.
"Because the man I liked had not enough to keep a wife and family; he looked before he leaped. He never leaped at all; he never even proposed to me point-blank, but it came round to me through a friend. But you working-people, you never look, and you always leap, and when you have got your ten children and nothing to feed them on, then you think that the gentlefolks who would not marry because they had not enough to keep families on, are to stint and starve themselves to keepyourfamilies. Does that seem fair?"
Mrs. Mitchell stitched away; the others did not reply.
Miss Sutton went on: "If I had ten children, or even two children, I could not afford to give you what I do." Here she put down a half-crown on the table. "Now, listen to a plan I have in my head. You know, Mrs. Mitchell, what we West-end ladies have to pay for our mantles, even the plainest and simplest we can get; two guineas and a half, and upwards to any price you like to name. You also know what you receive for making them."
"Yes, miss, I do;" and Mrs. Mitchell shook her head.
"How much is it?"
"I get ninepence; some of the women only get sevenpence halfpenny."
Mrs. Rowles could not believe her ears.
"Well, say ninepence. Now, I and some of my friends are going to buy the materials, and pay you for the work just the difference between the cost of materials and the price we should pay in a shop. Do you see?"
"Yes, miss, I see; but it won't do," and Mrs. Mitchell shook her head again.
"Why not?"
"Because ladies like to go to a shop and see hundreds of different mantles, and choose the one they like best."
"We shall have dozens of paper patterns to choose from, and the cutting-out will be done by a friend of mine who is very clever at it. I shall begin by ordering my winter mantle at once. I shall give about eight shillings a yard for the stuff; three yards makes twenty-four shillings; then some braid or something of the sort, say six yards at two shillings; that is twelve; twenty-four and twelve are thirty-six; a few buttons and sundries, say five shillings; thirty-six and five are forty-one. I shall give you seven shillings for the work, and I shall have a handsome mantle for two pounds eight shillings. Better than ninepence, and finding your own cotton and sewing-silk. Eh?"
"Yes, Miss Sutton; it is very kind of you. But it won't do. There are too many of us women; and you ladies, you all like to go shopping."
"You see," said Miss Sutton, turning to Mrs. Rowles, "what we want to do is to get rid of themiddleman. We are going to try if we can persuade the great shop-keepers to come face to face with the people who actually do the work. I don't know how we shall succeed, but we will make an effort, and we will keep 'pegging away' until we get something done. And, one word more, Mrs. Mitchell; do not bring Juliet up to the slop-work trade. Get her a situation. When your husband is strong again and goes to work,then set the girl up with some decent clothes, and we will find her a little place."
"She wants a little place," said Mrs. Mitchell; "but there's no place hereabouts. Our clergyman says he has nine thousand people in his parish, all so poor that his own house is the only one where there is a servant kept."
"You don't say so!" cried Mrs. Rowles, unable to keep longer silence. "Why, with us there are laundresses that keep servants! and many little places for girls—minding babies and such like."
"Ah, in the country," said Miss Sutton; "I daresay. Oh, this dreadful, ravenous London; it eats up men, women, and children! Well, I must go on to another house. Good-bye, good-bye."
As the lady went away Mrs. Rowles asked, "Where does she come from?"
"She lives in a street near Hyde Park. She and many other ladies, and gentlemen too, have districts in the East-end, because there are no ladies and gentlemen here who could be district visitors; there are only poor people here."
Emma Rowles thought deeply for a few minutes, while Mary Mitchell stitched away.
Thomas Mitchell had raised himself up, and was saying, "I shall soon be much better. I feel I am going to be strong again. Emma Rowles has given me quite a turn."
"Don't say that, Tom; it is rude," whispered his wife.
"I mean a turn for the better, a turn for the better."
"I wish, oh, I wish," Mrs. Rowles burst out, "how I wish I could turn you all out into the country! Fresh air, fresh water, room to move about! Where the rain makes the trees clean, instead of making the streets dirty, like it does here. Though we have mud up to your eyes in the country too; but then it is sweet, wholesome mud. Ah! what is that?"
A noise of confused voices rose from the street, and Mrs. Mitchell ran to the window. But these attics were not the whole size of the house, and the window was set so far back that she could not see the pavement on her own side of the street.
"It is that Juliet again, I'll be bound! There never was such a girl for getting into scrapes! She seems to have no heart, no spirit, for doing better."
With a hopeless sigh Mrs. Mitchell went back to the mantle.
Her sister could not take things so easily. She was not used to the incessant cries and outcries, quarrels, accidents, and miseries of a great city. Mrs. Rowles ran swiftly down the sloppy stairs to the open door, there she found Juliet leaningagainst the railings, while the baby lay sprawling on the step.
