The Dawn of a To-morrow, Frances Hodgson Burnett [easy to read books for adults list txt] 📗

“Gawd, mister!” she said. “Yer can give away a quid like it was nothin’—an’ yer’ve got more—an’ yer goin’ to do THAT—jes cos yer ‘ad a bit too much lars night an’ there’s a fog this mornin’! You take it straight from me—don’t yer do it. I give yer that tip for the suvrink.”

She was, for her years, so ugly and so ancient, and hardened in voice and skin and manner that she fascinated him. Not that a man who has no To-morrow in view is likely to be particularly conscious of mental processes. He was done for, but he stood and stared at her. What part of the Power moving the scheme of the universe stood near and thrust him on in the path designed he did not know then—perhaps never did. He was still holding on to the thing in his pocket, but he spoke to her again.

“What do you mean?” he asked glumly.

She sidled nearer, her sharp eyes on his face.

“I bin watchin’ yer,” she said. “I sat down and pulled the sack over me ‘ead to breathe inside it an’ get a bit warm. An’ I see yer come. I knowed wot yer was after, I did. I watched yer through a ‘ole in me sack. I wasn’t goin’ to call a copper. I shouldn’t want ter be stopped meself if I made up me mind. I seed a gal dragged out las’ week an’ it’d a broke yer ‘art to see ‘er tear ‘er clothes an’ scream. Wot business ‘ad they preventin’ ‘er goin’ off quiet? I wouldn’t ‘a’ stopped yer —but w’en the quid fell, that made it different.”

“I—” he said, feeling the foolishness of the statement, but making it, nevertheless, “I am ill.”

“Course yer ill. It’s yer ‘ead. Come along er me an’ get a cup er cawfee at a stand, an’ buck up. If yer’ve give me that quid straight— wish-yer-may-die—I’ll go with yer an’ get a cup myself. I ain’t ‘ad a bite since yesterday—an’ ‘t wa’n’t nothin’ but a slice o’ polony sossidge I found on a dust-‘eap. Come on, mister.”

She pulled his coat with her cracked hand. He glanced down at it mechanically, and saw that some of the fissures had bled and the roughened surface was smeared with the blood. They stood together in the small space in which the fog enclosed them—he and she—the man with no To-morrow and the girl thing who seemed as old as himself, with her sharp, small nose and chin, her sharp eyes and voice —and yet—perhaps the fogs enclosing did it—something drew them together in an uncanny way. Something made him forget the lost clew to the lodging-house— something made him turn and go with her—a thing led in the dark.

“How can you find your way?” he said. “I lost mine.”

“There ain’t no fog can lose me,” she answered, shuffling along by his side; ” ‘sides, it’s goin’ to lift. Look at that man comin’ to’ards us.”

It was true that they could see through the orange-colored mist the approaching figure of a man who was at a yard’s distance from them. Yes, it was lifting slightly—at least enough to allow of one’s making a guess at the direction in which one moved.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Apple Blossom Court,” she answered. “The cawfee-stand’s in a street near it—and there’s a shop where I can buy things.”

“Apple Blossom Court!” he ejaculated. “What a name!”

“There ain’t no apple-blossoms there,” chuckling; “nor no smell of ‘em. ‘T ain’t as nice as its nime is—Apple Blossom Court ain’t.”

“What do you want to buy? A pair of shoes?” The shoes her naked feet were thrust into were leprous-looking things through which nearly all her toes protruded. But she chuckled when he spoke.

“No, I ‘m goin’ to buy a di’mond tirarer to go to the opery in,” she said, dragging her old sack closer round her neck. “I ain’t ad a noo un since I went to the last Drorin’- room.”

It was impudent street chaff, but there was cheerful spirit in it, and cheerful spirit has some occult effect upon morbidity. Antony Dart did not smile, but he felt a faint stirring of curiosity, which was, after all, not a bad thing for a man who had not felt an interest for a year.

“What is it you are going to buy?”

“I’m goin’ to fill me stummick fust,” with a grin of elation. “Three thick slices o’ bread an’ drippin’ an’ a mug o’ cawfee. An’ then I’m goin’ to get sumethin’ ‘earty to carry to Polly. She ain’t no good, pore thing!”

“Who is she?”

Stopping a moment to drag up the heel of her dreadful shoe, she answered him with an unprejudiced directness which might have been appalling if he had been in the mood to be appalled.

“Ain’t eighteen, an’ tryin’ to earn ‘er livin’ on the street. She ain’t made for it. Little country thing, allus frightened to death an’ ready to bust out cryin’. Gents ain’t goin’ to stand that. A lot of ‘em wants cheerin’ up as much as she does. Gent as was in liquor last night knocked ‘er down an’ give ‘er a black eye. ‘T wan’t ill feelin’, but he lost his temper, an’ give ‘er a knock casual. She can’t go out to-night, an’ she’s been ‘uddled up all day cryin’ for ‘er mother.”

“Where is her mother?”

“In the country—on a farm. Polly took a place in a lodgin’-‘ouse an’ got in trouble. The biby was dead, an’ when she come out o’ Queen Charlotte’s she was took in by a woman an’ kep’. She kicked ‘er out in a week ‘cos of her cryin’. The life didn’t suit ‘er. I found ‘er cryin’ fit to split ‘er chist one night —corner o’ Apple Blossom Court— an’ I took care of ‘er.”

