From that heaving grey wilderness1 of water called the North Sea we pass now to that lively wilderness of bricks and mortar2 called London.
West-end mansions3 are not naturally picturesque5 or interesting subjects either for the brush or the pen, and we would not willingly drag our readers into one of them, did not circumstances—over which we have not a shadow of control—compel us to do so.
The particular mansion4 to which we now direct attention belonged to a certain Mrs Dotropy, whose husband’s ancestors, by the way, were said to have come over with the Conqueror—whether in his own ship or in one of the bumboats that followed is not certain. They were De Tropys at that time, but, having sunk in the social scale in the course of centuries, and then risen again in succeeding centuries through the medium of trade, they reappeared on the surface with their patronymic transformed as now presented.
“Mother,” said Ruth Dotropy to a magnificent duchess-like woman, “I’ve come to ask you about the poor—”
“Ruth, dear,” interrupted the mother, “I wish you would not worry me about the poor! They’re a troublesome, ill-doing set; always grumbling6, dirty, ill-natured, suspicious, and envious7 of the rich—as if it was our fault that we are rich! I don’t want to hear anything more about the poor.”
Ruth, who was a soft-cheeked, soft-handed, and soft-hearted girl of eighteen, stood, hat in hand, before her mother with a slight smile on her rosy8 lips.
“You are not quite just to the poor, mother,” returned Ruth, scarce able to restrain a laugh at her parent’s vehemence9. “Some of them are all that you say, no doubt, but there are many, even among the poorest of the poor, who are good-natured, well-doing, unsuspicious, and respectful, not only to the rich but also to each other and to everybody. There is Mrs Wolsey, for instance, she—”
“Oh! but she’s an exception, you know,” said Mrs Dotropy, “there are not many like Mrs Wolsey.”
“And there is Mrs Gladman,” continued Ruth.
“Yes, but she’s another exception.”
“And Mrs Robbie.”
“Why, Ruth, what’s the use of picking out all the exceptions to prove your point? Of course the exception proves the rule—at least so the proverb says—but a great many exceptions prove nothing that I know of, except—that is—but what’s the use of arguing, child, you’ll never be convinced. Come, how much do you want me to give?”
Easy-going Mrs Dotropy’s mind, we need scarcely point out, was of a confused type, and she “hated argument.” Perhaps, on the whole, it was to the advantage of her friends and kindred that she did so.
“I only want you to give a little time, mother,” replied Ruth, swinging her hat to and fro, while she looked archly into Mrs Dotropy’s large, dignified10, and sternly-kind countenance11, if we may venture on such an expression,— “I want you to go with me and see—”
“Yes, yes, I know what you’re going to say, child, you want me to go and ‘see for myself,’ which means that I’m to soil my boots in filthy12 places, subject my ears to profanity, my eyes to horrible sights, and my nose to intolerable smells. No, Ruth, I cannot oblige you. Of what use would it be? If my doing this would relieve the miseries13 of the poor, you might reasonably ask me to go among them, but it would not. I give them as much money as I can afford to give, and, as far as I can see, it does them no good. They never seem better off, and they always want more. They are not even grateful for it. Just look at Lady Openhand. What good does she accomplish by her liberality, and her tearful eyes, and sympathetic heart, even though her feelings are undoubtedly14 genuine? Only the other day I chanced to walk behind her along several streets and saw her stop and give money to seven or eight beggars who accosted15 her. She never can refuse any one who asks with a pitiful look and a pathetic cock-and-bull story. Several of them were young and strong, and quite undeserving of charity. Three, I observed, went straight to a public-house with what she had given them, and the last, a small street boy, went into fits of suppressed laughter after she had passed, and made faces at her—finishing off by putting the thumb of his left hand to his nose, and spreading out his fingers as wide as possible. I do not understand the exact significance of that action, but there is something in it so intensely insolent16 that it is quite incompatible17 with the idea of gratitude18.”
“Yes, mother, I saw him too,” said Ruth, with a demure19 look; “it curiously20 enough happened that I was following you at the time. You afterwards passed the same boy with a refusal, I suppose?”
“Yes, child, of course—and a reproof21.”
“I thought so. Well, after you had passed, he not only applied22 his left thumb to his nose and spread his fingers, but also put the thumb of his right hand against the little finger of his left, and spread out the other five fingers at you. So, whatever he meant Lady Openhand to receive, he meant you to have twice as much. But Lady Openhand makes a mistake, I think, she does not consider the poor; she only feels deeply for them and gives to them.”