"Whatever is the matter?" asked Mrs. Rowles, breathless with fear.
"Nothing," was Juliet's reply.
"But I heard loud voices."
"That was only when Miss Sutton walked on baby."
"Poor little fellow! How did that happen?"
"Oh, I don't know; he just slipped off my lap at the very moment that she was coming out. He's not hurt."
Mrs. Rowles picked up the baby to make sure that he was not injured, and found no mark or bruise.
"But his spine might be hurt, or his brain, without there being any outside mark. I am afraid you are very careless."
"Yes, I am. I don't care about nothing."
"Now, that's not at all pretty of you, Juliet."
"Don't want it to be pretty."
"And it's not kind and nice."
"Don't want to be kind and nice."
"And I am afraid people will not love you if you go on like this."
"Don't want people to love me."
Mrs. Rowles knew not how to soften this hard heart. "Juliet, don't you want to help your sick father and your hard-working mother, and all your hungry little brothers and sisters?"
"No, I don't. I want to go away from them. I want to have mutton-chops and rice puddings like we used to have when there was not so many of us; and merino frocks, and new boots with elastic sides; and the Crystal Palace."
"Oh, you would like to leave home?"
"Yes, I would. They worrit me, and I worrit them."
"Oh, poor child, poor child!"
The kind-hearted Emma Rowles made curious little noises with her tongue and her teeth, and toiled again up the staircase with baby in her arms, and Juliet silently following as she went. Mrs. Rowles framed short, unworded prayers for guidance at this present crisis; and when she stood again in her sister-in-law's room her resolve was taken.
She put the baby into his father's arms.
"There, Thomas, I do hope you will get about soon. Do you think your trade is a healthy one? My Ned, he always says that it is bad to work by night, and bad to sleep by day, says he."
"Emma Rowles," was Mitchell's sharp rejoinder, "does your Ned ever read a newspaper?"
"Yes, most every day. Them passing through the lock often give him aStandardor aTelegraph."
"Then he'd better not find fault with the printers. If the public would be content withevening papers, we printers might keep better hours."
"There now!" said Mrs. Rowles, venturing on a short laugh "Do you know, I never thought of when the morning papers get printed."
"There's a many as thoughtless as you, and more so."
Mitchell laughed scornfully. His wife also laughed a very little, and baby chuckled as if he too thought his aunt's ignorance of the world very amusing; but none of these laughs moved Juliet even to smile.
Then Emma Rowles began to tie her bonnet-strings, and to pull her mantle on her shoulders.
"I will take back the empty basket, please," she said. "And, Thomas,—Mary,—I want you to let me take something else."
"There's not much you can take," said Thomas.
"Will you lend me one of your children?"
"Oh, not my precious, precious baby-boy!" cried Mary, throwing aside the mantle. "He's the only baby we've got now!"
"No, not baby; I should be rather afraid of him. But one of the others."
"Well—" and Mrs. Mitchell hesitated.
"Take me," said Juliet, in a low, hard voice. "I'm that stupid and awkward and careless that I'm no good to anybody. And I don't want tolearn, and I don't want to be good. All I want is mutton-chops and puddings, and new boots."
Her sullen little face stared at her aunt with a look of stolid indifference on it. Was it possible that poverty had pinched her child's heart so hard as to have pinched all softness and sweetness out of it?
Mrs. Rowles's heart was full of softness and sweetness.
"May I take Juliet home with me? I can't promise mutton-chops, but there will be beans and bacon. And boots perhaps we can manage."
"I don't like parting with any of them. Though, to be sure, Florry can mind baby; or even little Amy can. Juliet, my child, shall I let you go?" and Mrs. Mitchell clasped the girl in her arms, and tears streamed down the mother's face, while Juliet stood as stony and unmoved as ever.
"She's got no clothes for going on a visit," said Mitchell.
"She can have some of my girl's; they are just of a size."
"All right, then, Emma. You're a good sister, you are. Not one of my people has come forward like this. They are all so high and mighty and so well-to-do in the world, they can't turn their eyes down so low as me and mine. But you've give me a turn for the better, Emma Rowles.You'll see I'll be at work on Monday night, if not sooner."
Juliet being lent to her, Mrs. Rowles felt that she might now proceed on her homeward journey, which would occupy some three hours. So, after affectionate farewells she set off, her basket hanging on one arm and her niece hanging on the other; and they clambered into omnibuses, rushed over crossings and under horses' heads, ran full tilt against old gentlemen, and caught themselves on the hooks and buttons of old ladies, in a way which Juliet alone would never have done. But Mrs. Rowles, being unused to London, was more fussy and hurried than any Londoner could ever find time to be.