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Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished

<h3>Chapter Sixteen.</h3> <h4>Sir Richard visits the Beehive, and sees many Surprising Things.</h4> “My dear Mrs Loper,” said Mrs Twitter over a cup of tea, “it is very kind of you to say so, and I really do think you are right, we have done full justice to our dear wee Mita. Who would ever have thought, remembering the thin starved sickly child she was the night that Sam brought her in, that she would come to be such a plump, rosy, lovely child? I declare to you that I feel as if she were one of my own.” “She is indeed a very lovely infant,” returned Mrs Loper. “Don’t you think so, Mrs Larrabel?” The smiling lady expanded her mouth, and said, “very.” “But,” continued Mrs Twitter, “I really find that the entire care of her is too much for me, for, although dear Mary assists me, her studies require to be attended to, and, do you know, babies interfere with studies dreadfully. Not that I have time to do much in that way at present. I think the Bible is the only book I really study now, so, you see, I’ve been thinking of adding to our establishment by getting a new servant;—a sort of nursery governess, you know,—a cheap one, of course. Sam quite agrees with me, and, as it happens, I know a very nice little girl just now—a very very poor girl—who helps us so nicely on Sundays in George Yard, and has been recommended to me as a most deserving creature. I expect her to call to-night.” “Be cautious, Mrs Twitter,” said Mrs Loper. “These very poor girls from the slums of Whitechapel are sometimes dangerous, and, excuse me, rather dirty. Of course, if you know her, that is some security, but I would advise you to be very cautious.” “Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs Twitter, “I usually am very cautious, and will try to be so on this occasion. I mean her to be rather a sort of nursery governess than a servant.—That is probably the girl.” She referred to a rather timid knock at the front door. In another second the domestic announced Hetty Frog, who entered with a somewhat shy air, and seemed fluttered at meeting with unexpected company. “Come in, Hetty, my dear; I’m glad to see you. My friends here know that you are a helper in our Sunday-schools. Sit down, and have a cup of tea. You know why I have sent for you?” “Yes, Mrs Twitter. It—it is very kind. Our Bible-nurse told me, and I shall be so happy to come, because—but I fear I have interrupted you. I—I can easily come back—” “No interruption at all, my dear. Here, take this cup of tea—” “And a crumpet,” added Mrs Larrabel, who sympathised with the spirit of hospitality. “Yes, take a crumpet, and let me hear about your last place.” Poor Hetty, who was still very weak from her recent illness, and would gladly have been excused sitting down with two strangers, felt constrained to comply, and was soon put at her ease by the kindly tone and manner of the hostess. She ran quickly over the chief points of her late engagements, and roused, without meaning to do so, the indignation of the ladies by the bare mention of the wages she had received for the amount of work done. “Well, my dear,” said the homely Mrs Twitter, “we won’t be so hard on you here. I want you to assist me with my sewing and darning—of which I have a very great deal—and help to take care of baby.” “Very well, ma’am,” said Hetty, “when do you wish me to begin my duties?” “Oh! to-morrow—after breakfast will do. It is too late to-night. But before you go, I may as well let you see the little one you are to have charge of. I hear she is awake.” There could be no doubt upon that point, for the very rafters of the house were ringing at the moment with the yells which issued from an adjoining room. “Come this way, Hetty.” Mrs Loper and Mrs Larrabel, having formed a good opinion of the girl, looked on with approving smiles. The smiles changed to glances of surprise, however, when Hetty, having looked on the baby, uttered a most startling scream, while her eyes glared as though she saw a ghostly apparition. Seizing the baby with unceremonious familiarity, Hetty struck Mrs Twitter dumb by turning it on its face, pulling open its dress, glancing at a bright red spot on its back, and uttering a shriek of delight as she turned it round again, and hugged it with violent affection, exclaiming, “Oh! my blessed Matty!” “The child’s name is not Matty; it is Mita,” said Mrs Twitter, on recovering her breath. “What do you mean, girl?” “Her name is not Mita, it is Matty,” returned Hetty, with a flatness of contradiction that seemed impossible in one so naturally gentle. Mrs Twitter stood, aghast—bereft of the power of speech or motion. Mrs Loper and Mrs Larrabel were similarly affected. They soon recovered, however, and exclaimed in chorus, “What can she mean?” “Forgive me, ma’am,” said Hetty, still holding on to baby, who seemed to have an idea that she was creating a sensation of some sort, without requiring to yell, “forgive my rudeness, ma’am, but I really couldn’t help it, for this is my long-lost sister Matilda.” “Sister Matilda!” echoed Mrs Loper. “Long-lost sister Matilda!” repeated Mrs Larrabel. “This—is—your—long-lost sister Matilda,” rehearsed Mrs Twitter, like one in a dream. The situation was rendered still more complex by the sudden entrance of Mr Twitter and his friend Crackaby. “What—what—what’s to