Part Second of the Mystery of Edwin Drood by Thomas James (Illustrated)

By Charles Dickens

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Jul 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781786567048

Charles Dickens

Charles Dickens (1812-1870) was one of England's greatest writers. Best known for his classic serialized novels, such as Oliver Twist, A Tale of Two Cities, and Great Expectations, Dickens wrote about the London he lived in, the conditions of the poor, and the growing tensions between the classes. He achieved critical and popular international success in his lifetime and was honored with burial in Westminster Abbey.

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XLIII.

CHAPTER XXI.

WHAT THE ORGAN SAID.

THE Choir has taken its departure. The Choir Leader has not taken his departure, but remains after the others have gone, as is his wont at times, — only the bellows-boy keeping him company.

He is seated before the organ now and plays one of those sublime sonatas of Beethoven’s; and as its cadences rise and fall through the master-touch of his hand, he appears lost in the sweetness of the harmony which his own hands produce. As some strain sweeter than the one preceding it gushes from the instrument, he fancies that the air is filled with sweet voices; anon, when the Melody breaks out in more sonorous chords, he feels that a presence of Something is standing near him, and, with a voice whose tones are like the moaning of the winds, murmurs a name — the name of Edwin Drood!

Still he plays on, seeing naught but the instrument before him, while the Melody still proceeds from its hundred throats.

Now he hears another and yet sweeter voice proceeding from the Melody — a sad, sweet voice — murmuring a name that brings to his mind a fair young girl, who, years before, had wakened from a dream of love to find that she had been deceived and left to die of a broken heart.

Still the Melody goes on; — There is a slight rustle in the aisle — soft steps approach him — but still he hears naught but the voices, and the Melody continues. Softly, yet nearer, approach the footsteps; slyly they betake themselves behind the organ. Possibly the mind of the bellows-boy being so absorbed with the sweet strains of the Melody is the reason that he does not, at first, hear or observe her as she stands beside him. Possibly the mind of no bellows-boy ever gave evidence of undergoing greater fear, as, a moment after, his eyes encounter her weird figure. Giving one scream, he is soon out of sight, leaving the Choir Leader gazing on a face that is peering at him, with bleared eyes, from behind the organ, — and he recognizes the Princess Puffer.

Mingled doubt and surprise come upon the Jasper face; astonishment seems to have paralyzed the Jasper lips, for not one word escapes them. The old woman, however, does not appear to share his discomfiture, but with a cunning smile and cat-like step, approaches him. He has risen to his feet now, and, standing by his side, she puts her face close to his and whispers:

Deary, my poor lungs was that bad that I’d need go for change of air to make ‘em better; so I come here to get it. It’s many a long year, lovey, since I’d see’d the inside o’ holy walls; so I come in here with the rest on ‘em; and afore five minutes had gone arter, I see’d ye up here; I was that glad when I know’d it were you that I waved my hand to ye but ye didn’t see it — so, says I, I’ll wait and maybe I’ll git a chance to speak with him, if so be no one is by to see.

John Jasper has recovered himself now, but with a face pale with anger at the familiarity of the woman. He realizes that it will be useless to deny his identity, or to feign ignorance concerning her, and therefore assumes a pleasant tone and asks what her business may be with him.

All for your good, lamby — all for your good; it’s Heaven’s mercy that I comed across ye as I ‘ave. Ye’ll ‘ave no need to fear that I’ll know ye now, deary— ‘cos I does. And it’s a blessin’ for ye; for now ye’ll want me to come this way at times, and fetch some of my best with me. I’ll be at the Twopenny, you see, and in a quiet way let ye know as I’ve come. And I’ll fetch the best allers, with pipe and mixter — and ye can ‘ave it right in your own lodgin’s; no more riskin’ your precious life climbin’ them rickety old stairs, as has nearly been my death at times afore I got used to ‘em. I wouldn’t do this for every one, deary — and wouldn’t for you, only that I’ve took a interest in ye.

Mr. Jasper does not appear to reciprocate the friendship which the Puffer professes for him; he merely nods his head, and asks —

What other motive have you in seeking this interview?

