A RESPECTED FRIEND IN A NEW ASPECT
In the evening of this same foggy day when the yellow window- blind of Pubsey
and Co. was drawn down upon the day's work, Riah the Jew once more came forth
into Saint Mary Axe. But this time he carried no bag, and was not bound on his
master's affairs. He passed over London Bridge, and returned to the Middlesex
shore by that of Westminster, and so, ever wading through the fog, waded to the
doorstep of the dolls' dressmaker.
Miss Wren expected him. He could see her through the window by the light of
her low fire--carefully banked up with damp cinders that it might last the
longer and waste the less when she was out-- sitting waiting for him in her
bonnet. His tap at the glass roused her from the musing solitude in which she
sat, and she came to the door to open it; aiding her steps with a little
crutch-stick.
'Good evening, godmother!' said Miss Jenny Wren.
The old man laughed, and gave her his arm to lean on.
'Won't you come in and warm yourself, godmother?' asked Miss Jenny Wren.
'Not if you are ready, Cinderella, my dear.'
'Well!' exclaimed Miss Wren, delighted. 'Now you ARE a clever old boy! If we
gave prizes at this establishment (but we only keep blanks), you should have the
first silver medal, for taking me up so quick.' As she spake thus, Miss Wren
removed the key of the house-door from the keyhole and put it in her pocket, and
then bustlingly closed the door, and tried it as they both stood on the step.
Satisfied that her dwelling was safe, she drew one hand through the old man's
arm and prepared to ply her crutch-stick with the other. But the key was an
instrument of such gigantic proportions, that before they started Riah proposed
to carry it.
'No, no, no! I'll carry it myself,' returned Miss Wren. 'I'm awfully
lopsided, you know, and stowed down in my pocket it'll trim the ship. To let you
into a secret, godmother, I wear my pocket on my high side, o' purpose.'
With that they began their plodding through the fog.
'Yes, it was truly sharp of you, godmother,' resumed Miss Wren with great
approbation, 'to understand me. But, you see, you ARE so like the fairy
godmother in the bright little books! You look so unlike the rest of people, and
so much as if you had changed yourself into that shape, just this moment, with
some benevolent object. Boh!' cried Miss Jenny, putting her face close to the
old man's. 'I can see your features, godmother, behind the beard.'
'Does the fancy go to my changing other objects too, Jenny?'
'Ah! That it does! If you'd only borrow my stick and tap this piece of
pavement--this dirty stone that my foot taps--it would start up a coach and six.
I say! Let's believe so!'
'With all my heart,' replied the good old man.
'And I'll tell you what I must ask you to do, godmother. I must ask you to be
so kind as give my child a tap, and change him altogether. O my child has been
such a bad, bad child of late! It worries me nearly out of my wits. Not done a
stroke of work these ten days. Has had the horrors, too, and fancied that four
copper- coloured men in red wanted to throw him into a fiery furnace.'
'But that's dangerous, Jenny.'
'Dangerous, godmother? My child is always dangerous, more or less. He
might'--here the little creature glanced back over her shoulder at the sky--'be
setting the house on fire at this present moment. I don't know who would have a
child, for my part! It's no use shaking him. I have shaken him till I have made
myself giddy. "Why don't you mind your Commandments and honour your parent, you
naughty old boy?" I said to him all the time. But he only whimpered and stared
at me.'
'What shall be changed, after him?' asked Riah in a compassionately playful
voice.
'Upon my word, godmother, I am afraid I must be selfish next, and get you to
set me right in the back and the legs. It's a little thing to you with your
power, godmother, but it's a great deal to poor weak aching me.'
There was no querulous complaining in the words, but they were not the less
touching for that.
'And then?'
'Yes, and then--YOU know, godmother. We'll both jump up into the coach and
six and go to Lizzie. This reminds me, godmother, to ask you a serious question.
You are as wise as wise can be (having been brought up by the fairies), and you
can tell me this: Is it better to have had a good thing and lost it, or never to
have had it?'
'Explain, god-daughter.'
