Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.

* * * * *

I looked around for an explanation.

'Ah,' exclaimed Jimmy Virtue, threateningly, ''ere's the parson! He'll tell you whether you're right or wrong.'

A proof that I, the parson, had been set up by Jimmy Virtue as a man to be feared. It was natural that the poor girl should shrink from my touch. Mr. Merrywhistle drew me aside.

'It is all my fault,' he said, in a tone of great emotion. 'I smuggled her here.'

'How did she come?' I asked. 'She was not in any of the vans.'

'I smuggled her in the cart that brought the provisions, and I bade the driver not to come too close to us, for fear poor Blade-o'-Grass should be discovered and sent back.'

'Poor who?'

'Blade-o'-Grass. That's the only name she has. It came into my mind the first night I saw you in Mrs. Silver's house. Mrs. Silver, you remember, was telling you the plan of this holiday, and was saying that you, who go so much among the poor, knew that there were numbers of poor children who had never seen the country, and that the sight of flowers and green fields would be to them like gentle rain to drooping blades of grass.'

'I remember well.'

'I don't know if Mrs. Silver used the expression purposely, but I thought immediately of this poor girl, whom everybody round about Stoney-alley, where she lives, knows as Blade-o'-Grass, and I thought what a fine thing it would be for her if I could smuggle her here with her baby, so that she might enjoy a day in the country, which she never set eyes on until now. She danced for joy, sir-yes, sir, she did! – when I asked her if she would like to come. And she has enjoyed herself so much, and has kept out of the way according to my instructions. See, Mr. Meadow, she has been gathering wildflowers, and has been talking and singing to her baby in a way it has made me glad to hear. Poor girl! poor girl! I have known her from a child, and, if you will forgive me for saying it, I think I almost love her. Although she has always stood in her own light-always, always! It was wrong of me to bring her here, but I did it for the best I have been told often I was doing wrong when I have foolishly thought I was doing good.'

'You have done no wrong,' I said emphatically, 'in bringing that poor girl here. I honour you for it. And now tell me what has occurred to spoil her pleasure, and what is the cause of Mr. Virtue's anger.'

'Why, you see, Mr. Meadow, that Jimmy Virtue, of whose rough manners you must not take any notice-you must not judge harshly of him because of them-has taken a liking to the girl.'

'Well?'

'He has been kind to her, I feel certain, though you'll never get him to acknowledge it-indeed, he'll tell you fibs to your face without ever a blush-and he has been trying for a long time to persuade her to come and live with him. She has persistently refused, and now he is angry with her. He is an old man and a lonely man, and he feels it perhaps; but, anyhow, it is as much for her good as his that he makes the offer. He says he will look upon her as a daughter, and it would be better for her than her present lot.'

'Why does she refuse?'

Mr. Merrywhistle hesitated.

'Tell me all,' I said, 'plainly and without disguise.'

'Well, Mr. Meadow, nothing on earth can induce her to leave Tom Beadle.'

'Who is he? What is he?'

'He is a thief, and the father of her child.'

Mr. Merrywhistle's voice trembled from sadness as he spoke these words. I understood it all now. To my grief, I knew what would be the answer to my next question; but it must be asked and answered.

'Is she married?'

'No.'

We were but a few paces from Jimmy Virtue and Blade-o'-Grass, and our conversation had been carried on in a low tone. I turned towards them. Jimmy Virtue, in a heat, was wiping his glass eye. Blade-o'-Grass had not stirred from her crouching attitude. She might have been carved in stone, so motionless had she remained, and to discover any signs of life in her, you would have had to put your head down to her beating heart So she cowered among the wildflowers, with sweet breezes about her, with beautiful clouds above her.

'Now, parson,' said Jimmy Virtue, in a menacing tone, 'per'aps you'll tell that gal whether she's right or wrong!'

'I must first know,' I said, striving to induce gentleness in him by speaking gently myself, 'what it is I am to give an opinion upon.'