do now, Mariar?” “Sister Matilda!” shouted all three with a gasp. “Lunatics, every one of ’em,” murmured Crackaby. It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to add that a full explanation ensued when the party became calmer; that Mrs Twitter could not doubt the veracity of Hetty Frog, but suspected her sanity; that Mrs Frog was sent for, and was recognised at once by Mr Twitter as the poor woman who had asked him such wild and unmeaning questions the night on which he had found the baby; and that Mr and Mrs Twitter, Mrs Loper, Mrs Larrabel, and Crackaby came to the unanimous conclusion that they had never heard of such a thing before in the whole course of their united lives—which lives, when united, as some statisticians would take a pride in recording, formed two hundred and forty-three years! Poor Mrs Twitter was as inconsolable at the loss of her baby as Mrs Frog was overjoyed at the recovery of hers. She therefore besought the latter to leave little Mita, alias Matty, with her just for one night longer—only one night—and then she might come for her in the morning, for, you know, it would have been cruel to remove the child from her warm crib at that hour to a cold and comfortless lodging. Of course Mrs Frog readily consented. If Mrs Frog had known the events that lay in the womb of the next few hours, she would sooner have consented to have had her right-hand cut off than have agreed to that most reasonable request. But we must not anticipate. A few of our dramatis personae took both an active and an inactive part in the events of these hours. It is therefore imperative that we should indicate how some of them came to be in that region. About five of the clock in the afternoon of the day in question, Sir Richard Brandon, his daughter and idol Diana, and his young friend Stephen Welland, sat in the dining-room of the West-end mansion concluding an early and rather hasty dinner. That something was pending was indicated by the fact that little Di sat accoutred in her hat and cloak. “We shall have to make haste,” said Sir Richard, rising, “for I should not like to be late, and it is a long drive to Whitechapel.” “When do they begin?” asked Welland. “They have tea at six, I believe, and then the meeting commences at seven, but I wish to be early that I may have a short conversation with one of the ladies of the Home.” “Oh! it will be so nice, and such fun to see the dear little boys. How many are going to start for Canada, to-night, papa?” “About fifty or sixty, I believe, but I’m not sure. They are sent off in batches of varying size from time to time.” “Is the demand for them so great?” asked Welland, “I should have thought that Canadian farmers and others would be afraid to receive into their dwellings what is often described as the scum of the London streets.” “They were afraid at first, I am told, but soon discovered that the little fellows who came from Miss Macpherson’s Home had been subjected to such good training and influences before leaving that they almost invariably turned out valuable and trustworthy workmen. No doubt there are exceptions in this as in every other case, but the demand is, it seems, greater than the supply. It is, however, a false idea that little waifs and strays, however dirty or neglected, are in any sense the scum of London. Youth, in all circumstances, is cream, and only turns into scum when allowed to stagnate or run to waste. Come, now, let us be off. Mr Seaward, the city missionary, is to meet us after the meeting, and show you and me something of those who have fallen very low in the social scale. Brisbane, who is also to be at the meeting, will bring Di home. By the way, have you heard anything yet about that poor comrade and fellow-clerk of yours—Twitter, I think, was his name—who disappeared so suddenly?” “Nothing whatever. I have made inquiries in all directions—for I had a great liking for the poor fellow. I went also to see his parents, but they seemed too much cut up to talk on the subject at all, and knew nothing of his whereabouts.” “Ah! it is a very sad case—very,” said Sir Richard, as they all descended to the street. “We might, perhaps, call at their house to-night in passing.” Entering a cab, they drove away. From the foregoing conversation the reader will have gathered that the party were about to visit the Beehive, or Home of Industry, and that Sir Richard, through the instrumentality of little Di and the city missionary, had actually begun to think about the poor! It was a special night at the Beehive. A number of diamonds with some of their dust rubbed off—namely, a band of little boys, rescued from the streets and from a probable life of crime, were to be assembled there to say farewell to such friends as took an interest in them. The Hive had been a huge warehouse. It was now converted, with but slight structural alteration, into a great centre of Light in that morally dark region, from which emanated gospel truth and Christian influence, and in which was a refuge for the poor, the destitute, the sin-smitten, and the sorrowful. Not only poverty, but sin-in-rags, was sure of help in the Beehive. It had been set agoing to bring, not the righteous, but sinners, to repentance. When Sir Richard arrived he found a large though low-roofed room crowded with people, many of whom, to judge from their appearance, were, like himself, diamond-seekers from the “west-end,” while