Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.

V
YOU'RE A PARSON, SIR, AND I PUT IT TO YOU. WHAT DO YOU SAY TO PARTING MOTHER AND CHILD?

It was not alone because Mr. Merrywhistle urged me that I took an interest in Blade-o'-Grass. I was impelled to do so by certain feelings of my own with reference to the poor girl. I became nervously desirous to learn her history, and I questioned Mr. Merrywhistle, He could tell me nothing, however, but the usual tale attached to such unhappy human waifs-a tale which I had heard, with slightly-varying forms of detail, many times before. I desired to learn something more definite-something which I scarcely dared to confess, even to myself, working as I was in the dark, and with only a vague impression or a morbid fancy for a basis. But then came the thought that Rachel shared the impression with me, and I continued my inquiries.

'Jimmy Virtue knows more about Blade-o'-Grass than I do,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, 'It was through him I first became acquainted with her.'

Jimmy Virtue was not very communicative; it was not in his nature to take easily to new friends.

'But you yourself,' I urged, 'spoke of her mother and father as if you knew them intimately.'

'Did I?' he replied. 'Ah! I ain't over-particular what I say sometimes, so you must put it down to that. You see, they were not long in this alley afore the father cut away, and the mother-well, she died! So what should I know of 'em? The mother was buried afore the kids was three weeks old.'

'The children!' I exclaimed, my heart beating fast at this discovery. 'Then the poor mother had twins?'

'Yes, there was two on 'em; as if one warn't enough, and more than enough! And then a woman-Mrs. Manning her name was-comes round a-beggin' for the babbies, and a nice row she kicked up about it. Arksed me what I'd lend on 'em-as if babbies warn't as cheap as dirt, and a deal sight more troublesome!'

'These twins, Mr. Virtue-were they both girls?'

'Yes, they was both gals, I 'eerd.'

'What became of the other child?'

I asked eagerly.

'What other?' demanded Jimmy Virtue surlily. 'I didn't know no other. Blade-o'-Grass was the only one left.'

And this was all the information I could elicit from him. I inquired of other old residents in Stoney-alley, but not one of them remembered anything worth hearing. I returned to Mr. Merrywhistle, and after narrating to him the fruitless result of my inquiries, I asked abruptly if he knew anything concerning the circumstances attending the birth of Ruth. The old man changed colour, and his manner became very nervous.

'I can see your drift,' he said in a troubled voice. 'In your mind, Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass are associated, as if some undiscovered tie exists between them. I once shared your suspicion. I saw in Blade-o'-Grass a likeness to Ruth, and I mentioned it to Mrs. Silver. But when Mrs. Silver adopted Ruth, the babe was orphaned indeed. Both father and mother were dead, and Ruth was the only child. It is impossible, therefore, that the likeness between Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass can be anything but accidental. Do not say anything of this to Ruth or Mrs. Silver; it would grieve them. Look at Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass; see them as they are, and think what a gulf separates them.'

A gulf indeed! But still I was not satisfied.