“Only feels and gives!” repeated Mrs Dotropy, with a look of solemn amazement23.
Being quite incapable24 of disentangling or expressing the flood of ideas that overwhelmed her, the good lady relieved herself after a few broken sentences, with the assertion that it was of no use arguing with Ruth, for Ruth would never be convinced.
She was so far right, in that her daughter could not change her mind on the strength of mere25 dogmatic assertion, even although she was a pliant26 and teachable little creature. So, at least, Mr Lewis, her pastor27, had found her when he tried to impress on her a few important lessons—such as, that it is better to give than to receive; that man is his brother’s keeper; that we are commanded to walk in the footsteps of Jesus, who came to save the lost, to rescue the perishing, and who fed the hungry.
“But, mother,” resumed Ruth, “I want you to go with me to-day to visit some poor people who are not troublesome, who are perfectly28 clean, are never ill-natured, suspect nothing, and envy nobody.”
“They must indeed be wonderful people,” said Mrs Dotropy, with a laugh at Ruth’s enthusiasm, “quite angelic.”
“They are as nearly so as mortals ever become, I think,” returned Ruth, putting on her hat; “won’t you come, mother?”
Now, Mrs Dotropy had the faculty29 of giving in gracefully30, although she could not argue. Rising with an amused smile, she kissed Ruth’s forehead and went to prepare for a visit to the poor.
Let us now turn to a small street scarcely ten minutes’ walk from the mansion where the above conversation took place.
It was what may be styled a Lilliputian street. Almost everything in it was small. The houses were small; the shops were small; the rents—well, they were certainly not so small as they should have been, the doors and windows were small; and the very children that played in the gutter31, with an exceedingly small amount of clothing on them, were rather diminutive32. Some of the doors stood open, revealing the fact that it had been thought wise by the builders of the houses to waste no space in lobbies or entrance halls. One or two, however, displayed entries, or passages—dark and narrow—the doors to which were blistered33 and severely34 battered35, because, being the public property of several families, they had no particular owner to protect them.
There was a small flat over a green-grocer’s shop to which one of the cleanest of those entries led. It consisted of two rooms, a light-closet and a kitchen, and was low-ceilinged and poorly furnished, but there was a distinct air of cleanliness about it, with a consequent tendency to comfort. The carpet of the chief room was very old, but it had been miraculously36 darned and patched. The table was little larger than that of a gigantic doll’s-house, but it was covered with a clean, though threadbare, cloth, that had seen better days, and on it lay several old and well-thumbed books, besides two work-baskets.
In an old—a very old—easy-chair at one side of the fire sat a lady rather beyond middle age, with her hands clasped on her lap, and her eyes gazing dreamily at the fire. Perhaps she was speculating on the question how long two small lumps of coal and a little dross37 would last. The grate in which that amount of fuel burned was a miniature specimen38 of simplicity,—a mere hollow in the wall with two bars across. The fire itself was so small that nothing but constant solicitude39 saved it from extinction40.
There was much of grey mingled41 with the fair tresses of the lady, and the remains42 of beauty were very distinct on a countenance, the lines of which suggested suffering, gentleness, submission43, and humility44. Perchance the little sigh that escaped her as she gazed at the preposterously45 small fire had reference to days gone by when health revelled46 in her veins47; when wealth was lavished48 in her father’s house; when food and fun were plentiful49; when grief and care were scarce. Whatever her thoughts might have been, they were interrupted by the entrance of another lady, who sat down beside her, laid a penny on the table, and looked at the lady in the easy-chair with a peculiar50, half-comical expression.
“It is our last, Jessie,” she said, and as she said it the expression intensified51, yet it seemed a little forced.
There needed no magician to tell that these two were sisters. The indescribable similarity was strong, yet the difference was great. Jessie was evidently, though not much, the elder.
“It’s almost absurd, Kate,” she said, “to think that we should actually have—come—at last—to—”
She stopped, and Kate looked earnestly at her. There was a tremulous motion about the corners of both their mouths. Jessie laid her head on Kate’s shoulder, and both wept—gently. They did not “burst into tears,” for they were not by nature demonstrative. Their position made it easy to slide down on their knees and bury their heads side by side in the great old easy-chair that had been carefully kept when all the rest was sold, because it had belonged to their father.
We may not record the scarce audible prayer. Those who have suffered know what it was. Those who have not suffered could not understand it. After the prayer they sat down in a somewhat tranquil52 mood to “talk it over.” Poor things—they had often talked it over, without much result, except that blessed one of evolving mutual53 sympathy.
