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Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished

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<h3>Chapter Fifteen.</h3> <h4>Mrs Frog sinks Deeper and Deeper.</h4> “Nobody cares,” said poor Mrs Frog, one raw afternoon in November, as she entered her miserable dwelling, where the main pieces of furniture were a rickety table, a broken chair, and a heap of straw, while the minor pieces were so insignificant as to be unworthy of mention. There was no fire in the grate, no bread in the cupboard, little fresh air in the room and less light, though there was a broken unlighted candle stuck in the mouth of a quart bottle which gave promise of light in the future—light enough at least to penetrate the November fog which had filled the room as if it had been endued with a pitying desire to throw a veil over such degradation and misery. We say degradation, for Mrs Frog had of late taken to “the bottle” as a last solace in her extreme misery, and the expression of her face, as she cowered on a low stool beside the empty grate and drew the shred of tartan shawl round her shivering form, showed all too clearly that she was at that time under its influence. She had been down to the river again, more than once, and had gazed into its dark waters until she had very nearly made up her mind to take the desperate leap, but God in mercy had hitherto interposed. At one time a policeman had passed with his weary “move on”—though sometimes he had not the heart to enforce his order. More frequently a little baby-face had looked up from the river with a smile, and sent her away to the well-known street where she would sit in the familiar door-step watching the shadows on the window-blind until cold and sorrow drove her to the gin-palace to seek for the miserable comfort to be found there. Whatever that comfort might amount to, it did not last long, for, on the night of which we write, she had been to the palace, had got all the comfort that was to be had out of it, and returned to her desolate home more wretched than ever, to sit down, as we have seen, and murmur, almost fiercely, “Nobody cares.” For a time she sat silent and motionless, while the deepening shadows gathered round her, as if they had united with all the rest to intensify the poor creature’s woe. Presently she began to mutter to herself aloud— “What’s the use o’ your religion when it comes to this? What sort of religion is in the hearts of these,” (she pursed her lips, and paused for an expressive word, but found none), “these rich folk in their silks and satins and broadcloth, with more than they can use, an’ feedin’ their pampered cats and dogs on what would be wealth to the likes o’ me! Religion! bah!” She stopped, for a Voice within her said as plainly as if it had spoken out: “Who gave you the sixpence the other day, and looked after you with a tender, pitying glance as you hurried away to the gin-shop without so much as stopping to say ‘Thank you’? She wore silks, didn’t she?” “Ah, but there’s not many like that,” replied the poor woman, mentally, for the powers of good and evil were fighting fiercely within her just then. “How do you know there are not many like that?” demanded the Voice. “Well, but all the rich are not like that,” said Mrs Frog. The Voice made no reply to that! Again she sat silent for some time, save that a low moan escaped her occasionally, for she was very cold and very hungry, having spent the last few pence, which might have given her a meal, in drink; and the re-action of the poison helped to depress her. The evil spirit seemed to gain the mastery at this point, to judge from her muttered words. “Nothing to eat, nothing to drink, no work to be got, Hetty laid up in hospital, Ned in prison, Bobby gone to the bad again instead of goin’ to Canada, and—nobody cares—” “What about baby?” asked the Voice. This time it was Mrs Frog’s turn to make no reply! in a few minutes she seemed to become desperate, for, rising hastily, she went out, shut the door with a bang, locked it, and set out on the familiar journey to the gin-shop. She had not far to go. It was at the corner. If it had not been at that corner, there was one to be found at the next—and the next—and the next again, and so on all round; so that, rushing past, as people sometimes do when endeavouring to avoid a danger, would have been of little