A violent fit of coughing prevents an immediate reply, but after it has subsided, she says:

Don’t say it was motive, deary, for ye know in your heart it wasn’t. All chance, my seein’ on ye, and that’s the truth. But now, as we are here by ourselves, deary, and no one by, it may be as ye’d like to talk some more about the journey beyond the seas. Likely ye may need help afore ye’re half done with it, lovey, and I’ll stand your friend, never fear.

This last with a sly, cunning look, that spoke more than any words could utter.

Very earnestly did John Jasper gaze into the face of the old woman, as if to read her inmost soul; while she returned his gaze, keeping the same leer upon her features as when she ceased speaking. After a moment he bursts into a hearty laugh. Walking a short distance from her and then returning again, he says:

My dear woman, the unfortunate habit that I have acquired — the use of opium — has brought me in contact with strange company. It also led me to seek you, which I should never have done had I supposed you the imbecile that you show yourself to be to-day. But I am disposed to be charitable and believe you to be laboring under the effects of a recent debauch. Therefore, I will only say this — Do you go back to London immediately and never let me see you here again, or many a pound that would otherwise go to you will be paid to some one of your rivals. Do you understand me?

He is looking sternly into her face as he ceases, while she returns the look, still with the cunning smile upon her features.

Well, well, deary, is her answer, in a conciliatory tone, I only hope as ye’ll forgive an old ‘ooman who only thought as she might be of service to ye. I’ll not come agin since ye don’t wish it, lamby, but I’ll allers have the best for ye when ye come to see me. God’s blessin’ on ye, sir, good-bye; and is seized with another violent coughing fit, which lasts till she has passed through the Cathedral door.

She proceeds in the direction of the Travellers’ Twopenny, and when she reaches a position where she is sure the Music Master cannot perceive her, she shakes her fist at the Cathedral in a savage manner, muttering the while —

So, so, my jackey-duck! and ye think to rid yourself of me so easily? I know ye now for sure. Ye may deceive some hut ye don’t me. My time ain’t come yet; it will come soon enough. I can afford to wait! and so passes out of sight.

Mr. Jasper hopes that no one has observed her as she left the Cathedral, lest he may be annoyed with questions. Hence Mr. Jasper gazes eagerly out of window to learn if she is perceived. He follows her with his eyes till she is lost from sight, and is just turning to leave the window, when he hears a voice close outside the door, half chanting a refrain that he had heard before:

Widdy widdy wen!

I — ket — ches — im — out — ar — ter — ten.

Widdy widdy why, Then — E — don’t — go — then — I — shy —

Widdy widdy, Wake-cock warnin!

Troubles never come singly, is an old adage and proves a true one in Jasper’s case, for no sooner had he been relieved of the old woman’s presence, and was just flattering himself that she had not been observed, than he turns to whence the voice proceeds and discovers the Deputy, with eyes and mouth wide open, gazing steadily at him through the half-open door.

He walks leisurely towards the boy, and on reaching the door, finds that young gentleman has taken himself to the opposite side of the way from where he is eyeing the Music Master in a very defiant manner, and moreover has armed himself with a good-sized stone which he holds in his hand in such a way that a very proper inference could be drawn of the use he intends to make of it should occasion require.

What do you mean by disturbing me with your noise, boy? asks Jasper, and moves nearer to where the boy stands.

I wan’t a-disturbin’ on yer, is the answer, retreating a few steps, and don’t yer go a touchin’ me, or I’ll sling this ‘ere flint at yer ‘ed; yer bust my braces once, Jarsper, but yer won’t do it agin.

I don’t want to hurt you, blockhead, said Jasper, as a sudden thought came to him. Then taking some silver from his pocket, he continued: I want you to do me a service and I’ll reward you.

What is it? enquires the Deputy, still eyeing the other doubtfully.

‘Come closer to me and I’ll tell you, is the answer.

Yer ain’t a-foolin’ on me? enquires the boy, suspiciously.

Why should I deceive you? is the reply.

Say yer ‘opes as yer’ll be busted if yer fool me, returns the Deputy.

Well, rejoins Jasper, good-humouredly, I hope I may be busted.

All right, Jarsper, returns the boy, and comes over to where the other stands. Now what do yer want a feller to do?

First, I want to know if you saw the person who passed out from the Cathedral a few moments since, and if you would know her again?

If I said as I didn’t see her, I’d lie, is the answer; and if I said as I’d know her agin, I’d tell the truth.

