The Garret and the Garden; Or, Low Life High Up, R. M. Ballantyne [romance book recommendations txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“Come down here,” said the thief, turning sharp to the left and passing under a low archway.
It led to a narrow alley, which seemed to terminate in total darkness. Even Laidlaw’s stout heart beat somewhat faster as he entered it, but he did not hesitate.
At the end of the passage a dim light appeared. It was thrown by a very dirty lamp, and disclosed a small court of unutterable meanness and inconceivable smells. One or two men had brushed past them, and David observed that his guide accosted these in a language, or slang, which he did not understand.
“I’ve got a friend in here,” said his guide, opening a door and disclosing an extremely dirty room of about ten feet square. A woman with her back towards the door was busy at a wash-tub. Ragged clothes were drying on a clothes-line. A shattered bed, on which lay a bundle of straw and a torn blanket, stood in one corner; a rickety table in another. Water and soapsuds blotched the broken floor, amongst which played two little boys, absolutely naked.
“That’s a woman that tries to keep respectable,” whispered the thief, with something like a bitter laugh. “Hallo, Molly! here’s a gen’lem’n as wants to bid ’ee good-night.”
Molly raised herself, cleared the soapsuds from her thin arms, and turned a haggard but not dissipated face towards her visitor, who was almost choked, not only by the smell of the place, but by an uncontrollable gush of pity.
“My puir wumin!” he exclaimed, hastily thrusting his ever-ready hand into his pocket, “I didna mean t’ come in on ’ee unawears. Hae, ye’ll no’ objec’ to a wheen bawbees?”
He put all the coppers he possessed into the woman’s hand and hurried out of the room.
“Weel, weel,” muttered David, as they continued their walk through the miserable region, “I’ve gane an’ gie’d her a’ the siller I had i’ my pouch. Pair thing! She’ll need it, but I’ve naething left for onybody else!”
“It’s just as well, for there’s nothing left now for any one to steal,” said his companion.
“Whar are ’ee gaun noo?” asked Laidlaw.
The question put was not answered, for his guide, bidding him wait a minute, turned into a doorway and engaged in a low-toned conversation with a man. Returning to his friend with an air of indecision about him, the thief was on the point of speaking when a small party of men and women—evidently of the better classes—came round the corner and approached.
“Oho!” exclaimed the thief, drawing his companion into the shade of the opposite doorway, “we’re in luck. You see, this is what they call a low lodging-house, and the door-keeper thought that, respectable as you are in dress and looks, it might not be wise to take you in. But we’ll go in now at the tail o’ this lot, and nobody will take notice of you. Only follow close to me.”
Two of the “lot” who approached appeared to be respectably-dressed young men, carrying something like a large box between them. There were five altogether in the party, two of whom seemed to be plainly-dressed ladies.
They entered the house at once with a quiet “good-night” to the door-keeper, and were followed by the thief and David. Entering a very large irregularly-formed room, they proceeded to the upper end, where a huge coal fire blazed. The room was crowded with men and boys of varied appearance and character. From every rank in society they had gravitated—but all were stamped with the same brand—destitution! They were not, however, destitute of lungs, as the babel of sounds proved—nor of tobacco, as the clouds of smoke demonstrated.
Little notice was taken of the visitors. They were well known in that haunt of crime and woe. Angels of mercy they were, who, after the labours of each day, gave their spare time to the work of preaching salvation in Jesus to lost souls. To the surprise of Laidlaw, the box before referred to became a harmonium when opened up, and soon the harmony of praise to God ascended from the reeking den. Then followed prayer—brief and to the point—after which an earnest appeal was made to the sorrowing, the suffering, and the criminal to come and find deliverance and rest in the Saviour.
We may not dwell on this. Some listened carelessly, some earnestly, others not at all.
“Come now,” whispered the thief to his friend, towards the close, “they’ll have spotted you, and will want to have a talk. We’ve no time for that. Follow me.”
David, who had been deeply interested, also wanted to have a talk with these servants of the King of kings, but his guide being already halfway down the room he was constrained to follow. Another moment and they were in the street.
“You want to see as much as you can, I suppose?” remarked the thief as he hastened along. “Come, I’ll take you to our den.”
It seemed as if the man were leading his companion into deeper and deeper depths, for the dark passage into which they finally turned, and along which they groped their way, seemed to be the very vestibule of Pandemonium; cries as of fierce and evil spirits being heard at the farther end of it.
“Now,” said the thief, stopping, “whatever you do here, don’t show fight. This is a thieves’ den.”
The passage at its farther end became absolutely dark, so that the thief had to lead our hero by the hand. Turning abruptly to the right, they came upon a door through which there issued sounds of terrible revelry. A knock produced no effect. A second and louder knock resulted in dead silence. Then a female voice was heard inside. To it our thief replied in the language of the slums. Immediately the door was opened just enough to let the two men glide in; then it was shut with a bang and bolted.