or no avail in this case. But there was a very potent influence of a negative kind in her favour. She had no money! Recollecting this when she had nearly reached the door, she turned aside, and ran swiftly to the old door-step, where she sat down and hid her face in her hands. A heavy footstep sounded at her side the next moment. She looked quickly up. It was a policeman. He did not apply the expected words—“move on.” He was a man under whose blue uniform beat a tender and sympathetic heart. In fact, he was Number 666—changed from some cause that we cannot explain, and do not understand—from the Metropolitan to the City Police Force. His number also had been changed, but we refuse to be trammelled by police regulations. Number 666 he was and shall remain in this tale to the end of the chapter! Instead of ordering the poor woman to go away, Giles was searching his pockets for a penny, when to his intense surprise he received a blow on the chest, and then a slap on the face! Poor Mrs Frog, misjudging his intentions, and roused to a fit of temporary insanity by her wrongs and sorrows, sprang at her supposed foe like a wildcat. She was naturally a strong woman, and violent passion lent her unusual strength. Oh! it was pitiful to witness the struggle that ensued!—to see a woman, forgetful of sex and everything else, striving with all her might to bite, scratch, and kick, while her hair tumbled down, and her bonnet and shawl falling off made more apparent the insufficiency of the rags with which she was covered. Strong as he was, Giles received several ugly scratches and bites before he could effectually restrain her. Fortunately, there were no passers-by in the quiet street, and, therefore, no crowd assembled. “My poor woman,” said Giles, when he had her fast, “do keep quiet. I’m going to do you no harm. God help you, I was goin’ to give you a copper when you flew at me so. Come, you’d better go with me to the station, for you’re not fit to take care of yourself.” Whether it was the tender tone of Giles’s voice, or the words that he uttered, or the strength of his grasp that subdued Mrs Frog, we cannot tell, but she gave in suddenly, hung down her head, and allowed her captor to do as he pleased. Seeing this, he carefully replaced her bonnet on her head, drew the old shawl quite tenderly over her shoulders, and led her gently away. Before they had got the length of the main thoroughfare, however, a female of a quiet, respectable appearance met them. “Mrs Frog!” she exclaimed, in amazement, stopping suddenly before them. “If you know her, ma’am, perhaps you may direct me to her home.” “I know her well,” said the female, who was none other than the Bible-nurse who visited the sick of that district; “if you have not arrested her for—for—” “Oh no, madam,” interrupted Giles, “I have not arrested her at all, but she seems to be unwell, and I was merely assisting her.” “Oh! then give her over to me, please. I know where she lives, and will take care of her.” Giles politely handed his charge over, and went on his way, sincerely hoping that the next to demand his care would be a man. The Bible-woman drew the arm of poor Mrs Frog through her own, and in a few minutes stood beside her in the desolate home. “Nobody cares,” muttered the wretched woman as she sank in apathy on her stool and leaned her head against the wall. “You are wrong, dear Mrs Frog. I care, for one, else I should not be here. Many other Christian people would care, too, if they knew of your sufferings; but, above all, God cares. Have you carried your troubles to Him?” “Why should I? He has long ago forsaken me.” “Is it not, dear friend, that you have forsaken Him? Jesus says, as plain as words can put it, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ You tell me it is of no use to go to Him, and you don’t go, and then you complain that He has forsaken you! Where is my friend Hetty?” “In hospital.” “Indeed! I have been here several times lately to inquire, but have always found your door locked. Your husband—” “He’s in prison, and Bobby’s gone to the bad,” said Mrs Frog, still in a tone of sulky defiance. “I see no sign of food,” said the Bible-nurse, glancing quickly round; “are you hungry?” “Hungry!” exclaimed the woman fiercely, “I’ve tasted nothin’ at all since yesterday.” “Poor thing!” said the Bible-nurse in a low tone; “come—come with me. I don’t say more. You cannot