A Little World. Fenn George Manville

with little Pine in my arms, keeping her with me because she was something poor Lucy loved; and then it seemed to come home to me that it was my poor wife’s cold, smooth forehead that I had kissed, as she lay still and sleeping with another little waxen image upon her breast; but it was all true, ma’am, and I was alone – all alone.”

      Poor Tim Ruggles made no secret of the fact that he was crying, as he laid down his pipe, and pulled out his thin red cotton handkerchief to wipe his eyes; and, for some reason or other, Patty’s face was very close to her work, and Mrs Jared had altered her position.

      “Time went on,” said Tim, continuing his narrative, “till one day I was sitting, nursing the little thing, as took to me wonderful, when there came a sharp knock at the door, and in came the child’s mother to snatch it out of my arms, and kiss and fondle it as only mothers can. She seemed as if she couldn’t speak, but held out one hand to me, and pressed mine and tried to smile; but only gave me such a pitiful woe-begone look that it was quite sad to see.

      “Then there were steps on the stairs once more, and the next moment there was a tall hard-looking woman, and a stout man in black like a doctor, both in the room.

      “‘Ellen,’ said the tall woman, in a sharp, cross way; but the stout man was all fidgety, and nervous like, and did not seem to know what to do; but he says, ‘Hush! hush! don’t let us have any scene here.’

      “‘Let her come quietly with us, then,’ says the woman; but the poor thing only held little crying Pine to her breast, seeming in sore trouble that the child should not know her, but struggle and try to get away. Then she gave me the child, and the man says, ‘Take her away. Stop that crying child.’

      “But I had no occasion to do anything, for she stopped crying directly I took her, and besides I wanted to see the end of this strange scene, and it seemed as if the little one’s mother gave herself up like a prisoner to the tall woman, who took tightly hold of her arm, and then they hurried out of the room, the stout man all in a perspiration and looking scared, and as if afraid I was going to interfere, and I would, too, only Pine’s mother went so quietly, just smiling, and kissing her hand to me and the little one as she left the room, and then I heard their steps on the stairs.

      “I did not see any more, but one of the lodgers told me afterwards how they all went off together in a cab that was waiting at the door. And I never knew any more, only what I told you was the child’s name, and that the money’s paid regular by a lawyer for her keep; and nobody never asks any questions, nor wants to know anything about her; and though I once tried, I couldn’t find anything out, and excepting that I’ve ten shillings a week with her, she might be my own little girl.

      “And what could I do without some one to help me, ma’am?” continued Tim to Mrs Jared. “I went four years with women to do for me, and housekeepers, and the last one I had was the present Mrs Ruggles, ma’am, who took so kindly to the child, that I thought it would be all for the best; and we moved to Carnaby Street, ma’am, and it took a deal of doing, but I married her. My sister’s husband says she married me: perhaps she did, ma’am. I don’t know; but it all seems to come to the same thing.”

      “And did you never see anything more of the little thing’s relations?” asked Mrs Jared.

      “No, ma’am,” said Tim, “never – never. Of course I felt a bit curious after that strange visit; but I was too full of my own troubles to do anything then; and when, some time afterwards, I said something to one of the lawyer’s clerks, he asked me if I was tired of my job, because plenty more would be glad of it.

      “That sent me out of the office like a shot, ma’am. It didn’t matter to me that I heard the clerk laughing, for I’d sooner have given them ten shillings a week to let me keep her than have given her up. And I don’t love her any the less now, ma’am; but I do sometimes wish she was away.”

      “The old story,” said Jared; “they evidently don’t want the little thing, and pay to keep it out of sight.”

      “Something more than the old story, sir, I think,” said Tim, humbly, as he tapped his forehead. “There’s something wrong about the poor mother, depend upon it, as well as the child.”

      “So I think, Mr Ruggles,” said Mrs Jared, “and though perhaps I have no business to interfere, I cannot help saying again, that I don’t at all like the way in which it is treated, poor child, – I don’t think you ought to stand by and let it be beaten.”

      “Well, I don’t know, ma’am, I don’t know,” said Tim, humbly. “I’m afraid to interfere, to tell you the truth; for I’m out a deal, and if I were to say much, I should only make Mrs Ruggles the little thing’s enemy. Really, ma’am, I try to do what’s for the best; and I don’t think if I tried ever so, I should make any better of it. As I said, I almost wish sometimes that she was gone, but it always nips me afterwards; for somehow, ma’am, that child seems to be all I have to love now, and you know how children will wind themselves round you, and make a home in your heart. I hope none of yours, ma’am, may know what it is to have a step – that is,” said Tim, stammering, “ever be – er – ever – ever – suffer, you know, ma’am.”

      Tim Ruggles hid his confusion in his red handkerchief, as soon as he could prevail upon it to quit the depths of his pocket; after which he found out that it was quite time for him to take his departure, and hurried away.

      “I can’t help taking an interest in the poor little thing,” said Mrs Jared, when they were alone; “but it seems a strange story.”

      “Very,” said Jared Pellet.

      Volume One – Chapter Thirteen.

      Patty among Friends

      Brownjohn Street, Decadia, on a bright summer’s morning, when improvements had not made the neighbourhood a little less dingy than of old; when the pleasant district named after, but, all the same, a perfect disgrace to, a certain patron saint, had not recovered from the vast and clean sweep to which it had been subjected.

      So early in the day, there was peace. There was no fight in progress before either of the palaces famed for the dispensing of gin; the police were not binding some fierce, dishevelled, and blaspheming virago to a stretcher, and then patting their hair or whiskers in tender spots from whence locks had been ravished by the handful, previous to bearing the drunken scold to the X station, attended by a train of howling creatures, in human form, but debased by “the vitriol madness” – the poison mental and bodily sold to them by the name of “Cream of the Valley” – “of the Shadow of Death,” might well have been added. The courts of the palaces were quiet as yet, and brawny-muscled bar and potmen were brightening counters, polishing plate-glass and mirrors, or burnishing brass, ready for the night, when the gas should be in full blaze. Men and women slink in and out now – coming in a dark secretive way, to partake of “pen’orths,” or, as they were here facetiously termed, “coffin nails,” to rouse the spirits, flagging from the effects of the previous night’s debauch. Burglars and pickpockets – night-birds both – slept in their lairs, hiding from the light, and waiting in drunken sleep for the darkness that was to them their day.

      But Brownjohn Street was full of life: young men and women of the Decadian type – not children, though their years varied from five to ten – span the celebrated Decadian top, or sent pointed instruments, known as “cats,” darting through the air; halfpenny kites were flown with farthing balls of cotton; and one select party waltzed, fancy free, around a street organ, what time a young gentleman of about twelve, who had already attained to the dignity of greased sidelocks, performed a castanet accompaniment upon two pairs of bones, and another of the same age, whose costume consisted of one rag, one pair of trousers, secured beneath the arm-pits with string, and a great deal of dirt, stood upon his head, swayed his legs about as if in cadence with the air played by the organist, and occasionally beat together the soles of his bony feet. Altogether it was a happy party, and the Italian ground away and showed his white teeth; the children danced; and the whole scene might have been Watteau-like, but for the streets and the dirt.

      Vehicles seldom passed down Brownjohn Street; the warning “Hi!” was rarely uttered by the driver, and the children ran in