Crying for the Light Volume Ii Part 3

'Of course not,' was the universal reply.

Harmony being restored, the bottle of gin was drunk, and another sent for. The fun grew fast and furious. The conviviality was of the choicest character, or rather it degenerated into an orgie. Does the reader recollect that splendid pa.s.sage of Lord Bacon, in which he tells us, 'In Orpheus's theatre all the birds a.s.sembled, and forgetting their several appet.i.tes-some of prey, some of game, some of quarrel-stood all sociably together, listening to the concert, which no sooner ceased, or was drowned by some louder noise, but every beast returned to his own nature.' The gin in the low lodging-house had produced a similar effect.

While it lasted the partakers for the time being had forgot their several appet.i.tes-some of prey, some of game, some of quarrel-and stood or sat all sociably together. No sooner had the supply of liquor ceased than the good-fellowship became changed into hate and discord, as the various natures of the guests rea.s.serted themselves.

The tramp's female companion became suspicious. She was not so drunk as the rest, and had become conscious that there was a reward of ten pounds offered to anyone who should give such evidence as might lead to the conviction of the perpetrator or perpetrators of the recent outrage. The company she knew comprised more than one individual who was quite ready to earn a ten-pound note in such a way, and she determined, as far as it was in her power, not to give them the chance. Unperceived she slipped out, and fled as fast as she could and as far as she could. All at once there was a cry on the part of the tramp and his friends, 'Where's Sal?'

Some searched for her under the table, others investigated the sleeping apartments, others the back premises, which were of the most capacious kind, but no Sal was to be found.

The curate summoned up all his dignity, and, approaching the inebriated tramp, said to him:

'My friend, I have a painful revelation to make.'

'A wot?'

'A painful revelation.'

'I don't know wot yer mane; but out with it, old man, and don't stand there as if you was chokin'.'

'Your wife has bolted.'

'Oh, has she? Let her bolt. She's no wife of mine. There are others as good as she.'

'You don't seem much affected by the loss,' replied the Oxonian. 'You're quite a philosopher. You seem perfectly aware how _femina mutabile est_.'

'Now, don't come that nonsense with me,' said the man angrily. 'When I drinks, I drinks; and I don't bother my head about anything else. Why should I? As to women, they're like all the rest of us-here to-day, gone to-morrow.'

'Ah, I see you're a man of the world.'

'I believe yer, my boy,' said the tramp, who felt flattered at the intended compliment.

'You don't think she's gone to split,' whispered one of the party in the tramp's ear.

'No, I should think not. Let me catch her at it!'

'Or me,' added his chum. 'We'll be sure to mark her, and serve her d--- well!'

The sentiment being favourably received, more exhilarating liquor was circulated. That which cheers and inebriates at the same time by many is much preferred to that which cheers alone. In that long room and low company it was intoxicating liquor that had done the mischief. Without character, without clothes, without food, without money, filthy and fallen, these poor wretches had given up all for drink. For that the mother was ready to sell her child, or the husband his wife. For that the criminal was ready to give up an accomplice, and to turn King's evidence, or to commit any deed of shame. In time the drink supply was stopped, and the drinkers staggered upstairs to the crowded bedrooms, redolent of filth and blasphemy.

'I say,' said the tramp's friend, 'where do you think that woman's gone?'

'Gone; how should I know? Perhaps she's gone back to Sloville.'

'To Sloville! why?'

'To look after the boy.'

'A child of hers?'

'What do you want to know for?' said the tramp angrily. 'You're too inquisitive by half,' said he, in a drunken tone, and in the next moment he sank into a drunken sleep. And the questioner-he, too, in a moment was in the Land of Nod, dreaming of the days of innocence, when he was a bright, happy boy, guarded with a mother's love and father's care, in a well-appointed home, with gardens where grew fruits and flowers, and musical with the song of birds; where the sun shone bright and the air was balmy; in a home where care and filth and sorrow and disease and want and woe seemed almost unknown. His pals carried him off to bed.

Suddenly he woke up and asked himself where he was. Presently he lifted himself up in bed and looked around. At the far end a dim gas-light helped him to realize the horrors of his situation. He was in a long, filthy, evil smelling, low room, with thirty beds in a row, side by side, packed as close together as sardines in a box. Every bed was occupied.

And as he gazed on the sad faces near him he gave a scream which drew down on him many a curse.

'Hush! why can't you be quiet?' said the deputy keeper, ever fearful of the police.

But the scream was renewed.

'Why, I'm blessed,' said one, 'if he ain't got the D.T.!'

Could anything be more horrible, as the angry keepers mocked and jeered and maddened him? Struggling and shrieking, he was borne off by men stronger than himself to the nearest hospital, and for awhile there was peace.

CHAPTER XIII.

CONCERNING SAL.

And where had the woman gone? Westward, we are told by the poet, the course of empire takes its way. She had gone west, and very naturally; not at first, she was too artful for that-her old man, as she called him (she did not know his proper name), might be after her, and she had had enough of him, and wanted to be free. In this case she had not two strings to her bow. She was not thinking of accepting a new keeper in the case of the one cashiered. She simply wanted to be free-at any rate for awhile. As to the child left behind, she had no thought of that.