speak while you are famishing. Stay, first one word—” She paused and looked up. She did not kneel; she did not clasp her hands or shut her eyes, but, with one hand on the door-latch, and the other grasping the poor woman’s wrist, she prayed— “God bless and comfort poor Mrs Frog, for Jesus’ sake.” Then she hurried, without uttering a word, to the Institution in George Yard. The door happened to be open, and the figure of a man with white hair and a kind face was seen within. Entering, the Bible-nurse whispered to this man. Another moment and Mrs Frog was seated at a long deal table with a comfortable fire at her back, a basin of warm soup, and a lump of loaf bread before her. The Bible-nurse sat by and looked on. “Somebody cares a little, don’t you think?” she whispered, when the starving woman made a brief pause for breath. “Yes, thank God,” answered Mrs Frog, returning to the meal as though she feared that some one might still snatch it from her thin lips before she got it all down. When it was finished the Bible-nurse led Mrs Frog into another room. “You feel better—stronger?” she asked. “Yes, much better—thank you, and quite able to go home.” “There is no occasion for you to go home to-night; you may sleep there,” (pointing to a corner), “but I would like to pray with you now, and read a verse or two.” Mrs Frog submitted, while her friend read to her words of comfort; pleaded that pardon and deliverance might be extended, and gave her loving words of counsel. Then the poor creature lay down in her corner, drew a warm blanket over her, and slept with a degree of comfort that she had not enjoyed for many a day. When it was said by Mrs Frog that her son Bobby had gone to the bad, it must not be supposed that any very serious change had come over him. As that little waif had once said of himself, when in a penitent mood, he was about as bad as he could be, so couldn’t grow much badder. But when his sister lost her situation in the firm that paid her such splendid wages, and fell ill, and went into hospital in consequence, he lost heart, and had a relapse of wickedness. He grew savage with regard to life in general, and committed a petty theft, which, although not discovered, necessitated his absence from home for a time. It was while he was away that the scene which we have just described took place. On the very next day he returned, and it so happened that on the same day Hetty was discharged from hospital “cured.” That is to say, she left the place a thin, tottering, pallid shadow, but with no particular form of organic disease about her. She and her mother had received some food from one who cared for them, through the Bible-nurse. “Mother, you’ve been drinkin’ again,” said Hetty, looking earnestly at her parent’s eyes. “Well, dear,” pleaded Mrs Frog, “what could I do? You had all forsaken me, and I had nothin’ else to comfort me.” “Oh! mother, darling mother,” cried Hetty, “do promise me that you will give it up. I won’t get ill or leave you again—God helping me; but it will kill me if you go on. Do promise.” “It’s of no use, Hetty. Of course I can easily promise, but I can’t keep my promise. I know I can’t.” Hetty knew this to be too true. Without the grace of God in the heart, she was well aware that human efforts must fail, sooner or later. She was thinking what to reply, and praying in her heart for guidance, when the door opened and her brother Bobby swaggered in with an air that did not quite accord with his filthy fluttering rags, unwashed face and hands, bare feet and unkempt hair. “Vell, mother, ’ow are ye? Hallo! Hetty! w’y, wot a shadder you’ve become! Oh! I say, them nusses at the hospital must ’ave stole all your flesh an’ blood from you, for they’ve left nothin’ but the bones and skin.” He went up to his sister, put an arm round her neck, and kissed her. This was a very unusual display of affection. It was the first time Bobby had volunteered an embrace, though he had often submitted to one with dignified complacency, and Hetty, being weak, burst into tears. “Hallo! I say, stop that now, young gal,” he said, with a look of alarm, “I’m always took bad ven I see that sort o’ thing, I can’t stand it.” By way of mending matters the poor girl, endeavouring to be agreeable, gave a hysterical laugh. “Come, that’s better, though it ain’t much to boast of,”—and he kissed her again. Finding that, although for the present they