Very good, said Jasper. Now I want you to follow her, and tell me where she goes, and find out if she returns to London; do this faithfully and you shall have a shilling for the service, — and don’t attempt to deceive me, he continues, or I’ll flog the life out of you.

Jarsper, I don’t fool no one, returns the Deputy; when I says I’ll do anythin’ I allers does it. But where shall I come for the shillin’? adds the boy.

Come to my lodgings in an hour — that will give you time — and if I am convinced that you have been faithful, you will have no cause to complain.

The boy gave one long, shrill whistle; then throwing the stone, which he had continued to hold in his hand, as a precautionary measure, at an imaginary Durdles in the shape of a post on the opposite way, ran briskly off in the direction of the Travellers’ Twopenny.

CHAPTER XXII.

A LIGHT BREAKS ON STAPLE INN.

ONE morning, a few days after the scenes narrated in the preceding chapter, Mr. Grewgious, having just returned from his customary morning call on Rosa, is seated at his desk apparently in deep thought, occasionally casting a glance at Bazzard, who is seated near him at another desk, engaged in writing, and so intent upon his work that he does not raise his eyes there from. Several times does Mr. Grewgious seem on the point of addressing his busy companion, and then thinking better of it, falls to meditating again. It was during one of these meditations that a stranger had entered unannounced, and stood midway between the door and Mr. Grewgious ere he was observed by the latter; and he might have remained in that position a much longer time, had he not, in quite a loud voice, enquired if there was Any one at home?

For such an exceedingly Angular Man, Mr. Grewgious gave a sudden start, while Bazzard dropped his pen and stared at the new-comer very much as he would have done had he beheld his employer standing on his head. The surprise which his presence had created, caused the new-comer to smile; remarking that he was sorry to cause them annoyance, but that he had knocked at the door some little time, and, no one answering the summons, he had made bold to enter.

And you did perfectly right, sir, replies Grewgious, approaching the visitor, perfectly right, sir. The apology should come from us. Should not the apology come from us, Bazzard?

Being thus appealed to, Mr. Bazzard, who has hardly recovered himself, is heard to say:

I follow you, sir, and then falls to following the work before him, which had been so suddenly interrupted.

The visitor proves to be no less a personage than Mr. Datchery, who places his hand upon the back of the chair proffered him by Grewgious, and informs that gentleman that he has called on business of a private nature, and could they be alone for a short time?

Certainly, pleasantly returns Grewgious, but manifesting no little surprise upon his countenance, as he lead the way to an inner apartment.

On entering the room, Datchery begs permission to bolt the door, which, being granted, he proceeds to do, remarking as he does it that he is glad it is a bolt, for keyholes have done a good deal of mischief in their day. Both gentlemen are seated now, and Datchery abruptly introduces himself:

Mr. Grewgious, my name is Datchery, and I am from Cloisterham.

On hearing Cloisterham mentioned, Mr. Grewgious’ mind instantly reverts to the mysterious occurrence of Christmas time and he thinks it possible the visitor is about to impart some information that is to throw light upon it. He bows his head as an intimation that he should be glad to hear more.

It don’t matter, continues Datchery, at this time, that I should say more about myself. Whatever else I have to say is of a matter that directly concerns you, and one you have under your charge; I am actuated solely by a desire to benefit those who need assistance in their troubles. I think you will understand my position, and will not attribute such questions as I may ask to mere idle curiosity. Do you go along with me, sir?

Says Mr. Grewgious: So far as I can with propriety answer your questions, I will. You will allow me to observe, however, that this interview is a little — well, shall I say abrupt? I think you will agree with me. However, presuming that you refer to the disappearance of Edwin Drood, I shall be glad to assist you in any way that I can, or with any facts that I possess.

You are correct in your surmises, sir, rejoins Datchery, "and now that you have inferred what are my motives, we shall get along very comfortably, no doubt."

A pause, and then Datchery: —

Will you please tell me, Mr. Grewgious, if you have ever settled upon any theory which would account for the sudden taking off of that young man; that is, do you believe, from any knowledge of the circumstances which surrounded him, that his absence is voluntary, or do you believe that there was any person who could have had an interest in putting him out of the way by violence?