I found it much easier to learn the fullest particulars concerning Tom Beadle. Plainly and simply, he was a thief, and had been in prison a dozen times at least. The day following our holiday-making he was brought up at the police-court on a common charge of pickpocketing. Blade-o'-Grass begged me to intercede for him with the magistrate; but it was impossible for me to do so, as I knew nothing concerning him but what was bad. 'He loves me, sir, does Tom,' she pleaded; 'and I love 'im!' And said it as if it were a sufficient reason for his not being punished. It was impossible to reason with her on the matter; all that concerned herself and Tom Beadle she could look at from only one point of view. Whether he worked or whether he stole, nearly every farthing he obtained was spent in food. Blade-o'-Grass's standpoint was that she and Tom and the baby must have bread, and that if they could not get it one way they must get it another. Tom Beadle did work sometimes as a costermonger; but the difficulties in his way were very serious because of his antecedents, and he rebelled against these difficulties sullenly and savagely, and bruised his soul against them. He was no casuist, and made no attempt to excuse himself. He was simply a man at war with society, a man whose keen intellect had been sharpened and perfected in bad soil. As I write of him now, I can see him slouching along in his patched clothes, with defiance in his mind. Watchful eyes have been upon him almost from his birth; they are upon him now, whichever way he turns, and he knows it, and has grown up in the knowledge. Respectability turns its back upon him-naturally, for he is its enemy. Even benevolence shrinks from him, for the spirit of cunning and ingratitude lurks in his every motion. I paint him as I knew him, in the plainest of colours. He had one redeeming trait in his character; he loved Blade-o'-Grass, after his fashion, with as much sincerity as good men love good women. His love for her had come to him naturally, as other worse qualities in his nature had come. By Blade-o'-Grass he was loved, as she had truly said, but with that deeper love of which only a woman's nature is capable. Hers was capable of the highest form of gratitude, of the highest form of love. She was faithful to Tom Beadle, and she loved her child with as perfect, ay, and as pure a love as can animate the breast of the most delicate lady in the land. Overshadowing these bright streaks of light was a darker line. When she was a mere babe, afterwards when she was a child, afterwards when she was a woman, she frequently suffered the pangs of hunger; she often knew what it was to want a crust of bread. From these sufferings came the singular and mournful idea that she had within her a ravenous creature which she called a tiger, and which, when she was hungry, tore at her entrails for food. This tiger had been the terror of her life, and it was with her an agonising belief that she had endowed her child with the tiger curse: I can find no other term of expression. From this belief nothing could drive her. Talk to her of its folly, of its impossibility, and you talked to stone. Her one unfailing answer was, 'Ah, I know; you can't. I feel it, and my baby feels it also.' I learnt the story of this tiger from her own lips. I found her waiting for me one morning at the corner of the street in which I lived. It was while Tom Beadle was undergoing his term of imprisonment. I stopped and spoke to her, and she asked might she say something to me. Yes, I answered, I could spare her a few minutes; and I led the way to my rooms.

'It was Mr. Wirtue as told me to come to you, sir,' she said; 'he ain't so 'ard on me as he was.'

'I am glad you are friends again,' I said. 'Will you have some bread-and-butter?'

'Yes, if you please, sir.'

I cut some bread-and-butter for her and her child, and I dissolved some preserved milk in warm water for her. She watched with keen interest the process of making this milk, and when she tasted it said, with a touch of humour of which she was quite unconscious:

'They won't want no more mothers by and by, sir, what with sich milk as this, and feedin'-bottles, and p'ramberlaters!'

While she was eating and giving her child to eat, she reverted to Jimmy Virtue.

'You see, sir, he was mad with me 'cause I wouldn't give up Tom; but I couldn't do that, sir, arter all we've gone through. We growed up together, sir. If you knowed all Tom's done for me, you'd wonder 'ow anybody could 'ave the 'eart to arks me to give 'im up. Tom 'as stuck to me through thick and thin, and I'll stick to 'im as long as ever I live! I've 'eerd talk of sich things as 'eart-strings. Well, sir, my 'eartstrings 'd break if I was to lose 'im. Leave Tom! Give 'im up now! No, sir; it wouldn't be natural, and what ain't natural can't be good.'

Blade-o'-Grass cut straight into the core of many difficulties with her unconsciously-uttered truisms. When she and her child had eaten all I had set before them, she opened the business she had come upon. Then it was that I heard the history of the tiger.

'It's inside o' me, sir; I was born with it. When I was little, there was a talk o' cuttin' me open, and takin' the tiger out; but they didn't do it, sir. Per'aps it'd been better for me if they 'ad.'

I attempted to reason her out of her fancy; but I soon saw how useless were my arguments. She shook her head with sad determination, and smiled piteously.