were supplied with a small amount of food, Hetty had no employment and his mother no money, our city Arab said that he would undertake to sustain the family. “But oh! Bobby, dear, don’t steal again.” “No, Hetty, I won’t, I’ll vork. I didn’t go for to do it a-purpose, but I was overtook some’ow—I seed the umbrellar standin’ handy, you know, and—etceterer. But I’m sorry I did it, an’ I won’t do it again.” Swelling with great intentions, Robert Frog thrust his dirty little hands into his trouser pockets—at least into the holes that once contained them—and went out whistling. Soon he came to a large warehouse, where a portly gentleman stood at the door. Planting himself in front of this man, and ceasing to whistle in order that he might speak, he said:— “Was you in want of a ’and, sir?” “No, I wasn’t,” replied the man, with a glance of contempt. “Sorry for that,” returned Bobby, “’cause I’m in want of a sitivation.” “What can you do?” asked the man. “Oh! hanythink.” “Ah, I thought so; I don’t want hands who can do anything, I prefer those who can do something.” Bobby Frog resumed his whistling, at the exact bar where he had left off, and went on his way. He was used to rebuffs, and didn’t mind them. But when he had spent all the forenoon in receiving rebuffs, had made no progress whatever in his efforts, and began to feel hungry, he ceased the whistling and became grave. “This looks serious,” he said, pausing in front of a pastry-cook’s shop window. “But for that there plate glass wot a blow hout I might ’ave! Beggin’ might be tried with advantage. It’s agin the law, no doubt, but it ain’t a sin. Yes, I’ll try beggin’.” But our Arab was not a natural beggar, if we may say so. He scorned to whine, and did not even like to ask. His spirit was much more like that of a highwayman than a beggar. Proceeding to a quiet neighbourhood which seemed to have been forgotten by the police, he turned down a narrow lane and looked out for a subject, as a privateer might search among “narrows” for a prize. He did not search long. An old lady soon hove in sight. She seemed a suitable old lady, well-dressed, little, gentle, white-haired, a tottering gait, and a benign aspect. Bobby went straight up and planted himself in front of her. “Please, ma’am, will you oblige me with a copper?” The poor old lady grew pale. Without a word she tremblingly, yet quickly, pulled out her purse, took therefrom a shilling, and offered it to the boy. “Oh! marm,” said Bobby, who was alarmed and conscience-smitten at the result of his scheme, “I didn’t mean for to frighten you. Indeed I didn’t, an’ I won’t ’ave your money at no price.” Saying which he turned abruptly round and walked away. “Boy, boy, boy!” called the old lady in a voice so entreating, though tremulous, that Bobby felt constrained to return. “You’re a most remarkable boy,” she said, putting the shilling back into her purse. “I’m sorry to say, marm, that you’re not the on’y indiwidooal as ’olds that opinion.” “What do you mean by your conduct, boy?” “I mean, marm, that I’m wery ’ard up. Uncommon ’ard up; that I’ve tried to git vork an’ can’t git it, so that I’m redooced to beggary. But, I ain’t a ’ighway robber, marm, by no means, an’ don’t want to frighten you hout o’ your money if you ain’t willin’ to give it.” The little tremulous old lady was so pleased with this reply that she took half-a-crown out of her purse and put it into the boy’s hand. He looked at her in silent surprise. “It ain’t a copper, marm!” “I know that. It is half-a-crown, and I willingly give it you because you are an honest boy.” “But, marm,” said Bobby, still holding out the piece of silver on his palm, “I ain’t a honest boy. I’m a thief!” “Tut, tut, don’t talk nonsense; I don’t believe you.” “Vel now, this beats all that I ever did come across. ’Ere’s a old ’ooman as I tells as plain as mud that I’m a thief, an’ nobody’s better able to give a opinion on that pint than myself, yet she won’t believe it!” “No, I won’t,” said the old lady with a little nod and a smile, “so, put the money in your pocket, for you’re an honest boy.” “Vell, it’s pleasant to ’ear that, any’ow,” returned Bobby, placing the silver coin in a vest pocket which was always kept in repair for coins of smaller value. “Where do you live, boy? I should like to come and see you.” “My residence, marm, ain’t a mansion in the vest-end. No, nor yet a willa in the subarbs. I’m