For causes best known to himself, Mr. Grewgious did not immediately reply to his questioner; most probably for the reason that he had settled upon a theory which was in no wise complimentary to a certain person he could name. Another reason was, that this Mr. Datchery might only be, after all, acting in the interest of the person he had suspected, and possibly this visit might have been arranged for the express purpose of leading him (Mr. Grewgious) to make some statement in which he should compromise himself.

Mr. Datchery, looking anxiously at Mr. Grewgious, meanwhile, awaiting his reply, finally hears it:

My dear sir; it would not be doing justice to myself, were I to say that I have settled upon any thing definite in the matter. In fact, I have held so many theories in regard to it, that I have not been able to settle on any one of them. But when I consider, or when others consider, what an exceedingly Angular Man I am by nature, I am not surprised at the unsatisfactory result of my theories, nor do I suppose any one else will wonder thereat.

The speaker, delivering these words with great hesitation, twists about in his chair in a nervous manner, seeming to feel that, notwithstanding his caution, he has possibly compromised himself in what he has said.

Mr. Datchery notices the doubt with which the other regards him, and is a little annoyed thereat, hut keeps it to himself, and pleasantly replies, though in earnest tones:

I regret that you cannot feel sufficient confidence in me to warrant a definite reply to my question. I assure you, sir, that my sole object is to subserve the interests of those whose welfare you seek, and I emphatically repeat that your opinion in this matter will aid materially in solving this mystery. Now, will you kindly favor me with your belief and say if you think Edwin Drood has been murdered, or that he has voluntarily taken himself away?

The earnestness with which Mr. Datchery prefaced his last question seemed to inspire Mr. Grewgious with more confidence than he had before entertained, and his reply indicated as much:

As I before remarked, I have held no settled opinion concerning the affair, for I have had no better opportunity of arriving at facts than any one else; nor so good an opportunity as some others have had; for instance, his relative, say — Mr. Jasper; and, if it would not he improper for a person of my Peculiar Habits to venture such a remark, I should say, with all due respect to that Musical Personage, that he would be the proper person, as his kinsman, to set the wheels of investigation in motion, and so grind out the facts.

Mr. Grewgious’ reference to John Jasper was put in his most Angular manner, and Mr. Grewgious’ eyes had a most Angular expression, as he turned them upon his listener. If his object in introducing that individual’s name was to turn the subject of their conversation upon the Music-master, it proved successful, for Datchery immediately said:

And what do you think of Mr. Jasper? I understand he took the loss of his nephew very much to heart, and has sworn to ferret out, unaided, his assassin.

"My dear sir, pardon me if I do not choose to give my opinion in that direction. I do not deny, mind you, that I have an opinion, but I prefer to keep it."

As you please, sir, returns Datchery, but allow me to ask you one thing more, and I hope you will feel at liberty to give me a definite reply, for on your answer will depend very much the course I intend to pursue; and, let me add, that I am determined to do all in my power to unravel this mystery. Would John Jasper have any interest in the death of Edwin Drood, and, if so, what?

The earnest tone and eager look that accompanied the latter portion of the speaker’s remark, were not lost upon Grewgious, who gazed steadily at him as he closed the sentence.

Who could this man he, he thought, that seemed so deeply interested in one who was neither kith nor kin to him?

Well, I will he candid with you, replies Mr. Grewgious, and speaking very earnestly now. "I do believe that Edwin Drood has been foully dealt with — by whom I do not know. Perhaps it is a hold remark to hazard to a stranger, hut I will venture it, notwithstanding; I do believe — believe, mind you — that John Jasper did have an interest in the death of his nephew; though what that interest was I am not prepared to say."

Thank you for your confidence, sir, and let me assure you it is not misplaced. Once more, and I am done. Has Miss Bud mourned the loss of young Drood? Do you think she ever had any affection for him?

If Mr. Grewgious was staggered at the former questions of his visitor, he was double-staggered at the last. What possible object could the man have in asking that? He recovers himself in a moment, hut makes answer in a somewhat lofty tone:

"Miss Bud, being a young lady of tender sympathies, would very naturally, under the circumstances, grieve for the loss of a young man whose life had been so closely identified with her own up to the time of his taking off. She does mourn for him constantly. There is nothing strange in that, I should suppose."