'It don't stand to reason as you can understand it, sir. You ain't got a tiger in your inside! I 'ave, and it goes a-tearin' up and down inside o' me, eatin' me up, sir, till I'm fit to drop down dead. It was beginnin' this mornin', sir, afore I seed you.'

'Did you have any breakfast, my poor girl?'

'Not much, sir; a slice o' bread and some water 'tween me and baby. You see, sir, Tom's not 'ere, and I've 'ad some bad days lately.'

'You don't feel the tiger now?'

'No, sir; it's gone to sleep.'

I sighed.

'I wish,' she continued, 'I could take somethin' as 'd kill it! I tried to ketch it once-yes, sir, I did; but it was no go. I 'adn't 'ad nothink to eat for a long time, and it was goin' on awful. Then, when I got some grub, I thought if I put it down on the table, and set it afore me with my mouth open, per'aps the tiger 'd see it, and come up and fetch it. I was almost frightened out o' my life as I waited for it; for I've never seed it, sir, and I don't know what it's like. But it wouldn't come; it knows its book, the tiger does! I waited till I was that faint that I could 'ardly move, and I was forced to send the grub down to it. I never tried that move agin, sir.'

I told her I was sorry to hear that she had been unfortunate lately. She nodded her head with an air of weary resignation.

'It can't be 'elped, sir, I s'ppose. A good many societies 'as sprung up, and they're agin me, I think. O, yes, sir, we know all about 'em. It warn't very long ago that I was walkin' a long way from 'ome, with some matches in my 'and; I thort I'd try my luck where nobody knowed me. A gentleman stopped and spoke to me. "You're beggin'," he said. I didn't deny it, but I didn't say nothin', for fear o' the peelers. "It's no use your comin' 'ere," he said; "we've got a society in this neighbourhood, and we don't give nothink to the poor. Go and work." Then he went on to tell me-as if I cared to 'eer 'im! but he was one as liked to 'eer 'isself talk-that it was sich as me as was the cause of everythink that's bad. Well, sir, that made me open my eyes, and I couldn't 'elp arksing 'im if it was bad for me to try and git a bit o' bread for my baby; but he got into sich a passion that I was glad to git away from 'im. Another gentleman persuaded me to go to a orfice where they looked arter the likes o' me. I went, and when they 'eerd me out, they said they'd make inquiries into my case. Well, sir, they did make inquiries, and it come to the old thing that I've 'eerd over and over and over agin. They said they'd do somethink for me if I'd leave Tom; but when they spoke agin 'im I stood up for 'im, and they got angry, and said as I was no good. Then another party as I went to said they'd take my child-which I 'ad no business to 'ave, they said-if I liked, and that they'd give me ten shillin's to set me up in a stock of somethink to sell for my livin'. Part with my child!' exclaimed Blade-o'-Grass, snatching the little one to her lap, and looking around with fierce fear, as if enemies were present ready to tear her treasure from her. 'Sell my 'eart for ten shillin's! You're a parson, sir, and I put it to you. What do you say to partin' mother and child?'

What could I say? I was dumb. It was best to be so upon such straightforward questions propounded by a girl who, in her position and with her feelings, could understand and would recognise no logic but the logic of natural laws; it was best to be silent if I wished to do good, and I did wish it honestly, sincerely. The more I saw of Blade-o'-Grass, the more she interested me; the more she interested me, the more she pained me. I saw before me a problem, hard as a rock, sensitive as a flower-a problem which no roundabout legislation can solve in the future, or touch in the present. Other developments will to a certainty start up in time to come-other developments, and worse in all likelihood, because a more cultivated intelligence may be engaged in justifying what now ignorance is held to be some slight excuse for.