'I feel so much more solitary and helpless without Lizzie now, than I used to
feel before I knew her.' (Tears were in her eyes as she said so.)
'Some beloved companionship fades out of most lives, my dear,' said the
Jew,--'that of a wife, and a fair daughter, and a son of promise, has faded out
of my own life--but the happiness was.'
'Ah!' said Miss Wren thoughtfully, by no means convinced, and chopping the
exclamation with that sharp little hatchet of hers; 'then I tell you what change
I think you had better begin with, godmother. You had better change Is into Was
and Was into Is, and keep them so.'
'Would that suit your case? Would you not be always in pain then?' asked the
old man tenderly.
'Right!' exclaimed Miss Wren with another chop. 'You have changed me wiser,
godmother.--Not,' she added with the quaint hitch of her chin and eyes, 'that
you need be a very wonderful godmother to do that deed.'
Thus conversing, and having crossed Westminster Bridge, they traversed the
ground that Riah had lately traversed, and new ground likewise; for, when they
had recrossed the Thames by way of London Bridge, they struck down by the river
and held their still foggier course that way.
But previously, as they were going along, Jenny twisted her venerable friend
aside to a brilliantly-lighted toy-shop window, and said: 'Now look at 'em! All
my work!'
This referred to a dazzling semicircle of dolls in all the colours of the
rainbow, who were dressed for presentation at court, for going to balls, for
going out driving, for going out on horseback, for going out walking, for going
to get married, for going to help other dolls to get married, for all the gay
events of life.'
'Pretty, pretty, pretty!' said the old man with a clap of his hands. 'Most
elegant taste!'
'Glad you like 'em,' returned Miss Wren, loftily. 'But the fun is, godmother,
how I make the great ladies try my dresses on. Though it's the hardest part of
my business, and would be, even if my back were not bad and my legs queer.'
He looked at her as not understanding what she said.
'Bless you, godmother,' said Miss Wren, 'I have to scud about town at all
hours. If it was only sitting at my bench, cutting out and sewing, it would be
comparatively easy work; but it's the trying-on by the great ladies that takes
it out of me.'
'How, the trying-on?' asked Riah.
'What a mooney godmother you are, after all!' returned Miss Wren. 'Look here.
There's a Drawing Room, or a grand day in the Park, or a Show, or a Fete, or
what you like. Very well. I squeeze among the crowd, and I look about me. When I
see a great lady very suitable for my business, I say "You'll do, my dear!' and
I take particular notice of her, and run home and cut her out and baste her.
Then another day, I come scudding back again to try on, and then I take
particular notice of her again. Sometimes she plainly seems to say, 'How that
little creature is staring!' and sometimes likes it and sometimes don't, but
much more often yes than no. All the time I am only saying to myself, "I must
hollow out a bit here; I must slope away there;" and I am making a perfect slave
of her, with making her try on my doll's dress. Evening parties are severer work
for me, because there's only a doorway for a full view, and what with hobbling
among the wheels of the carriages and the legs of the horses, I fully expect to
be run over some night. However, there I have 'em, just the same. When they go
bobbing into the hall from the carriage, and catch a glimpse of my little
physiognomy poked out from behind a policeman's cape in the rain, I dare say
they think I am wondering and admiring with all my eyes and heart, but they
little think they're only working for my dolls! There was Lady Belinda Whitrose.
I made her do double duty in one night. I said when she came out of the
carriage, "YOU'll do, my dear!" and I ran straight home and cut her out and
basted her. Back I came again, and waited behind the men that called the
carriages. Very bad night too. At last, "Lady Belinda Whitrose's carriage! Lady
Belinda Whitrose coming down!" And I made her try on--oh! and take pains about
it too--before she got seated. That's Lady Belinda hanging up by the waist, much
too near the gaslight for a wax one, with her toes turned in.'
When they had plodded on for some time nigh the river, Riah asked the way to
a certain tavern called the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters. Following the
directions he received, they arrived, after two or three puzzled stoppages for
consideration, and some uncertain looking about them, at the door of Miss Abbey
Potterson's dominions. A peep through the glass portion of the door revealed to
them the glories of the bar, and Miss Abbey herself seated in state on her snug
throne, reading the newspaper. To whom, with deference, they presented
themselves.