Ear from it, sir, returns the other, but having heard something of the romance connected with the two, I felt some curiosity to learn the truth of certain statements that I have heard, which declared that no affection existed between them. And now, Mr. Grewgious, continues Datchery, rising from his chair, permit me to thank you for the courtesy you have shown me, as well as for your confidence. From what I have gathered from you, I can lay my plans for finding out more in another quarter. Good-morning; we shall meet again at no distant day, he sure.

Returning to where they had left Bazzard, Mr. Grewgious instructs that gentleman to show the visitor out, and Bazzard, rising to do so, at the same time making answer, I follow you, sir, causes Mr. Datchery to look round and utter in a curt tone, that if he (Bazzard) follows him beyond the door, it is more than likely that the person who cooks his dinner will not need to get a plate for him to-day. Which saying, being overheard by Grewgious, causes him to smile at Datchery’s mistake, while Bazzard stands with his hand still on the door, undecided whether he ought to apologize to the irate Datchery or otherwise.

Proceeding directly back to Cloisterham, where he arrives in due time, Datchery has nearly reached his lodgings at Tope’s, when he perceives approaching him in an opposite direction the form and features of no less a person than the Choir Leader, who is so engrossed with his thoughts that he does not observe his fellow-lodger, but is making straight by him; whereat, Mr. Datchery accosts him, thus:

An old buffer like me must keep his eyes sharp about him, when such folks as you go along with their heads down, and smiles in a good-humoured way upon Jasper.

The latter, coming to a sudden halt, apologizes for his rudeness, adding: My mind is occupied with a very unpleasant subject to-day, and I have just started for a walk, thinking to obtain relief.

A young man’s mind should never be occupied with unpleasant subjects, lest the wine of life grows stale ere the bottle is half emptied. Might I enquire the nature of your distress?

No new thing, replies Jasper, in a despondent tone; I presume you have heard how a dear nephew of mine disappeared a few months since, under circumstances that lead to the belief that he was foully dealt with.

I have heard it mentioned, returns Datchery, with something like a twinkle in his eye, but which is not observed by the other, and should have taken more interest in it, no doubt, had I been a younger man; but an old buffer like me, that has knocked about most of the world, gets used to those sort of things. You were very much attached to each other, however, and that, of course, alters the case.

Attached is not the word, sir, replies Jasper, mournfully; I loved him like my life, which I would gladly have given for him.

Well, Mr. Jasper, returns Datchery, assuming a tone of sympathy, I am sorry that you take his loss so hard, for it don’t help the matter; but are you quite sure that he is really dead? Is it not possible that, after all, he has gone off in a boyish freak, just to try the affection of his friends; and that’ he will return, when you least expect him, to laugh at your fears? Cheer up, man; don’t give way to melancholy till there is proof positive that he is dead.

You mean well, I have no doubt, is Jasper’s answer, but so long a time has elapsed since his disappearance, that I feel warranted in believing I shall never see him again.

Mr. Datchery places his hand upon his forehead as though struggling to remember something, and then resumes:

If I remember aright, there were strong suspicions attached to a young man about his own age. Was it a — yes, I’m sure that’s what I heard — a pupil of Mr. Crisparkle’s? Was there, do you think, anything on which to base those suspicions?

Mr. Datchery, while speaking, is staring straight at the heavens; when he ceases speaking he drops his eyes suddenly, and, fixing them upon the Choir Leader, is staring straight in that gentleman’s face. Knowing Datchery to he an eccentric person is probably the reason why Jasper does not appear to notice the singular look, but replies to his question:

Yes, I think there was; at least, enough to satisfy me; but, though every effort was made to discover the traces of his guilt, no positive evidence could be obtained, and he is allowed to go unpunished, when every one is satisfied of his guilt. Even the Mayor, before whom the investigation took place, said it had a dark look. But yet he could not be held upon the evidence. I have tried to believe him innocent, for my conscience would never allow me a moment’s peace, if I thought I was accusing an innocent man.

Well said, sir; well said. In these days, when mankind is so prone to believe every evil word that is spoken of their fellows, without stopping to ascertain the truth, it sounds well to hear a man say that he would not charge upon an innocent person that of which he is not guilty. But did no suspicion attach to other parties?

Mr. Jasper, looking sharply into his questioner’s face and hesitating a moment as if not quite understanding the question, does not reply; whereat Datchery calmly returns the look and repeats the question.

I do not think that suspicion attached to any other person, nor do I think there was reason to suspect any other than the one just mentioned.

