Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure. Robert Michael Ballantyne

the remainder of the night, drew her stool close to the side of her son, and held such intercourse with him as she seldom had the chance of holding while Bobby was in a state of full health and bodily vigour. Hetty, meanwhile, ministered to them both, for she was one of those dusty diamonds of what may be styled the East-end diggings of London—not so rare, perhaps, as many people may suppose—whose lustre is dimmed and intrinsic value somewhat concealed by the neglect and the moral as well as physical filth by which they are surrounded.

      “Of course you’ve paid the ninepence, Hetty?”

      “Yes, mother.”

      “You might ’ave guessed that,” said Bobby, “for, if she ’adn’t we shouldn’t ’ave bin here.”

      “That and the firing and candle, with what the doctor ordered, has used up all I had earned, even though I did some extra work and was paid for it,” said Hetty with a sigh. “But I don’t grudge it, Bobby—I’m only sorry because there’s nothing more coming to me till next week.”

      “Meanwhile there is nothing for this week,” said Mrs Frog with a return of the despair, as she looked at her prostrate son, “for all I can manage to earn will barely make up the rent—if it does even that—and father, you know, drinks nearly all he makes. God help us!”

      “God will help us,” said Hetty, sitting down on the floor and gently stroking the back of her mother’s hand, “for He sent the trouble, and will hear us when we cry to Him.”

      “Pray to Him, then, Hetty, for it’s no use askin’ me to join you. I can’t pray. An’ don’t let your father hear, else he’ll be wild.”

      The poor girl bent her head on her knees as she sat, and prayed silently. Her mother and brother, neither of whom had any faith in prayer, remained silent, while her father, breathing stertorously in the corner, slept the sleep of the drunkard.

      Chapter Four.

      Samuel Twitter astonishes Mrs Twitter and her Friends

      In a former chapter we described, to some extent, the person and belongings of a very poor man with five thousand a year. Let us now make the acquaintance of a very rich one with an income of five hundred.

      He has already introduced himself to the reader under the name of Samuel Twitter.

      On the night of which we write Mrs Twitter happened to have a “few friends” to tea. And let no one suppose that Mrs Twitter’s few friends were to be put off with afternoon tea—that miserable invention of modern times—nor with a sham meal of sweet warm water and thin bread and butter. By no means. We have said that Samuel Twitter was rich, and Mrs Twitter, conscious of her husband’s riches, as well as grateful for them, went in for the substantial and luxurious to an amazing extent.

      Unlimited pork sausages and inexhaustible buttered toast, balanced with muffins or crumpets, was her idea of “tea.” The liquid was a secondary point—in one sense—but it was always strong. It was the only strong liquid in fact allowed in the house, for Mr Twitter, Mrs Twitter, and all the little Twitters were members of the Blue Ribbon Army; more or less enthusiastic according to their light and capacity.

      The young Twitters descended in a graduated scale from Sammy, the eldest, (about sixteen), down through Molly, and Willie, and Fred, and Lucy, to Alice the so-called “baby”—though she was at that time a remarkably robust baby of four years.

      Mrs Twitter’s few friends were aware of her tendencies, and appreciated her hospitality, insomuch that the “few” bade fair to develop by degrees into many.

      Well, Mrs Twitter had her few friends to tea, and conviviality was at its height. The subject of conversation was poverty. Mrs Loper, a weak-minded but amiable lady, asserted that a large family with 500 pounds a year was a poor family. Mrs Loper did not know that Mrs Twitter’s income was five hundred, but she suspected it. Mrs Twitter herself carefully avoided giving the slightest hint on the subject.

      “Of course,” continued Mrs Loper, “I don’t mean to say that people with five hundred are very poor, you know; indeed it all depends on the family. With six children like you, now, to feed and clothe and educate, and with everything so dear as it is now, I should say that five hundred was poverty.”

      “Well, I don’t quite agree with you, Mrs Loper, on that point. To my mind it does not so much depend on the family, as on the notions, and the capacity to manage, in the head of the family. I remember one family just now, whose head was cut off suddenly, I may say in the prime of life. A hundred and fifty a year or thereabouts was the income the widow had to count on, and she was left with five little ones to rear. She trained them well, gave them good educations, made most of their garments with her own hands when they were little, and sent one of her boys to college, yet was noted for the amount of time she spent in visiting the poor, the sick, and the afflicted, for whom she had always a little to spare out of her limited income. Now, if wealth is to be measured by results, I think we may say that that poor lady was rich. She was deeply mourned by a large circle of poor people when she was taken home to the better land. Her small means, having been judiciously invested by a brother, increased a little towards the close of life, but she never was what the world esteems rich.”

      Mrs Twitter looked at a very tall man with a dark unhandsome countenance, as if to invite his opinion.

      “I quite agree with you,” he said, helping himself to a crumpet, “there are some people with small incomes who seem to be always in funds, just as there are other people with large incomes who are always hard-up. The former are really rich, the latter really poor.”

      Having delivered himself of these sentiments somewhat sententiously, Mr Crackaby,—that was his name,—proceeded to consume the crumpet.

      There was a general tendency on the part of the other guests to agree with their hostess, but one black sheep in the flock objected. He quite agreed, of course, with the general principle that liberality with small means was beautiful to behold as well as desirable to possess—the liberality, not the small means—and that, on the other hand, riches with a narrow niggardly spirit was abominable, but then—and the black sheep came, usually, to the strongest part of his argument when he said “but then”—it was an uncommonly difficult thing, when everything was up to famine prices, and gold was depreciated in value owing to the gold-fields, and silver was nowhere, and coppers were changed into bronze,—exceedingly difficult to practise liberality and at the same time to make the two ends meet.

      As no one clearly saw the exact bearing of the black sheep’s argument, they all replied with that half idiotic simper with which Ignorance seeks to conceal herself, and which Politeness substitutes for the more emphatic “pooh,” or the inelegant “bosh.” Then, applying themselves with renewed zest to the muffins, they put about ship, nautically speaking, and went off on a new tack.

      “Mr Twitter is rather late to-night, I think?” said Mr Crackaby, consulting his watch, which was antique and turnipy in character.

      “He is, indeed,” replied the hostess, “business must have detained him, for he is the very soul of punctuality. That is one of his many good qualities, and it is such a comfort, for I can always depend on him to the minute,—breakfast, dinner, tea; he never keeps us waiting, as too many men do, except, of course, when he is unavoidably detained by business.”

      “Ah, yes, business has much to answer for,” remarked Mrs Loper, in a tone which suggested that she held business to be an incorrigibly bad fellow; “whatever mischief happens with one’s husband it’s sure to be business that did it.”

      “Pardon me, madam,” objected the black sheep, whose name, by the way, was Stickler, “business does bring about much of the disaster that often appertains to wedded life, but mischief is sometimes done by other means, such, for instance, as accidents, robberies, murders—”

      “Oh! Mr Stickler,” suddenly interrupted a stout, smiling lady, named Larrabel, who usually did the audience part of Mrs Twitter’s little tea parties, “how can you suggest such ideas, especially when Mr Twitter is unusually late?”

      Mr Stickler protested that he had no intention of alarming the