'I know that. Mind you, I ain't overfond o' parsons, as a rule, and I ain't overfond o' words, unless there's a reason for 'em. You see that gal there-she's a pretty article to look at, ain't she? Judge for yourself; you can tell pretty well what she is by 'er clothes and 'er babby, though she does 'ide 'er face. She's not so bad as you might make 'er out to be, that I must say; for I ain't a-goin' to take advantage of 'er. But you may make 'er out precious bad, what with one thing and another, and not be far wrong arter all. She's got no 'ome to speak of; she's got no clothes to speak of; she's got no babby that she's got a right to. Well, I orfer that gal a 'ome in my leavin'-shop. I say to 'er, You can come and live along o' me, and I'll look arter you like a daughter; and I would, for I'm a man o' my word, though my word don't amount to much. Now what does she say, that gal, as couldn't lay 'er 'and on a 'arf-a-crown as she's got a right to, if it was to save 'er life-what does she say to my orfer? She says. No, and says as good as I'll see you further fust! Now, tell 'er whether she's right or wrong-tell 'er once and for all. You're a parson, and she'll believe you, per'aps.'

I beckoned him away, for I knew that his harsh tones no less than his words hurt the girl.

'Our mutual friend, Mr. Merrywhistle,' I said-

'That's right; our muchel friend, Mr. Merrywhistle. Though he's too soft-'earted, mind you! I've told 'im so a 'underd times.'

–'Has made me acquainted with some part of this poor girl's story. Don't speak so loudly and so angrily. She hears every word you say.'

'I know that,' he growled. 'She's got the cunnin' of a fox.'

'And, after all, she has a right to choose for herself; you can have no real claim upon her.'

'She ain't got no right,' he said vehemently, 'to choose for 'erself, and if I ain't got no claim on 'er, I'd like to know who 'as! I've knowed 'er from the time as she was a babby. She growed up almost under my eyes. She's played on my doorstep when she was a little 'un, and 'as been shoved off it many and many a time. I knowed 'er mother-I knowed 'er father, the mean thief! as run away afore she was born. No claim! Ain't that no claim, I'd like to know? And don't I know what she'll come to if she goes on much longer as she's a-goin' on now? It's a-comin' to the end, I tell you, and I want to stop it! Why, Tom Beadle, the man as she's a'-I put my finger to my lips, out of compassion for the poor girl-'the man as she ain't married to, was took up this mornin' by the peelers afore my very eyes'– I caught his wrist, and pointing to Blade-o'-Grass, stopped his further speech. A moan came from the girl's lips, a shiver passed over her form, like a despairing wave. She struggled to her feet, and throwing her hair from her eyes, looked distractedly about her.

'O, why did I come?' she cried.

'Why did I come? Which is the road to London?'

And she ran a few steps wildly, but I ran after her and stopped her. She struggled to escape from me.

'Let me go!' she beseeched.

'Let me go! I want to git to London! I must git there at once! O Tom! Tom!'

'You would not get there tonight,' I said; 'it is eighteen miles away. You would never be able to walk so far with your baby. You must wait and go with us; we shall start in an hour.'

She shrank from my grasp and moaned upon the ground, and pressed her child closer to her bosom, with sighs and sobs and broken words of desolation.

'O baby! baby! baby! Tom's took up agin! What shall we do? O, what shall we do?'

Something like a vapour passed over my mind as the wail of this desolate girl fell upon my ear. I seemed to 'recognise in its tones something akin to the fond accents of a happier mother than she. I did not like to think of the resemblance, and I tried to shake off the impression that had stolen upon me; but it remained with me. It was in vain that I attempted to console Blade-o'-Grass; she paid no heed to my words. I was a stranger to her then.

'Your news is true?' I said to Jimmy Virtue.

'As I was comin' to the room this mornin',' he replied, 'I saw Tom Beadle with the peeler's grip on 'im, and the peeler told me he was wanted agin.'

'What for?'

'The old thing-pickin' pockets.'

This was a sad episode in our holiday-making. I could not leave Blade-o'-Grass alone. In her despair, in her belief that the hands and hearts of all were against her, she would be certain to take the first opportunity of escaping from us, and would thus bring further trouble on herself. I looked towards Mr. Merrywhistle; his face was turned from me. I called to him, and he came. I had a thought which I resolved to act upon. I desired him to keep by the side of Blade-o'-Grass until I returned, and I went at once in search of Rachel. The musicians were doing their best, merrily, and the children were dancing and playing joyously.