Somebody would give it a crust and a night's lodging. Then it would roam into the streets to be picked up by the police, and supported by the British taxpayer.

We are a very humane people. The more people neglect their offspring, the more ready are we to look after them. If Sal, as she was called, had been a true and tender-hearted woman, she would have dragged the little fellow out with her into the cold, raw night away from Sloville. He might have caught his death o' cold, and then and there ceased to be a blessing to her or anybody else. As a waif off the streets he had a better chance of being clothed, and fed, and educated, and cared for, and planted out in life. It is thus we reward our rascals. It is thus we relieve fathers and mothers of their responsibility, do our duty, ease our consciences, and offer a premium to vice.

Finding the way clear, our Sal emerged from her hiding-place, and made her way, as much hidden as possible by the dark shades of lofty walls, towards Waterloo Bridge. She was a remarkable woman, was our Sal. Her father was an agricultural labourer, earning his ten or twelve shillings a week, and bringing up a numerous family on that exceedingly limited sum. At the National school she had learned, in a very imperfect way, to read and write, to do a little needlework, and to curtsey to her betters.

As she grew up, she displayed alike her good looks and good manners. As to morals, they were not to be expected of a girl who lived in a cottage with but one sleeping room for the entire family, and whose good looks exposed her to the bucolic amativeness of the Botians of the district.

All her ambition was to go to London in service in a superior family.

She had known girls leave that district and come back real ladies, though they were as low down in the world as herself. One of the girls, a little older than herself, had gone to London, and turned gay; and what was the result? That she was living with the son of a lord, and she and all the other girls, who soon learned the story, were quite eager to be off to win, if possible, a similar prize.

Surely that was better than hard work, or remaining satisfied with the station in which G.o.d had placed them, as they were told every Sunday they ought to be-if that only meant marriage with Hodge, and the workhouse when she and Hodge would be past work. It was all very well to be called a good girl by the Rector's wife, to be confirmed, whatever that might mean, as a matter of course, by the Bishop, to sing in the parochial choir, and once a year to be admitted to the privileges of the Sunday-school treat; but that did not buy her a new bonnet, or prevent her wearing her old clothes, or save her from doing a lot of drudgery at times when she preferred romping in the hayfields with Farmer Giles's sons, strapping young fellows, just as rustic and as ignorant as herself.

A time came when she went out to service at a country house just by. A London lady of fashion saw her, was attracted by her appearance, and got her to come to town. The ill.u.s.trious aristocrat she married was taken with the kitchen wench, as her ladyship indignantly termed her, and then there was a row, and the poor girl was ignominiously discharged to hide her head where she could, and to give birth to an illegitimate child.

That aristocratic admirer was Sir Watkin Strahan.

Everyone heard the story of Sal's disgrace in her native village, and she dared not return thither. She had to hide herself in London where she could, and to live as best she could, all the while cherishing a fearful revenge against the gay Baronet.

Her aristocratic seducer sent her fifty pounds, with an intimation that in that quarter she was to look for no more, and that she must do the best she could for herself. With that money, later on, she married a Sloville inhabitant, who soon died and left her dest.i.tute.

Naturally, in her fallen state, she took to drink, and she drank till her good looks were gone-till she was a bundle of filthy rags, till she had lost alike all decency and sense of shame. It was nothing new to her to prowl about London by night when honesty and respectability had gone to bed. She rather liked the excitement of that kind of life.

On she went beneath the lamps and the stars, past gin palaces, where fair young girls were learning to fall as completely and rapidly as herself; past cadgers and tramps, like herself on the look-out for what chance might send in their way; past old criminals, training young ones in the same dreary and joyless round. She saw what we all of us see if we walk out of a night, the drunken harlot run in by the police, who stand in admiration as her more fortunate and equally sinning sister drives by in her brougham. She saw ragged, distress, imperiously bidden to be off, whilst wealthy rascality, in pomp and majesty, was drawn in a carriage and pair with fine flunkies behind. She peered into club windows, where rich sinners quaff rich wine in warmth and comfort, while their victims walk the streets in sorrow and despair.

She stood on Waterloo Bridge-that bridge of sighs-where many a poor girl has leaped

'Mad with life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurled Anywhere-anywhere Out of the world.'

And she felt half inclined to climb over and do the same herself, only the water looked so black and cold, and she put off her half-formed purpose for another day. Perhaps, also, she was too old for that sort of thing. She should have taken the false leap when she was gay and good-looking. Then the papers would have made London ring with her story, and the low pictorial pennies would have made her the subject of a sensational sketch.

As she was, alas! prematurely old, and wrinkled, and gray, no one would take any notice of her; it was hardly worth while attempting to drown herself, she thought. She might as well live on, she could not well be worse off; and then she sat herself down in the arch and fell asleep, dreaming of- But who can tell the grotesque misery of a tramp's dream?