afear’d, marm, that I live in a district that ain’t quite suitable for the likes of you to wisit. But—” Here Bobby paused, for at the moment his little friend Tim Lumpy recurred to his memory, and a bright thought struck him. “Well, boy, why do you pause?” “I was on’y thinkin’, marm, that if you wants to befriend us poor boys—they calls us waifs an’ strays an’ all sorts of unpurlite names—you’ve on’y got to send a sov, or two to Miss Annie Macpherson, ’Ome of Hindustry, Commercial Street, Spitalfields, an’ you’ll be the means o’ doin’ a world o’ good—as I ’eard a old gen’l’m with a white choker on say the wery last time I was down there ’avin’ a blow out o’ bread an’ soup.” “I know the lady and the Institution well, my boy,” said the old lady, “and will act on your advice, but—” Ere she finished the sentence Bobby Frog had turned and fled at the very top of his speed. “Stop! stop! stop!” exclaimed the old lady in a weakly shout. But the “remarkable boy” would neither stop nor stay. He had suddenly caught sight of a policeman turning into the lane, and forthwith took to his heels, under a vague and not unnatural impression that if that limb of the law found him in possession of a half-crown he would refuse to believe his innocence with as much obstinacy as the little old lady had refused to believe his guilt. On reaching home he found his mother alone in a state of amused agitation which suggested to his mind the idea of Old Tom. “Wot, bin at it again, mother?” “No, no, Bobby, but somethin’s happened which amuses me much, an’ I can’t keep it to myself no longer, so I’ll tell it to you, Bobby.” “Fire away, then, mother, an’ remember that the law don’t compel no one to criminate hisself.” “You know, Bob, that a good while ago our Matty disappeared. I saw that the dear child was dyin’ for want o’ food an’ warmth an’ fresh air, so I thinks to myself, ‘why shouldn’t I put ’er out to board wi’ rich people for nothink?’” “A wery correct notion, an’ cleverer than I gave you credit for. I’m glad to ear it too, for I feared sometimes that you’d bin an’ done it.” “Oh! Bobby, how could you ever think that! Well, I put the baby out to board with a family of the name of Twitter. Now it seems, all unbeknown to me, Mrs Twitter is a great helper at the George Yard Ragged Schools, where our Hetty has often seen her; but as we’ve bin used never to speak about the work there, as your father didn’t like it, of course I know’d nothin’ about Mrs Twitter bein’ given to goin’ there. Well, it seems she’s very free with her money and gives a good deal away to poor people.” (She’s not the only one, thought the boy.) “So what does the Bible-nurse do when she hears about poor Hetty’s illness but goes off and asks Mrs Twitter to try an’ git her a situation.” “‘Oh! I know Hetty,’ says Mrs Twitter at once, ‘That nice girl that teaches one o’ the Sunday-school classes. Send her to me. I want a nurse for our baby,’ that’s for Matty, Bob—” “What! our baby!” exclaimed the boy with a sudden blaze of excitement. “Yes—our baby. She calls it hers!” “Well, now,” said Bobby, after recovering from the fit of laughter and thigh-slapping into which this news had thrown him, “if this don’t beat cockfightin’ all to nuffin’! why, mother, Hetty’ll know baby the moment she claps eyes on it.” “Of course she will,” said Mrs Frog; “it is really very awkward, an’ I can’t think what to do. I’m half afraid to tell Hetty.” “Oh! don’t tell her—don’t tell her,” cried the boy, whose eyes sparkled with mischievous glee. “It’ll be sich fun! If I ’ad on’y the chance to stand be’ind a door an’ see the meetin’ I wouldn’t exchange it—no not for a feed of pork sassengers an’ suet pud’n. I must go an’ tell this to Tim Lumpy. It’ll bust ’im—that’s my on’y fear, but I must tell ’im wotever be the consikences.” With this stern resolve, to act regardless of results, Bob Frog went off in search of his little friend, whose departure for Canada had been delayed, from some unknown cause, much to Bob’s satisfaction. He found Tim on his way to the Beehive, and was induced not only to go with him, but to decide, finally, to enter the Institution as a candidate for Canada. Being well-known, both as to person and circumstances, he was accepted at once; taken in, washed, cropped, and transformed as if by magic. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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