others were obviously from the “east-end,” and had the appearance of men and women who had been but recently unearthed. There were also city missionaries and other workers for God in that humble-looking hall. Among them sat Mr John Seaward and George Brisbane, Esquire. Placing Di and Welland near the latter, Sir Richard retired to a corner where one of the ladies of the establishment was distributing tea to all comers. “Where are your boys, may I ask?” said the knight, accepting a cup of tea. “Over in the left corner,” answered the lady. “You can hardly see them for the crowd, but they will stand presently.” At that moment, as if to justify her words, a large body of boys rose up, at a sign from the superintending genius of the place, and began to sing a beautiful hymn in soft, tuneful voices. It was a goodly array of dusty diamonds, and a few of them had already begun to shine. “Surely,” said Sir Richard, in a low voice, “these cannot be the ragged, dirty little fellows you pick up in the streets?” “Indeed they are,” returned the lady. “But—but they seem to me quite respectable and cleanly fellows, not at all like—why, how has the change been accomplished?” “By the united action, sir, of soap and water, needles and thread, scissors, cast-off garments, and Love.” Sir Richard smiled. Perchance the reader may also smile; nevertheless, this statement embodied probably the whole truth. When an unkempt, dirty, ragged little savage presents himself, or is presented, at the Refuge, or is “picked up” in the streets, his case is promptly and carefully inquired into. If he seems a suitable character—that is, one who is utterly friendless and parentless, or whose parents are worse than dead to him—he is received into the Home, and the work of transformation—both of body and soul—commences. First he is taken to the lavatory and scrubbed outwardly clean. His elfin locks are cropped close and cleansed. His rags are burned, and a new suit, made by the old women workers, is put upon him, after which, perhaps, he is fed. Then he is sent to a doctor to see that he is internally sound in wind and limb. If passed by the doctor, he receives a brief but important training in the rudiments of knowledge. In all of these various processes Love is the guiding principle of the operator—love to God and love to the boy. He is made to understand, and to feel, that it is in the name of Jesus, for the love of Jesus, and in the spirit of Jesus—not of mere philanthropy—that all this is done, and that his body is cared for chiefly in order that the soul may be won. Little wonder, then, that a boy or girl, whose past experience has been the tender mercies of the world—and that the roughest part of the world—should become somewhat “respectable,” as Sir Richard put it, under such new and blessed influences. Suddenly a tiny shriek was heard in the midst of the crowd, and a sweet little voice exclaimed, as if its owner were in great surprise— “Oh! oh! there is my boy!” A hearty laugh from the audience greeted this outburst, and poor Di, shrinking down, tried to hide her pretty face on Welland’s ready arm. Her remark was quickly forgotten in the proceedings that followed—but it was true. There stood, in the midst of the group of boys, little Bobby Frog, with his face washed, his hair cropped and shining, his garments untattered, and himself looking as meek and “respectable” as the best of them. Beside him stood his fast friend Tim Lumpy. Bobby was not, however, one of the emigrant band. Having joined only that very evening, and been cropped, washed, and clothed for the first time, he was there merely as a privileged guest. Tim, also, was only a guest, not having quite attained to the dignity of a full-fledged emigrant at that time. At the sound of the sweet little voice, Bobby Frog’s meek look was replaced by one of bright intelligence, not unmingled with anxiety, as he tried unavailingly to see the child who had spoken. We do not propose to give the proceedings of this meeting in detail, interesting though they were. Other matters of importance claim our attention. It will be sufficient to say that mingled with the semi-conversational, pleasantly free-and-easy, intercourse that ensued, there were most interesting short addresses from the lady-superintendents of “The Sailors’ Welcome Home” and of the “Strangers’ Rest,” both of Ratcliff Highway, also from the chief of the Ragged schools in George Yard, and several city missionaries, as well as from city merchants who found time and inclination to traffic in the good things of the life to come as well as in those of the life that now is. Before the proceedings had drawn to a close a voice whispered: “It is time to go, Sir Richard.” It was the voice of John Seaward. Following him, Sir Richard and Welland went out. It had grown dark by that time, and as there were no brilliantly lighted shops near, the place seemed gloomy, but the gloom was nothing to that of the filthy labyrinths into which Seaward quickly conducted his followers. “You have no occasion to fear, sir,” said the missionary, observing that Sir Richard hesitated at the mouth of one very dark alley. “It would, indeed, hardly be safe were you to come down here alone, but most of ’em know me. I remember being told by one of the greatest roughs I ever knew that at the very corner where we now stand he had many and many a time knocked down and robbed people. That