'This is a very happy day,' said Mrs. Silver, as I approached her; 'see how they are enjoying themselves, poor things. It will be a great remembrance for them.'

Her tone changed when she saw the anxiety in my face; she laid her hand upon my arm.

'You are in trouble.'

'Yes,' I said; 'but make your mind easy. It is nothing at all connected with our children. I will tell you about it by and by. Where is Rachel?'

'There, helping to get tea ready. You must come and have a cup, Mr. Meadow. 'It will refresh you.'

I said that I would, and I asked if she would spare Rachel for a little while. Yes, she answered, with a solicitous look. I smiled at her to reassure her. As I walked towards Rachel, I passed Ruth; she was suckling her baby. A white kerchief covered her bosom and her baby's face, and she raised a corner of it to whisper some endearing words to her treasure. Again the vapour passed over my mind. I trembled as I detected the resemblance in her voice to the voice of the hapless mother I had just left. But I was now close to Rachel. She smiled at me, knowing my step. I remember that that was the first occasion on which I called her by her Christian name.

'Rachel, I want you to help me. Mrs. Silver says she can spare you.'

Rachel took off her apron, and gave me her hand, and I led her to where Blade-o'-Grass was lying. As briefly as I could I told her all, and I asked her to comfort Blade-o'-Grass.

'Indeed, indeed, I will try, Mr. Meadow!' she said earnestly.

'We must not lose her; she must go back to London with us. In her present state of mind she believes every one to be against her. But she will trust you, Rachel, because-'

'Because I am blind,' she said sweetly. 'I will strive to do my best.' She paused a moment, and added, 'Is it not a good thing, Mr. Meadow, that I cannot see?'

I could not answer her; my emotion stopped my utterance. I left her with Blade-o'-Grass, and Mr. Merrywhistle and I stood apart from them.

'Give me your hand, my dear,' Rachel said. Blade-o'-Grass made no movement 'My dear, I am blind!'

Involuntarily, as if the claim were sisterly, and could not be denied, the hand of Blade-o'-Grass was held out to Rachel, and Rachel clasped it, and sat down by her side. What passed during the next few moments I did not hear; but I saw that Rachel was speaking to Blade-o'-Grass, and presently Blade-o'-Grass's baby was in the blind girl's arms, and the mother was looking wonderingly into her face. I acknowledged the wisdom of Rachel's act; by that tie she held Blade-o'-Grass to her. But up to this time Blade-o'-Grass had not spoken; Rachel had not won a word from her lips.

'Let us join our friends,' said Mr. Merrywhistle; 'we can leave them safely together now.'

'One moment,' I answered; 'I am waiting for something.'

What I was waiting for came presently. Rachel was fondling the child's hand, and holding it to her lips, when Blade-o'-Grass spoke. A look of terror flashed into Rachel's face. I was by her side in an instant, my hand in hers. She clung to it, and raised herself to her feet.

'Tell me,' she whispered, in a tone of suffering; 'for mercy's sake, tell me! Whose voice was it I heard just now?'

'It was Blade-o'-Grass that spoke,' I replied; 'the unhappy girl I told you of. She is younger than you are, my dear, and you hold her child in your arms. Comfort her, Rachel; she needs comfort sorely!'

'I have heard her voice before,' said Rachel, with sobs, 'and it reminds me-O, it reminds me of one I love so dearly, so dearly!'

'The greater reason, my dear, that you should aid her in her affliction. Her heart is bleeding, Rachel. Do not alarm her unnecessarily-she suspects everybody but you; she is looking towards us now, with struggling doubt in her face. Be strong, for pity's sake!'