Taking her eyes off her newspaper, and pausing with a suspended expression of
countenance, as if she must finish the paragraph in hand before undertaking any
other business whatever, Miss Abbey demanded, with some slight asperity: 'Now
then, what's for you?'
'Could we see Miss Potterson?' asked the old man, uncovering his head.
'You not only could, but you can and you do,' replied the hostess.
'Might we speak with you, madam?'
By this time Miss Abbey's eyes had possessed themselves of the small figure
of Miss Jenny Wren. For the closer observation of which, Miss Abbey laid aside
her newspaper, rose, and looked over the half-door of the bar. The crutch-stick
seemed to entreat for its owner leave to come in and rest by the fire; so, Miss
Abbey opened the half-door, and said, as though replying to the crutch- stick:
'Yes, come in and rest by the fire.'
'My name is Riah,' said the old man, with courteous action, 'and my avocation
is in London city. This, my young companion--'
'Stop a bit,' interposed Miss Wren. 'I'll give the lady my card.' She
produced it from her pocket with an air, after struggling with the gigantic
door-key which had got upon the top of it and kept it down. Miss Abbey, with
manifest tokens of astonishment, took the diminutive document, and found it to
run concisely thus:--
MISS JENNY WREN
DOLLS' DRESSMAKER.
Dolls attended at their own residences.
'Lud!' exclaimed Miss Potterson, staring. And dropped the card.
'We take the liberty of coming, my young companion and I, madam,' said Riah,
'on behalf of Lizzie Hexam.'
Miss Potterson was stooping to loosen the bonnet-strings of the dolls'
dressmaker. She looked round rather angrily, and said: 'Lizzie Hexam is a very
proud young woman.'
'She would be so proud,' returned Riah, dexterously, 'to stand well in your
good opinion, that before she quitted London for--'
'For where, in the name of the Cape of Good Hope?' asked Miss Potterson, as
though supposing her to have emigrated.
'For the country,' was the cautious answer,--'she made us promise to come and
show you a paper, which she left in our hands for that special purpose. I am an
unserviceable friend of hers, who began to know her after her departure from
this neighbourhood. She has been for some time living with my young companion,
and has been a helpful and a comfortable friend to her. Much needed, madam,' he
added, in a lower voice. 'Believe me; if you knew all, much needed.'
'I can believe that,' said Miss Abbey, with a softening glance at the little
creature.
'And if it's proud to have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that
never tires, and a touch that never hurts,' Miss Jenny struck in, flushed, 'she
is proud. And if it's not, she is NOT.'
Her set purpose of contradicting Miss Abbey point blank, was so far from
offending that dread authority, as to elicit a gracious smile. 'You do right,
child,' said Miss Abbey, 'to speak well of those who deserve well of you.'
'Right or wrong,' muttered Miss Wren, inaudibly, with a visible hitch of her
chin, 'I mean to do it, and you may make up your mind to THAT, old lady.'
'Here is the paper, madam,' said the Jew, delivering into Miss Potterson's
hands the original document drawn up by Rokesmith, and signed by Riderhood.
'Will you please to read it?'
'But first of all,' said Miss Abbey, '-- did you ever taste shrub, child?'
Miss Wren shook her head.
'Should you like to?'
'Should if it's good,' returned Miss Wren.
'You shall try. And, if you find it good, I'll mix some for you with hot
water. Put your poor little feet on the fender. It's a cold, cold night, and the
fog clings so.' As Miss Abbey helped her to turn her chair, her loosened bonnet
dropped on the floor. 'Why, what lovely hair!' cried Miss Abbey. 'And enough to
make wigs for all the dolls in the world. What a quantity!'
'Call THAT a quantity?' returned Miss Wren. 'Poof! What do you say to the
rest of it?' As she spoke, she untied a band, and the golden stream fell over
herself and over the chair, and flowed down to the ground. Miss Abbey's
admiration seemed to increase her perplexity. She beckoned the Jew towards her,
as she reached down the shrub-bottle from its niche, and whispered:
'Child, or woman?'