man is now an earnest Christian, and, like Paul, goes about preaching the Name which he once despised.” At the moment a dark shadow seemed to pass them, and a gruff voice said, “Good-night, sir.” “Was that the man you were speaking of?” asked Sir Richard, quickly. “Oh no, sir,” replied Seaward with a laugh; “that’s what he was once like, indeed, but not what he is like now. His voice is no longer gruff. Take care of the step, gentlemen, as you pass here; so, now we will go into this lodging. It is one of the common lodging-houses of London, which are regulated by law and under the supervision of the police. Each man pays fourpence a night here, for which he is entitled to a bed and the use of the kitchen and its fire to warm himself and cook his food. If he goes to the same lodging every night for a week he becomes entitled to a free night on Sundays.” The room into which they now entered was a long low chamber, which evidently traversed the whole width of the building, for it turned at a right angle at the inner end, and extended along the back to some extent. It was divided along one side into boxes or squares, after the fashion of some eating-houses, with a small table in the centre of each box, but, the partitions being little higher than those of a church-pew, the view of the whole room was unobstructed. At the inner angle of the room blazed a coal-fire so large that a sheep might have been easily roasted whole at it. Gas jets, fixed along the walls at intervals, gave a sufficient light to the place. This was the kitchen of the lodging-house, and formed the sitting-room of the place; and here was assembled perhaps the most degraded and miserable set of men that the world can produce. They were not all of one class, by any means; nor were they all criminal, though certainly many of them were. The place was the last refuge of the destitute; the social sink into which all that is improvident, foolish, reckless, thriftless, or criminal finally descends. Sir Richard and Welland had put on their oldest great-coats and shabbiest wideawakes; they had also put off their gloves and rings and breastpins in order to attract as little attention as possible, but nothing that they could have done could have reduced their habiliments to anything like the garments of the poor creatures with whom they now mingled. If they had worn the same garments for months or years without washing them, and had often slept in them out of doors in dirty places, they might perhaps have brought them to the same level, but not otherwise. Some of the people, however, were noisy enough. Many of them were smoking, and the coarser sort swore and talked loud. Those who had once been in better circumstances sat and moped, or spoke in lower tones, or cooked their victuals with indifference to all else around, or ate them in abstracted silence; while not a few laid their heads and arms on the tables, and apparently slept. For sleeping in earnest there were rooms overhead containing many narrow beds with scant and coarse covering, which, however, the law compelled to be clean. One of the rooms contained seventy such beds. Little notice was taken of the west-end visitors as they passed up the room, though some dark scowls of hatred were cast after them, and a few glanced at them with indifference. It was otherwise in regard to Seaward. He received many a “good-night, sir,” as he passed, and a kindly nod greeted him here and there from men who at first looked as if kindness had been utterly eradicated from their systems. One of those whom we have described as resting their heads and arms on the tables, looked hastily up, on hearing the visitors’ voices, with an expression of mingled surprise and alarm. It was Sammy Twitter, with hands and visage filthy, hair dishevelled, eyes bloodshot, cheeks hollow, and garments beyond description disreputable. He seemed the very embodiment of woe and degradation. On seeing his old friend Welland he quickly laid his head down again and remained motionless. Welland had not observed him. “You would scarcely believe it, sir,” said the missionary, in a low tone; “nearly all classes of society are occasionally represented here. You will sometimes find merchants, lawyers, doctors, military men, and even clergymen, who have fallen step by step, chiefly in consequence of that subtle demon drink, until the common lodging-house is their only home.” “Heaven help me!” said Sir Richard; “my friend Brisbane has often told me of this, but I have never quite believed it—certainly never realised it—until to-night. And even now I can hardly believe it. I see no one here who seems as if he ever had belonged to the classes you name.” “Do you see the old man in the last box in the room, on the left-hand side, sitting alone?” asked Seaward, turning his back to the spot indicated. “Yes.” “Well, that is a clergyman. I know him well. You would never guess it from his wretched clothing, but you might readily believe it if you were to speak to him.” “That I will not do,” returned the other firmly. “You are right, sir,” said Seaward, “I would not advise that you should—at least not here, or now. I have been in the habit of reading a verse or two of the Word and giving them a short address sometimes about this hour. Have you any objection to my doing so now? It won’t detain us long.” “None in the world; pray, my good sir, don’t let me disarrange your