She needed no other encouragement; I left them together, and when the time for our departure to London arrived, they were still sitting side by side. An expression of solemn pity rested on Rachel's face. She kissed Blade-o'-Grass and the child before they parted, and asked Blade-o'-Grass to kiss her. The poor girl did so, with grateful tears. Then I gave Blade-o'-Grass into the charge of Mr. Merrywhistle, and led Rachel to her friends. But only to Ruth did she cling; she clasped her arms round her sister's neck, and sobbed quietly on her shoulder.

'Why, Rachel!' exclaimed Ruth. 'Rachel, my dearest!'

'Let me be, Ruth dear!' sobbed Rachel. 'Let me be! Do not say anything to me. I shall be better presently.'

It was no easy matter getting our children together. We had to call them by name, and count them; it was an anxious task, and it occupied a longer time than we anticipated. And in the end there was one missing-Jacky Brown. None of the boys or girls could tell us where he was, and we were fully a quarter of an hour hunting for him. We were in great trouble, but at length we discovered him, with such a dirty face! sitting under one of the largest trees in the wood.

'Come, come, Jacky,' Mrs. Silver said, 'this isn't good of you. Didn't you hear the horn?'

'Yes, I 'eerd the 'orn, but I ain't a-comin',' was his confident reply.

'O Jacky, Jacky!' she remonstrated.

'I ain't a-goin' 'ome any more. I'm a-goin' to stop under this tree as long as ever I live, and I don't want to move.'

We absolutely had to use a little force with him, and while we carried the little fellow to the vans, he cried again and again that he didn't want to go home any more. References to Old Rookey had no effect upon him; he wanted to live among the trees always, and he was passionately grieved because he could not have his way. The children sang all along the road to London; and I was glad to see that the majority of them had bunches of wild-flowers in their hands. And thus the day ended happily-for all but one.

'We shall sleep well to-night,' said Mrs. Silver, with a satisfied sigh.

I did not, although I was thoroughly tired out.

V

YOU'RE A PARSON, SIR, AND I PUT IT TO YOU. WHAT DO YOU SAY TO PARTING MOTHER AND CHILD?

It was not alone because Mr. Merrywhistle urged me that I took an interest in Blade-o'-Grass. I was impelled to do so by certain feelings of my own with reference to the poor girl. I became nervously desirous to learn her history, and I questioned Mr. Merrywhistle, He could tell me nothing, however, but the usual tale attached to such unhappy human waifs-a tale which I had heard, with slightly-varying forms of detail, many times before. I desired to learn something more definite-something which I scarcely dared to confess, even to myself, working as I was in the dark, and with only a vague impression or a morbid fancy for a basis. But then came the thought that Rachel shared the impression with me, and I continued my inquiries.

'Jimmy Virtue knows more about Blade-o'-Grass than I do,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, 'It was through him I first became acquainted with her.'

Jimmy Virtue was not very communicative; it was not in his nature to take easily to new friends.

'But you yourself,' I urged, 'spoke of her mother and father as if you knew them intimately.'

'Did I?' he replied. 'Ah! I ain't over-particular what I say sometimes, so you must put it down to that. You see, they were not long in this alley afore the father cut away, and the mother-well, she died! So what should I know of 'em? The mother was buried afore the kids was three weeks old.'

'The children!' I exclaimed, my heart beating fast at this discovery. 'Then the poor mother had twins?'

'Yes, there was two on 'em; as if one warn't enough, and more than enough! And then a woman-Mrs. Manning her name was-comes round a-beggin' for the babbies, and a nice row she kicked up about it. Arksed me what I'd lend on 'em-as if babbies warn't as cheap as dirt, and a deal sight more troublesome!'

'These twins, Mr. Virtue-were they both girls?'

'Yes, they was both gals, I 'eerd.'

'What became of the other child?'

I asked eagerly.

'What other?' demanded Jimmy Virtue surlily. 'I didn't know no other. Blade-o'-Grass was the only one left.'

And this was all the information I could elicit from him. I inquired of other old residents in Stoney-alley, but not one of them remembered anything worth hearing. I returned to Mr. Merrywhistle, and after narrating to him the fruitless result of my inquiries, I asked abruptly if he knew anything concerning the circumstances attending the birth of Ruth. The old man changed colour, and his manner became very nervous.