'Then, sir,' continued Blade-o'-Grass, driving her hard nails home, 'if I was one o' them unnatural mothers as don't care for their children, and took the orfer-'ow about the ten shillin's to set me up in a stock o' somethin' to sell? What do the peelers say to a gal as tries to sell anythin' in the streets? Why, there ain't a inch o' flagstone as she's got a right to set 'er foot on! And as for the kerb, as don't belong properly to nobody, and's not wanted for them as walks or them as rides, why, a gal daren't stand on it to save 'er life! And that's the way it goes, sir; that's the way it goes! But I beg your pardon, sir. I'm wanderin' away from what I come for, and I'm a-takin' up your time.'

'Go on, my poor girl,' I said; 'let me know what I can do for you.'

'It ain't for me, sir; it's for my baby.'

'What can I do for her, the poor little thing?' I asked, pinching the child's cheek, who showed no pleasure, however, at my caress; there dwelt in her face an expression of mournfulness which was native to her, and which nothing could remove. 'What can I do for her?'

'Pray for 'er!' implored Blade-o'-Grass, with all her soul in her eyes, from which the tears were streaming.

I started slightly, and waited for further explanation. Blade-o'-Grass regarded me earnestly before she spoke again.

'You see, sir, she was born with a tiger inside of 'er, the same as I was; it ain't 'er fault, the dear, it's mine. It breaks my 'eart to think as she'll grow up like me, and that the tiger'll never leave 'er. I talked to Mr. Wirtue about it yesterday, and he says to me, "Why don't you go to the parson, and arks 'im to pray the tiger out 'er?" And so I've come, sir. You'd 'ardly believe what I'd do if it was set me to do, if I could get the tiger away from my dear. I'd be chopped up, sir, I would! Mr. Wirtue says prayer'll do anythink, and that if I didn't believe 'im, I was to arks you if it won't I can't pray myself; I don't know 'ow to. So I've come to you to arks you to pray the tiger out of my baby!'

I scarcely remember in what terms I replied. I know, however, that I sent Blade-o'-Grass away somewhat consoled, saying that she would teach her baby to bless me every day of her life if my prayers were successful.

VI
FOR THESE AND SUCH AS THESE

And now it becomes necessary that I should say something concerning my private history. I have made mention of a friend to whom I owed my education and position, and whose friendship it saddened me to think I should probably soon lose. It is of this friend, in connection with myself, that I am about to speak.

His name was Fairhaven. He was a great speculator, and his ventures had been so successful that he had become famous in the stock and money markets. At this time he was nearly seve nty years of age, unmarried, and he had no family connection in which he took the slightest interest, none, indeed, which he would recognise. Although I was indebted to him in the manner I have stated, I did not see him, and did not even know his name, until I had arrived at manhood and had chosen my career. All that I knew was that he was very wealthy, and it was by almost the merest accident that I discovered his name and real position. I made this discovery at a critical time. A season of great distress had set in in my parish, and I became acquainted with much misery, which, for want of means, I was unable to alleviate. I yearned for money. Where could I obtain it? I thought of Mr. Fairhaven. I said to myself, 'He has been good to me, and he is a wealthy man, and might be willing to assist me. Surely he would not miss a little of his money, and I could do so much good with it!' I must explain that I had before this time endeavoured to ascertain the name of the gentleman who had befriended me when I was left an orphan, but I was told by his agents that it was his wish to remain unknown. I respected that wish, and did not prosecute my inquiries. Even now that I had accidentally discovered his name, I should not for my own sake have pressed myself upon him; but for the sake of those suffering ones whom I was unable to relieve for want of money, I determined to do so. When I presented myself to him, he regarded me attentively, and with some symptoms of agitation. I said I hoped he was not displeased with me for coming to him. No, he answered, he was not displeased; and he made me so welcome that I ventured to thank him for his past goodness to me. Then I made my appeal to him, and after some consideration he placed at my disposal the sum of a hundred pounds, intimating that the same amount would be paid to me every year, to spend according to my own discretion among the poor of my parish. I was overjoyed at this good result of my courage, and I thanked him cordially for his liberality. Up to this time I had received the money regularly, and had been enabled to do much good with it. I visited him occasionally to inform him how his money was expended, and even in the midst of his vaster operations, I think he was glad to hear of the good which sprang from the seed he placed in my hands to sow among my poor. After a time he asked me to visit him more frequently, saying that he was a lonely man, and that my visits were an agreeable relief to him. I owed him too deep a debt of gratitude to refuse, and I saw him as often as the duties of my position would allow. As our intimacy ripened, I learned, from chance words which escaped from him now and then, that he was not satisfied with the groove in which I was working. Knowing that we were not in the slightest way related to each other, I was naturally curious to learn why he took so deep an interest in me; but when I approached the subject he stopped me somewhat sternly, and desired me to speak of other matters. The impression I had gained that he was dissatisfied with my career became strengthened in every succeeding interview. And one night he made me a startling proposition.