'Child in years,' was the answer; 'woman in self-reliance and trial.'
'You are talking about Me, good people,' thought Miss Jenny, sitting in her
golden bower, warming her feet. 'I can't hear what you say, but I know your
tricks and your manners!'
The shrub, when tasted from a spoon, perfectly harmonizing with Miss Jenny's
palate, a judicious amount was mixed by Miss Potterson's skilful hands, whereof
Riah too partook. After this preliminary, Miss Abbey read the document; and, as
often as she raised her eyebrows in so doing, the watchful Miss Jenny
accompanied the action with an expressive and emphatic sip of the shrub and
water.
'As far as this goes,' said Miss Abbey Potterson, when she had read it
several times, and thought about it, 'it proves (what didn't much need proving)
that Rogue Riderhood is a villain. I have my doubts whether he is not the
villain who solely did the deed; but I have no expectation of those doubts ever
being cleared up now. I believe I did Lizzie's father wrong, but never Lizzie's
self; because when things were at the worst I trusted her, had perfect
confidence in her, and tried to persuade her to come to me for a refuge. I am
very sorry to have done a man wrong, particularly when it can't be undone. Be
kind enough to let Lizzie know what I say; not forgetting that if she will come
to the Porters, after all, bygones being bygones, she will find a home at the
Porters, and a friend at the Porters. She knows Miss Abbey of old, remind her,
and she knows what-like the home, and what-like the friend, is likely to turn
out. I am generally short and sweet--or short and sour, according as it may be
and as opinions vary--' remarked Miss Abbey, 'and that's about all I have got to
say, and enough too.'
But before the shrub and water was sipped out, Miss Abbey bethought herself
that she would like to keep a copy of the paper by her. 'It's not long, sir,'
said she to Riah, 'and perhaps you wouldn't mind just jotting it down.' The old
man willingly put on his spectacles, and, standing at the little desk in the
corner where Miss Abbey filed her receipts and kept her sample phials
(customers' scores were interdicted by the strict administration of the
Porters), wrote out the copy in a fair round character. As he stood there, doing
his methodical penmanship, his ancient scribelike figure intent upon the work,
and the little dolls' dressmaker sitting in her golden bower before the fire,
Miss Abbey had her doubts whether she had not dreamed those two rare figures
into the bar of the Six Jolly Fellowships, and might not wake with a nod next
moment and find them gone.
Miss Abbey had twice made the experiment of shutting her eyes and opening
them again, still finding the figures there, when, dreamlike, a confused hubbub
arose in the public room. As she started up, and they all three looked at one
another, it became a noise of clamouring voices and of the stir of feet; then
all the windows were heard to be hastily thrown up, and shouts and cries came
floating into the house from the river. A moment more, and Bob Gliddery came
clattering along the passage, with the noise of all the nails in his boots
condensed into every separate nail.
'What is it?' asked Miss Abbey.
'It's summut run down in the fog, ma'am,' answered Bob. 'There's ever so many
people in the river.'
'Tell 'em to put on all the kettles!' cried Miss Abbey. 'See that the
boiler's full. Get a bath out. Hang some blankets to the fire. Heat some stone
bottles. Have your senses about you, you girls down stairs, and use 'em.'
While Miss Abbey partly delivered these directions to Bob--whom she seized by
the hair, and whose head she knocked against the wall, as a general injunction
to vigilance and presence of mind-- and partly hailed the kitchen with them--the
company in the public room, jostling one another, rushed out to the causeway,
and the outer noise increased.
'Come and look,' said Miss Abbey to her visitors. They all three hurried to
the vacated public room, and passed by one of the windows into the wooden
verandah overhanging the river.
'Does anybody down there know what has happened?' demanded Miss Abbey, in her
voice of authority.
'It's a steamer, Miss Abbey,' cried one blurred figure in the fog.
'It always IS a steamer, Miss Abbey,' cried another.
'Them's her lights, Miss Abbey, wot you see a-blinking yonder,' cried
another.