“If I were only a little younger and stronger,” said Kate, who had been, and still was of a lively disposition54, “I would offer myself as a housemaid, but that is out of the question now; besides, I could not leave you, Jessie, the invalid55 of the family—that once was.”
“Come, Kate, let us have no reference to the invalid of the family any more. I am getting quite strong. Do you know I do believe that poverty is doing my health good; my appetite is improving. I really feel quite hungry now.”
“We will have tea, then,” said Kate, getting up briskly; “the things that we got will make one good meal, at all events, though the cost of them has reduced our funds to the low ebb56 of one penny; so, let us enjoy ourselves while it lasts!”
Kate seized the poker57 as she spoke58, and gave the fire a thrust that almost extinguished it. Then she heaped on a few ounces of coal with reckless indifference59 to the future, and put on a little kettle to boil. Soon the small table was spread with a white cloth, a silver teapot, and two beautiful cups that had been allowed them out of the family wreck60; a loaf of bread, a very small quantity of brown sugar, a smaller quantity of skim-milk, and the smallest conceivable pat of salt butter.
“And this took all the money except one penny?” asked Jessie, regarding the table with a look of mingled sadness and amazement.
“All—every farthing,” replied Kate, “and I consider the result a triumph of domestic economy.”
The sisters were about to sit down to enjoy their triumph when a bounding step was heard on the stair.
“That’s Ruth,” exclaimed Kate, rising and hurrying to the door; “quick, get out the other cup, Jessie. Oh! Ruth, darling, this is good of you. We were sure you would come this week, as—”
She stopped abruptly61, for a large presence loomed62 on the stair behind Ruth.
“I have brought mamma to see you, Kate—the Misses Seaward, mamma; you have often heard me speak of them.”
“Yes, dear, and I have much pleasure in making the Misses Seaward’s acquaintance. My daughter is very fond of you, ladies, I know, and the little puss has brought me here by way of a surprise, I suppose, for we came out to pay a very different kind of visit. She—”
“Oh! but mamma,” hastily exclaimed Ruth, who saw that her mother, whom she had hitherto kept in ignorance of the circumstances of the poor ladies, was approaching dangerous ground, “our visit here has to do with—with the people we were speaking about. I have come,” she added, turning quickly to Miss Jessie, “to transact63 a little business with you—about those poor people, you remember, whom you were so sorry for. Mamma will be glad to hear what we have to say about them. Won’t you, mamma?”
“Of course, of course, dear,” replied Mrs Dotropy, who, however, experienced a slight feeling of annoyance64 at being thus dragged into a preliminary consideration of the affairs of poor people before paying a personal visit to them. Being good-natured, however, and kind, she submitted gracefully and took note, while chairs were placed round the table for this amateur Board, that ladies with moderate means—obviously very moderate—appeared to enjoy their afternoon tea quite as much as rich people. You see, it never entered into Mrs Dotropy’s mind—how could it?—that what she imagined to be “afternoon tea” was dinner, tea, and supper combined in one meal, beyond which there lay no prospective65 meal, except what one penny might purchase.
With a mysterious look, and a gleam of delight in her eyes, Ruth drew forth66 a well-filled purse, the contents of which, in shillings, sixpences, and coppers67, she poured out upon the tea-table.
“There,” she said triumphantly68, “I have collected all that myself, and I’ve come to consult you how much of it should be given to each, and how we are to get them to take it.”
“How kind of you, Ruth!” exclaimed Kate and Jessie Seaward, gazing on the coin with intense, almost miserly satisfaction.
“Nonsense! it’s not kind a bit,” responded Ruth; “if you knew the pleasure I’ve had in gathering69 it, and telling the sad story of the poor people; and then, the thought of the comfort it will bring to them, though it is so little after all.”
“It won’t appear little in their eyes, Ruth,” said Kate, “for you can’t think how badly off some of them are. I assure you when Jessie and I think of it, as we often do, it makes us quite miserable70.”
Poor Misses Seaward! In their sympathy with the distress71 of others they had quite forgotten, for the moment, their own extreme poverty. They had even failed to observe that their own last penny had been inadvertently but hopelessly mingled with the coin which Ruth had so triumphantly showered upon the table.
“I’ve got a paper here with the name of each,” continued the excited girl, “so that we may divide the money in the proportions you think best. That, however, will be easy, but I confess I have puzzled my brain in vain to hit on a way to get poor Bella Tilly to accept charity.”