plans.” “Perhaps,” added the missionary, “you would say a few words to—” “No, no,” interrupted the other, quickly; “no, they are preaching to me just now, Mr Seaward, a very powerful sermon, I assure you.” During the foregoing conversation young Welland’s thoughts had been very busy; ay, and his conscience had not been idle, for when mention was made of that great curse strong drink, he vividly recalled the day when he had laughed at Sam Twitter’s blue ribbon, and felt uneasy as to how far his conduct on that occasion had helped Sam in his downward career. “My friends,” said the missionary aloud, “we will sing a hymn.” Some of those whom he addressed turned towards the speaker; others paid no attention whatever, but went on with their cooking and smoking. They were used to it, as ordinary church-goers are to the “service.” The missionary understood that well, but was not discouraged, because he knew that his “labour in the Lord” should not be in vain. He pulled out two small hymn-books and handed one to Sir Richard, the other to Welland. Sir Richard suddenly found himself in what was to him a strange and uncomfortable position, called on to take a somewhat prominent part in a religious service in a low lodging-house! The worst of it was that the poor knight could not sing a note. However, his deficiency in this respect was more than compensated by John Seaward, who possessed a telling tuneful voice, with a grateful heart to work it. Young Welland also could sing well, and joined heartily in that beautiful hymn which tells of “The wonderful words of life.” After a brief prayer the missionary preached the comforting gospel, and tried, with all the fervour of a sympathetic heart, to impress on his hearers that there really was Hope for the hopeless, and Rest for the weary in Jesus Christ. When he had finished, Stephen Welland surprised him, as well as his friend Sir Richard and the audience generally, by suddenly exclaiming, in a subdued but impressive voice, which drew general attention: “Friends, I had no intention of saying a word when I came here, but, God forgive me, I have committed a sin, which seems to force me to speak and warn you against giving way to strong drink. I had—nay, I have—a dear friend who once put on the Blue Ribbon.” Here he related the episode at the road-side tavern, and his friend’s terrible fall, and wound up with the warning: “Fellow-men, fellow-sinners, beware of being laughed out of good resolves—beware of strong drink. I know not where my comrade is now. He may be dead, but I think not, for he has a mother and father who pray for him without ceasing. Still better, as you have just been told, he has an Advocate with God, who is able and willing to save him to the uttermost. Forgive me, Mr Seaward, for speaking without being asked. I could not help it.” “No need to ask forgiveness of me, Mr Welland. You have spoken on the Lord’s side, and I have reason to thank you heartily.” While this was being said, those who sat near the door observed that a young man rose softly, and slunk away like a criminal, with a face ashy pale and his head bowed down. On reaching the door, he rushed out like one who expected to be pursued. It was young Sam Twitter. Few of the inmates of the place observed him, none cared a straw for him, and the incident was, no doubt, quickly forgotten. “We must hasten now, if we are to visit another lodging-house,” said Seaward, as they emerged into the comparatively fresh air of the street, “for it grows late, and riotous drunken characters are apt to be met with as they stagger home.” “No; I have had enough for one night,” said Sir Richard. “I shall not be able to digest it all in a hurry. I’ll go home by the Metropolitan, if you will conduct me to the nearest station.” “Come along, then. This way.” They had not gone far, and were passing through a quiet side street, when they observed a poor woman sitting on a door-step. It was Mrs Frog, who had returned to sit on the old familiar spot, and watch the shadows on the blind, either from the mere force of habit, or because this would probably be the last occasion on which she could expect to enjoy that treat. A feeling of pity entered Sir Richard’s soul as he looked on the poorly clothed forlorn creature. He little knew what rejoicing there was in her heart just then—so deceptive are appearances at times! He went towards her with an intention of some sort, when a very tall policeman turned the corner, and approached. “Why, Giles Scott!” exclaimed the knight, holding out his hand, which Giles shook respectfully, “you seem to be very far away from your beat to-night.” “No, sir, not very far, for this is my beat, now. I have exchanged into the city, for reasons that I need not mention.” At this point a belated and half-tipsy man passed with his donkey-cart full of unsold vegetables and rubbish. “Hallo! you big blue-coat-boy,” he cried politely to Giles, “wot d’ye call that?” Giles had caught sight of “that” at the same moment, and darted across the street. “Why, it’s fire!” he shouted. “Run, young fellow, you know the fire-station!” “I know it,” shouted the donkey-man, sobered in an instant, as he jumped off his cart, left it standing, dashed round the corner, and disappeared, while Number 666 beat a thundering tattoo on Samuel Twitter’s front door. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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