“Where?”

“Me chambers,” grinning; “top loft of a ‘ouse in the court. If anyone else ‘d ‘ave it I should be turned out. It’s an ‘ole, I can tell yer— but it ‘s better than sleepin’ under the bridges.”

“Take me to see it,” said Antony Dart. “I want to see the girl.”

The words spoke themselves. Why should he care to see either cockloft or girl? He did not. He wanted to go back to his lodgings with that which he had come out to buy. Yet he said this thing. His companion looked up at him with an expression actually relieved.

“Would yer tike up with ‘er?” with eager sharpness, as if confronting a simple business proposition. “She’s pretty an’ clean, an’ she won’t drink a drop o’ nothin’. If she was treated kind she’d be cheerfler. She’s got a round fice an’ light ‘air an’ eyes. ‘Er ‘air ‘s curly. P’raps yer’d like ‘er.”

“Take me to see her.”

“She’d look better to-morrow,” cautiously, “when the swellin ‘s gone down round ‘er eye.”

Dart started—and it was because he had for the last five minutes forgotten something.

“I shall not be here to-morrow,” he said. His grasp upon the thing in his pocket had loosened, and he tightened it.

“I have some more money in my purse,” he said deliberately. “I meant to give it away before going. I want to give it to people who need it very much.”

She gave him one of the sly, squinting glances.

“Deservin’ cases?” She put it to him in brazen mockery.

“I don’t care,” he answered slowly and heavily. “I don’t care a damn.”

Her face changed exactly as he had seen it change on the bridge when she had drawn nearer to him. Its ugly hardness suddenly looked human. And that she could look human was fantastic.

” ‘Ow much ‘ave yer?” she asked. ” ‘Ow much is it?”

“About ten pounds.”

She stopped and stared at him with open mouth.

“Gawd!” she broke out; “ten pounds ‘d send Apple Blossom Court to ‘eving. Leastways, it’d take some of it out o’ ‘ell.”

“Take me to it,” he said roughly. “Take me.”

She began to walk quickly, breathing fast. The fog was lighter, and it was no longer a blinding thing.

A question occurred to Dart.

“Why don’t you ask me to give the money to you?” he said bluntly.

“Dunno,” she answered as bluntly. But after taking a few steps farther she spoke again.

“I ‘m cheerfler than most of ‘em,” she elaborated. “If yer born cheerfle yer can stand things. When I gets a job nussin’ women’s bibies they don’t cry when I ‘andles ‘em. I gets many a bite an’ a copper ‘cos o’ that. Folks likes yer. I shall get on better than Polly when I’m old enough to go on the street.”

The organ of whose lagging, sick pumpings Antony Dart had scarcely been aware for months gave a sudden leap in his breast. His blood actually hastened its pace, and ran through his veins instead of crawling —a distinct physical effect of an actual mental condition. It was produced upon him by the mere matter-of-fact ordinariness of her tone. He had never been a senti-mental man, and had long ceased to be a feeling one, but at that moment something emotional and normal happened to him.

“You expect to live in that way?” he said.

“Ain’t nothin’ else fer me to do. Wisht I was better lookin’. But I’ve got a lot of ‘air,” clawing her mop, “an’ it’s red. One day,” chuckling, “a gent ses to me—he ses: `Oh! yer’ll do. Yer an ugly little devil—but ye ARE a devil.’ “

She was leading him through a narrow, filthy back street, and she stopped, grinning up in his face.

“I say, mister,” she wheedled, “let’s stop at the cawfee-stand. It’s up this way.”

When he acceded and followed her, she quickly turned a corner. They were in another lane thick with fog, which flared with the flame of torches stuck in costers’ barrows which stood here and there— barrows with fried fish upon them, barrows with second-hand-looking vegetables and others piled with more than second-hand-looking garments. Trade was not driving, but near one or two of them dirty, ill-used looking women, a man or so, and a few children stood. At a corner which led into a black hole of a court, a coffee-stand was stationed, in charge of a burly ruffian in corduroys.

“Come along,” said the girl. “There it is. It ain’t strong, but it ‘s ‘ot.”

She sidled up to the stand, drawing Dart with her, as if glad of his protection.

” ‘Ello, Barney,” she said. ” ‘Ere ‘s a gent warnts a mug o’ yer best. I’ve ‘ad a bit o’ luck, an’ I wants one mesself.”

“Garn,” growled Barney. “You an’ yer luck! Gent may want a mug, but y’d show yer money fust.”

“Strewth! I’ve got it. Y’ aint got the chinge fer wot I ‘ave in me ‘and ‘ere. ‘As ‘e, mister?”

“Show it,” taunted the man, and then turning to Dart. “Yer wants a mug o’ cawfee?”

“Yes.”

The girl held out her hand cautiously—the piece of gold lying upon its palm.

“Look ‘ere,” she said.

There were two or three men slouching about the stand. Suddenly a hand darted from between two of them who stood nearest, the sovereign was snatched, a screamed oath from the girl rent the thick air, and a forlorn enough scarecrow of a young fellow sprang away.

The blood leaped in Antony Dart’s veins again and he sprang after him in a wholly normal passion of indignation. A thousand years ago—as it seemed to him—he had been a good runner. This man was not one, and want of food had weakened him. Dart went after him with strides which astonished himself. Up the street, into an alley and out of it, a dozen yards more and into