'She's a-blowing off her steam, Miss Abbey, and that's what makes the fog and
the noise worse, don't you see?' explained another.
Boats were putting off, torches were lighting up, people were rushing
tumultuously to the water's edge. Some man fell in with a splash, and was pulled
out again with a roar of laughter. The drags were called for. A cry for the
life-buoy passed from mouth to mouth. It was impossible to make out what was
going on upon the river, for every boat that put off sculled into the fog and
was lost to view at a boat's length. Nothing was clear but that the unpopular
steamer was assailed with reproaches on all sides. She was the Murderer, bound
for Gallows Bay; she was the Manslaughterer, bound for Penal Settlement; her
captain ought to be tried for his life; her crew ran down men in row-boats with
a relish; she mashed up Thames lightermen with her paddles; she fired property
with her funnels; she always was, and she always would be, wreaking destruction
upon somebody or something, after the manner of all her kind. The whole bulk of
the fog teemed with such taunts, uttered in tones of universal hoarseness. All
the while, the steamer's lights moved spectrally a very little, as she lay- to,
waiting the upshot of whatever accident had happened. Now, she began burning
blue-lights. These made a luminous patch about her, as if she had set the fog on
fire, and in the patch--the cries changing their note, and becoming more fitful
and more excited--shadows of men and boats could be seen moving, while voices
shouted: 'There!' 'There again!' 'A couple more strokes a- head!' 'Hurrah!'
'Look out!' 'Hold on!' 'Haul in!' and the like. Lastly, with a few tumbling
clots of blue fire, the night closed in dark again, the wheels of the steamer
were heard revolving, and her lights glided smoothly away in the direction of
the sea.
It appeared to Miss Abbey and her two companions that a considerable time had
been thus occupied. There was now as eager a set towards the shore beneath the
house as there had been from it; and it was only on the first boat of the rush
coming in that it was known what had occurred.
'If that's Tom Tootle,' Miss Abbey made proclamation, in her most commanding
tones, 'let him instantly come underneath here.'
The submissive Tom complied, attended by a crowd.
'What is it, Tootle?' demanded Miss Abbey.
'It's a foreign steamer, miss, run down a wherry.'
'How many in the wherry?'
'One man, Miss Abbey.'
'Found?'
'Yes. He's been under water a long time, Miss; but they've grappled up the
body.'
'Let 'em bring it here. You, Bob Gliddery, shut the house-door and stand by
it on the inside, and don't you open till I tell you. Any police down there?'
'Here, Miss Abbey,' was official rejoinder.
'After they have brought the body in, keep the crowd out, will you? And help
Bob Gliddery to shut 'em out.'
'All right, Miss Abbey.'
The autocratic landlady withdrew into the house with Riah and Miss Jenny, and
disposed those forces, one on either side of her, within the half-door of the
bar, as behind a breastwork.
'You two stand close here,' said Miss Abbey, 'and you'll come to no hurt, and
see it brought in. Bob, you stand by the door.'
That sentinel, smartly giving his rolled shirt-sleeves an extra and a final
tuck on his shoulders, obeyed.
Sound of advancing voices, sound of advancing steps. Shuffle and talk
without. Momentary pause. Two peculiarly blunt knocks or pokes at the door, as
if the dead man arriving on his back were striking at it with the soles of his
motionless feet.
'That's the stretcher, or the shutter, whichever of the two they are
carrying,' said Miss Abbey, with experienced ear. 'Open, you Bob!'
Door opened. Heavy tread of laden men. A halt. A rush. Stoppage of rush. Door
shut. Baffled boots from the vexed souls of disappointed outsiders.
'Come on, men!' said Miss Abbey; for so potent was she with her subjects that
even then the bearers awaited her permission. 'First floor.'
The entry being low, and the staircase being low, they so took up the burden
they had set down, as to carry that low. The recumbent figure, in passing, lay
hardly as high as the half door.
Miss Abbey started back at sight of it. 'Why, good God!' said she, turning to
her two companions, 'that's the very man who made the declaration we have just
had in our hands. That's Riderhood!'
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