Mr. Datchery hems twice, and then remains silent, as though expecting the Music Master to continue.

It is a sad subject to me, Jasper adds, after the awkward pause, as you will readily understand, and one which I strive to avoid; still I am no less determined to ferret it to the bottom, and time will tell whether I accuse any person unjustly. But I must ask you to pardon me if I leave you abruptly; I have an appointment, and the time is near at hand, and proceeds on his way, while Datchery turns into his lodgings, muttering that "the time is near at hand, and the man, too." Mr. Datchery’s first act, after removing his hat, is to repair to the cupboard-door on which his score was affixed, and add thereto a moderate stroke, remarking at the same time:

This begins to assume a business-like appearance; it won’t be long before the scores are even, and then we will compare pages; it may be some little time yet ere we shall reach that end, but it will surely come, and the reckoning will prove a strange one when it is made. God help the debtor, for he’ll need it!

Then he resumes his hat, and leaving his lodgings, hastens off in the direction of the Crozier. Arriving there, he ascends to a room on the second landing, and knocks softly at the door, which is opened a very little way at first, and then is thrown wide open for Datchery to enter, which he does, the door being quickly closed; and if a passer-by had listened to the shouts of laughter that now and then emanated from that room, he would have concluded that it contained a merry company indeed.

CHAPTER XXIII.

JOHN JASPER HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH AN AGENT, AND THE READER HAS AN INTRODUCTION TO THE PADLERS.

IF John Jasper’s feelings were not pleasant ones when he fell in with Datchery, they had not mended much when parting from him, were his face to be taken as an index of his mind, for it wears a very cloudy and stern appearance, as he continues his walk with rapid step down the High street of the old city. Never once looking to the right or left, he walks on with the same moody expression on his features, until he reaches a cross street leading directly to the river. Then he glances hastily about him, as though to assure himself that he is not observed; apparently satisfied on that point, he turns the corner, and proceeds with the same rapid step towards his destination.

This street bore anything but an aristocratic air in the appearance of its dwellings, and was in every way decidedly dirty. The crossings were filthy; the footpaths were dilapidated, like the houses which they fronted; and one could hardly have imagined them to be inhabited by anything human, were it not for an occasional smell of onions, or some other savory vegetable, which now and then steamed up from the basements to indicate to the passer-by that if their occupants had forgotten how to be clean, they still recognized the importance of having something to eat.

Cloisterham could boast, it seemed, like its more pretentious neighbor, the Great City, of having poverty in its midst; and though, like its more pretentious neighbor, it tried to shut its eyes to the fact, they would not stay shut, for now and then some circumstance would present itself, which made the fact decidedly convincing. About midway between the High street and the water was one house which commanded more attention than any other, from its kingly tumbledown appearance, and as this narrative could not well go on without an introduction to one of its inmates, we will go in through the street-door, which is seldom closed, and ascend a flight of stairs that once boasted of a railing, but is now shorn of that useful appendage, probably because, at some remote period, coals were not plenty in that neighborhood.

Ascending the stairs and gaining the landing, from some three or four doors we will select the one in the darkest corner and enter. The room was occupied by three persons.

One of these persons was a man, apparently about thirty or thirty-five years of age, with black hair and eyes, and eye-brows so thick and bushy that it was no wonder the eyes beneath them were sunk far into the head, as though they were being crowded by degrees entirely out of sight. He possessed an athletic frame and high cheek bones, and had a slow, awkward motion in all his movements. It would be difficult to determine his nationality were it not that his speech indicated him to be an Englishman. His dress was decidedly slouchy — nothing that he wore seemed to fit him. Although there was a slight sinister expression on his features, there was, at the same time, a pleasant, devil-may-care look so mixed with it, that even a skilled physiognomist would have been puzzled to decide the character of the man from reading his features. He had been christened with the name of Forbes, but as he grew in years his friends and more intimate associates had seen fit, for some reason best known to themselves, to address him as Fopperty, and he continued to hold that cognomen to the present time. Speaking of his first name naturally leads us to his last one, and that was Padler. So, then, we will introduce to you, ladies and gentlemen, Fopperty Padler, and proceed to the next one of the trio.