“Hallo, Trumps, who ’ave you got here?” “W’ere did you pick ’im up?” “Is he a noo member?” shouted several voices, amid general laughter.
The speakers were among a company of men and women whose general appearance and reckless expressions of countenance seemed to indicate that they were past redemption. The den in which they sat drinking, smoking, and gambling consisted of a dirty room fitted with narrow tables, out of which opened an inner apartment. The door of this had been removed—probably for firewood in a time of scarcity. Both rooms were lighted with dim oil-lamps. Some of the company were beggars and tramps of the lowest type, but most were evidently of the vicious and criminal order. There was a tendency to unpleasant curiosity in regard to the stranger, but the thief, whom we may now call Trumps, put an end to this with a few slang words, and led his friend to a seat in the inner room, whence he could observe nearly the whole party and all that went on.
Some of the more intoxicated among them objected to be snubbed by Trumps, and were beginning to scowl at the visitor, no doubt with sinister intentions, when the outer door was again opened, and a young thief, obviously familiar with the place, entered, closely followed by a respectable-looking man in a surtout and a light topcoat. It required no second look to tell that the new-comer was a city missionary. Like our Scot, he had gained admission to the place through the influence of a friendly thief.
“Hullo, more visitors!” growled a big savage-looking man with an apron, who proved to be the landlord of the den.
Advancing quickly to this man, the missionary said, in a quiet gentle tone—
“You supply coffee, I see. May I have a cup?”
“No you mayn’t, you spy! I know you, you canting wretch!”
He locked the door as he spoke, and then, striding forward in a towering rage, threatened vengeance on the intruder. The company, expecting a scene, rose en masse to their feet, while those in the inner room crowded to the front. Laidlaw, who was for the moment forgotten in this new excitement, followed them. He was well enough informed in reference to the work of the London City Missionaries to understand at a glance that one of those fearless men had managed to worm his way into the thieves’ den, and was perhaps in danger of his life. That the man realised his danger was apparent from the fact that he stood erect and closed his eyes for a moment—evidently in silent prayer for help in the hour of need. The act probably saved him, for the ferocious landlord, although ready enough to crush defiance with a savage blow, did not quite see his way to dash his great fist into a mild, manly face with shut eyes! It was such an unusual way of receiving his onset that he hesitated and lowered his fist. Suddenly the missionary drew out a pocket-Bible, and, pointing upwards with it, said, in loud solemn tones, “A great white throne will be set up among the stars above us. The Saviour who died for sinners will sit upon it, and the dead that are in their graves shall hear His voice and live. We shall be there!”
At this the people were silenced, apparently under a spell—some gazing upwards as if to see the throne; others staring into the missionary’s face in wonder.
“And I and you and you,” he continued, pointing to one and another, “shall be there: ‘We must all stand before the judgment-seat of Christ.’ I am not an enemy, or a spy, but a servant of the Lord Jesus, who will be your judge at the last day. He is now the Saviour of the ruined and lost, and in His name I offer you mercy through the blood He shed for you upon the Cross. In His blessed Book it is written, ‘Whosoever believeth on Him shall be saved.’ I hope to come again before long to see you, friends. Now, landlord, open that door and let me out.”
The landlord, who seemed to be thoroughly taken aback, unlocked the door with a trembling hand, and the missionary passed out. But that was not the end of this remarkable visit. It was only the beginning of a grand work for Christ which afterwards took place in and around that thieves’ den. On this, however, we may not do more than touch here. Smitten in conscience, that landlord hurried out after the missionary and actually begged of him to repeat his visit. Then he returned to the den and found his people recovering somewhat from their surprise.
But, touched though the landlord was, he had by no means changed his character.
“Now, then,” he demanded, going up to David Laidlaw, “are you a missionary too?”
“Na, freen’, I am not; but I ’maist wush that I was, for it’s a graund wark t’ carry help t’ the destitute.”
“Well, guv’nor,” cried one fellow with a crushed nose and a huge black eye, “if that’s wot you’re a-’ankerin’ arter you can go a-’ead ’ere an’ ’elp us to yer ’eart’s content, for we’re all destitoot in this ’ere den. So, come along, table down all the cash you’ve got about you.”
“I’ll dae that wi’ pleasure,” said David, rising promptly, and turning all his pockets inside out. “Ye shall hae every bodle I possess.”
A general laugh greeted this proceeding, and one young thief shouted, “Well done, checkers,” (referring to his garments); “but ’ow comes it that you’ve bin cleaned out?”
“Plain as pea-soup,” cried another. “Don’t you see? He’s bin keepin’ company with Trumps!”
Here Trumps rose to explain. “No, pals, that’s not the reason; but just before comin’ here he gave away every rap he had to poor widow Grain.”
“He’s a brick!” cried one man, with a fierce oath.
“He’s a fool!” shouted another, with a fiercer oath. Regardless of the interruption, Trumps went on to explain how he had attempted to rob our hero, and
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