I have a clear remembrance of that night and all the details connected with it. We were conversing in the pleasant garden of his house, which was situated on the bank of the river Thames. From where we sat we commanded a clear view of the river. The tide was ebbing, and the river's water was flowing towards the sea. The heavens were bright, and the fragrant air was whispering among the leaves. The water was murmuring with a sweet sibillation as it flowed towards a mightier power, and the stars were flashing in its depths.

On that night Mr. Fairhaven said that he wished he had known me earlier in life; he would have chosen for me a different career; but it was not too late now. 'I am a childless man,' he said, 'and I have grown to love you.' He proposed that I should resign my office, and come and live with him as his heir; had I been his son he could not have expressed himself more affectionately towards me. He took me entirely into his confidence, and endeavoured to win my sympathy in his career. He showed me how he had risen to wealth-nay, he showed me by his books and by other evidence the wealth itself which he had accumulated. I was amazed at its extent. I had no idea that he was so rich. As a proof of the sincerity of his offer, he said he would settle a large sum of money on me immediately, and that the bulk of his fortune should be mine when he was dead. There were certain conditions attached to his proposal. I was to bear his name when he died, and I was to pledge myself on my honour to live fully up to my means, and to take what he considered to be the proper position in society of a man who possessed so large a fortune. 'Money has its duties,' he said-'duties which I perhaps have neglected, but which it shall be your pleasant task to perform.' In a word, I was to become a man of fashion, and I was to do whatever was necessary in the world of fashion to make the name of Fairhaven notable. He laid great stress upon this latter stipulation, and I understood that his money was not to be mine to do as I pleased with in any other way.

I listened to his proposal in silence. For a short while I was overwhelmed by the offer and by the generosity which prompted it. But even as I listened I felt that I could not accept it. The prospect he held out to me did not dazzle me. To my mind, the mere possession of a large amount of money has no attraction, and confers no distinction; to possess it and to spend it in the way Mr. Fairhaven had set down appeared to my understanding a dreary task, and was distinctly inimical to the views I had formed of life and its duties. Besides, I had grown to love my labours; I was bound by the tenderest links of love and humanity to the people among whom I moved. Look where I would, I saw no higher lot in life than that which I had chosen, and-a selfish reason perhaps-I was happy in my choice.

I answered Mr. Fairhaven to this effect, and was about to refuse his offer absolutely, when he stopped me. I saw by his face that he anticipated what I was about to say. He did not want my answer then, he said; he wished me to take a certain time for reflection-a time extending over two years, and to expire on the anniversary of my thirty-third birthday. He asked me to study the matter well during this interval, and in the consideration of it to throw aside all false sentiment and eccentricity. He proposed to gain admission for me into certain circles, where I could see in full operation the machinery of the life he wished me to adopt; and he added-not as a threat, but simply as part of a resolution he had formed-that if, at the expiration of the allotted time, I did not accept his proposal, I must never expect to receive one shilling of his money. The time passed. At the expense of my duties I made leisure to move in the society in which he wished me to move; I studied its machinery; I made myself acquainted with its inner life, with its aims, desires, ambitions, results; as far as opportunity served, I probed its depths, and my resolution to decline Mr. Fairhaven's offer was strengthened. It is not for me here to state the reasons which led to the conclusion I formed. They sprang from my heart and my conscience; they were and are part of myself, which I could no more tear from myself than I could resist the course of time.