This was Mrs. Padler, mother of the aforesaid, and if appearances did not deceive, she could not have been far from sixty or seventy, — in fact, an old woman, and a very wicked old woman, if all that the neighbors hinted were true. She was short, thick-set, with stooping shoulders, and nature or disease had caused one of her limbs to be shorter than the other, so that when she walked she reminded one very forcibly of the walking-beam of a steamer. Her face was of a dirty white color, and such hair as she had was of nearly the same shade, and as she brushed it back, and made a very small pug, which she fastened to the crown of her head, it resembled more than anything else a very, very small ball of yarn, after the cat has had it to play with for a few hours. At the time we introduce this good soul she seems to be a little out of temper, or a little into temper, which is, perhaps, the most correct way of expressing being decidedly cross.

The cause of these unpleasant feelings would seem to have sprung from something that the last of the trio had been doing — a little child, a girl — who might have been ten years old, and who looks so entirely unlike those by whom she is surrounded, that it seems astonishing how she comes to be in their company. Her habiliments, it is true, would show her to be one of the world’s poor — one of those little waifs whom nobody cares for, and who soon enough (God help them!) learn to care for nobody. But there is a distinguishing characteristic in the face of this child that stamps her of a nobler nature than the average of this class of children. It is an intelligent face, with large, full, blue eyes, that wear a thoughtful expression, though now the tears are standing in them, for she is weeping.

Her beautiful brown hair falls in dishevelled masses over her shoulders, as though it were kindly striving to shield from vulgar gaze what her poor, ragged dress could not cover. This was Bessie Padler, who called the woman at her side grandmother, but who, the neighbors slyly hinted among themselves, was really no relative. That some hidden mystery surrounded her, they did not doubt. One thing they were sure of — the old woman did not hesitate to beat her, and she had a miserable existence. But it could not be helped, that any one could see, and there the matter ended.

Ain’t ye never goin’ to ‘ave any sense, or ‘ave I took a born idiot to bring up? cries the old woman, in the torrent of her wrath, addressing the child. What’s the good in all my talkin’ and advisin’ on ye if ye don’t mean to ‘arken to it and live up to it? Do ye think as we’ve so much gold and siller we ken give some to every little sick brat as ‘appens to live hereabouts? Ain’t it a good thing, now, addressing Fopperty, ain’t it a nice thing for us to ‘ave a good Smarahan — (Mrs. Padler means Samaritan) — in the family, Fopperty; and a barefooted one at that? Here the old lady gives vent to a series of croaks intended for a laugh of derision. Givin’ her sixpences, continues the beldame, to strangers as cares nothin’ for her, when her poor old grandmother is sufferin’ this blissed minnit for the very money to buy her gin with, which every doctor as is a doctor will say is the only thing as keeps the breath o’ life in her; take that, you devil’s shadder, and strikes the child in the face with a blow that nearly fells her to the floor, and which she would have repeated had not Fopperty interposed by arresting her uplifted hands.

Hold hard, mem, hold hard! and steps between them; you’ve reached a pint where the turn comes. Bess hain’t done such a dreadful thing, after all, and you know it. Billy Blagut saved her from drowndin’ when she tumbled in the river that time, and it’s only fair she should do him a good turn now, when he needs it. Another thing, I’m looking for some one every minit, and he musn’t see this ‘ere girl a-cryin’. Now, mem, as I was saying, you’ve reached a pint where the turn comes, so be satisfied to stop there, and by-and-by I’ll take a turn and bring you a pint of ‘alf-and-’alf as will make you wink." This last seems to soften the old lady a bit, and Fopperty lifts the child into a chair beside him, and endeavors to lead her thoughts from herself by speaking of the sick boy.

I suppose Billy was glad you brought him the orange, Bessie, wasn’t he? Dry your eyes now, and tell me all about it.

Glad of an opportunity to be released from the abuse of the old woman, the child proceeded to tell Fopperty that she had been to the house of the sick boy, and had learned from his mother that he was recovering, and that he had expressed a wish for ah orange, but that she could not afford to purchase one; and that, after a little time, she had left the house, on her way home, when she found a sixpence, which some one had dropped upon the crossing. That she had hurried off as fast as she could run, and investing the money in the desired fruit, had hastened with it to the bedside of the sick boy.

And oh, how happy I felt, Fopperty! she concluded; "you know we poor children don’t have such luxuries when we are well, so it must be that God intends them for us when we are sick. Did I do wrong,