“That will be no difficulty,” said Jessie, “because we won’t offer her charity. She has been knitting socks for sale lately, so we can buy these.”
“Oh! how stupid I am,” cried Ruth, “the idea of buying something from her never once occurred to me. We’ll buy all her socks—yes, and put our own price on them too; capital!”
“Who is Bella Tilly?” asked Mrs Dotropy.
“A young governess,” replied Jessie, “whose health has given way. She is an orphan—has not, I believe, a relative in the whole world—and has been obliged to give up her last situation, not only because of her health, but because she was badly treated.”
“But how about poor Mr Garnet the musician?” resumed Ruth, “has he anything to sell?”
“I think not,” answered Kate; “the sweet sounds in which he deals can now be no longer made since the paralytic72 stroke rendered his left arm powerless. His flute73 was the last thing he had to sell, and he did not part with it until hunger compelled him; and even then only after the doctors had told him that recovery was impossible. But I daresay we shall find some means of overcoming his scruples74. He has relatives, but they are all either poor or heartless, and between the two he is starving.”
Thus, one by one, the cases of those poor ones were considered until all Ruth’s money was apportioned75, and Mrs Dotropy had become so much interested, that she added a sovereign to the fund, for the express benefit of Bella Tilly. Thereafter, Ruth and her mother departed, leaving the list and the pile of money on the table, for the sisters had undertaken to distribute the fund. Before leaving, however, Ruth placed a letter in Kate’s hand, saying that it had reference to an institution which would interest them.
“Now isn’t that nice?” said Kate, sitting down with a beaming smile, when their visitors had gone, “so like Ruth. Ah! if she only knew how much we need a little of that money. Well, well, we—”
“The tea is quite cold,” interrupted Jessie, “and the fire has gone out!”
“Jessie!” exclaimed Kate with a sudden look of solemnity—“the penny!”
Jessie looked blankly at the table, and said— “Gone!”
“No, it is there,” said Kate.
“Yes, but Ruth, you know, didn’t count the money till she came here, and so did not detect the extra penny, and we forgot it. Every farthing there has been apportioned on that list and must be accounted for. I couldn’t bear to take a penny out of the sum, and have to tell Ruth that we kept it off because it was ours. It would seem so mean, for she cannot know how much we need it. Besides, from which of the poor people’s little stores could we deduct76 it?”
This last argument had more weight with Kate than the others, so, with a little sigh, she proceeded to open Ruth’s letter, while Jessie poured out a cup of cold tea, gazing pathetically the while at the pile of money which still lay glittering on the table.
Ruth’s letter contained two 5 pounds Bank of England notes, and ran as follows:—
“Dearest Jessie and Kate,—I sent your screen to the institution for the sale of needlework, where it was greatly admired. One gentleman said it was quite a work of genius! a lady, who seemed to estimate genius more highly than the gentleman, bought it for 10 pounds, which I now enclose. In my opinion it was worth far more. However, it is gratifying that your first attempt in this way has been successful.
“Your loving Ruth.”
“Loving indeed!” exclaimed Kate in a tremulous voice.
Jessie appeared to have choked on the cold tea, for, after some ineffectual attempts at speech, she retired77 to the window and coughed.
The first act of the sisters, on recovering, was to double the amount on Ruth’s list of poor people, and to work out another sum in short division on the back of an old letter.
“Why did you deceive me, dear?” said Mrs Dotropy, on reaching the street after her visit. “You said you were going with me to see poor people, in place of which you have taken me to hear a consultation78 about poor people with two ladies, and now you propose to return home.”
“The two ladies are themselves very poor.”
“No doubt they are, child, but you cannot for a moment class them with those whom we usually style ‘the poor.’”
“No, mother, I cannot, for they are far worse off than these. Having been reared in affluence79, with tenderer feelings and weaker muscles, as well as more delicate health, they are much less able to fight the battle of adversity than the lower poor, and I happen to know that the dear Misses Seaward are reduced just now to the very last extreme of poverty. But you have relieved them, mother.”
“I, child! How?”
“The nursery screen that you bought yesterday by my advice was decorated by Jessie and Kate Seaward, so I thought it would be nice to let you see for yourself how sweet and ‘deserving’ are the poor people whom you have befriended!”
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1
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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specimen
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solicitude
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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preposterously
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| adv.反常地；荒谬地；荒谬可笑地；不合理地 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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60
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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apportioned
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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deduct
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| vt.扣除，减去 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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