I visited Mr. Fairhaven on the appointed day, and acquainted him with my decision. I spoke in words and tone as gentle as I could command; for I bore in mind the great debt I owed him, and the exceeding generosity of his offer. He looked at me with eyes of doubt and surprise as I spoke, and turned from me when I finished. When he spoke it was in a hard cold tone.

'And that is your positive decision?' he said.

'Yes, sir.'

'There is nothing hidden behind it-or stay! Perhaps you have not had sufficient time for reflection. Let the matter rest for a little while longer.'

I told him that, if I had twenty years for reflection, my answer would be the same.

'You are aware,' he said, 'that you are inflicting a great disappointment upon me?

'I cannot but be aware of it, sir,' I replied, 'and it pains me exceedingly to know it.'

'You said a little while ago,' he said, referring to words I had used, 'that when I took you into my confidence, I endeavoured to win your sympathy in my career. Did I win it?'

'No, sir.'

'Why?'

I determined to speak frankly.

'It seemed to me that you had amassed money simply for its own sake, and not for the sake of the good uses to which it may be applied. According to my thinking, money is only sweet when it is well-earned and well-spent.'

I saw that he pondered over these words.

'Your life,' he said, 'must contain special attractions, that you are so wedded to it. You have made friends, doubtless.'

'Many, sir, thank God! Friends to whom I am deeply attached.'

'Tell me of them, and let me ascertain for myself the superior inducements of the life you lead to the life which you reject.'

I considered for a few moments, I thought of Mrs. Silver and her happy home and family; but connected with them in my mind were the less wholesome figures of Tom Beadle, Blade-o'-Grass, and Jimmy Virtue. As a foil to these, however, were the figures of Mr. Merrywhistle and Robert Truefit and his family. I resolved to show this picture in a complete form, as presenting a fair variety of those among whom my life was passed. As I mentioned the names of these persons and described them, Mr. Fairhaven wrote them on a leaf in his pocket-book. I laid the greatest stress upon the figures of Mrs. Silver and her family, and I endeavoured to show this part of the picture in bright colours. But I was honest throughout, and I spoke plainly of Tom Beadle, Blade-o'-Grass, and Jimmy Virtue. When the picture was completed, Mr. Fairhaven read the names aloud, and exclaimed angrily:

'A pretty circle of portraits truly! The principal of them thieves and gutter children! Andrew Meadow, it is incomprehensible to me. But your mind is set upon them evidently. Can anything I say move you from your resolution?'

'Nothing, sir.'

'Then here we part,' he said sternly and bitterly. 'As you cannot be moved from your resolution, I cannot be moved from mine. Not one shilling of my money shall you ever receive. I have striven hard for your good, and you reject me for these and such as these!'

He tapped the list scornfully, and rose. I understood from his action that I was dismissed. I knew it would be useless to attempt to soften him; he was a man of inflexible resolution.

'You need not trouble yourself,' he said, 'to call upon me again, unless I send for you. Goodnight.'

'Before I go, sir,' I said, very sad at heart, 'let me say how truly grateful I am to you for your past kindness to me. I shall hold you in my heart and mind with thankfulness and gratitude until my dying day.'

Then I walked sadly out of the peaceful garden towards the City, where lay my labour of love.

Two matters must be mentioned before I close this chapter.

The first is that before I acquainted Mr. Fairhaven with the decision I had arrived at, I endeavoured again to ascertain from what motive he had educated and befriended me when I was left an orphan. He refused distinctly to give me any explanation.

The next is that the hundred pounds a year he had hitherto given me to spend among my poor was stopped from that day. This grieved me exceedingly. I think I had never fully understood the power of money until then.