'I can see your drift,' he said in a troubled voice. 'In your mind, Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass are associated, as if some undiscovered tie exists between them. I once shared your suspicion. I saw in Blade-o'-Grass a likeness to Ruth, and I mentioned it to Mrs. Silver. But when Mrs. Silver adopted Ruth, the babe was orphaned indeed. Both father and mother were dead, and Ruth was the only child. It is impossible, therefore, that the likeness between Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass can be anything but accidental. Do not say anything of this to Ruth or Mrs. Silver; it would grieve them. Look at Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass; see them as they are, and think what a gulf separates them.'

A gulf indeed! But still I was not satisfied.

I found it much easier to learn the fullest particulars concerning Tom Beadle. Plainly and simply, he was a thief, and had been in prison a dozen times at least. The day following our holiday-making he was brought up at the police-court on a common charge of pickpocketing. Blade-o'-Grass begged me to intercede for him with the magistrate; but it was impossible for me to do so, as I knew nothing concerning him but what was bad. 'He loves me, sir, does Tom,' she pleaded; 'and I love 'im!' And said it as if it were a sufficient reason for his not being punished. It was impossible to reason with her on the matter; all that concerned herself and Tom Beadle she could look at from only one point of view. Whether he worked or whether he stole, nearly every farthing he obtained was spent in food. Blade-o'-Grass's standpoint was that she and Tom and the baby must have bread, and that if they could not get it one way they must get it another. Tom Beadle did work sometimes as a costermonger; but the difficulties in his way were very serious because of his antecedents, and he rebelled against these difficulties sullenly and savagely, and bruised his soul against them. He was no casuist, and made no attempt to excuse himself. He was simply a man at war with society, a man whose keen intellect had been sharpened and perfected in bad soil. As I write of him now, I can see him slouching along in his patched clothes, with defiance in his mind. Watchful eyes have been upon him almost from his birth; they are upon him now, whichever way he turns, and he knows it, and has grown up in the knowledge. Respectability turns its back upon him-naturally, for he is its enemy. Even benevolence shrinks from him, for the spirit of cunning and ingratitude lurks in his every motion. I paint him as I knew him, in the plainest of colours. He had one redeeming trait in his character; he loved Blade-o'-Grass, after his fashion, with as much sincerity as good men love good women. His love for her had come to him naturally, as other worse qualities in his nature had come. By Blade-o'-Grass he was loved, as she had truly said, but with that deeper love of which only a woman's nature is capable. Hers was capable of the highest form of gratitude, of the highest form of love. She was faithful to Tom Beadle, and she loved her child with as perfect, ay, and as pure a love as can animate the breast of the most delicate lady in the land. Overshadowing these bright streaks of light was a darker line. When she was a mere babe, afterwards when she was a child, afterwards when she was a woman, she frequently suffered the pangs of hunger; she often knew what it was to want a crust of bread. From these sufferings came the singular and mournful idea that she had within her a ravenous creature which she called a tiger, and which, when she was hungry, tore at her entrails for food. This tiger had been the terror of her life, and it was with her an agonising belief that she had endowed her child with the tiger curse: I can find no other term of expression. From this belief nothing could drive her. Talk to her of its folly, of its impossibility, and you talked to stone. Her one unfailing answer was, 'Ah, I know; you can't. I feel it, and my baby feels it also.' I learnt the story of this tiger from her own lips. I found her waiting for me one morning at the corner of the street in which I lived. It was while Tom Beadle was undergoing his term of imprisonment. I stopped and spoke to her, and she asked might she say something to me. Yes, I answered, I could spare her a few minutes; and I led the way to my rooms.

'It was Mr. Wirtue as told me to come to you, sir,' she said; 'he ain't so 'ard on me as he was.'

'I am glad you are friends again,' I said. 'Will you have some bread-and-butter?'

'Yes, if you please, sir.'

I cut some bread-and-butter for her and her child, and I dissolved some preserved milk in warm water for her. She watched with keen interest the process of making this milk, and when she tasted it said, with a touch of humour of which she was quite unconscious:

'They won't want no more mothers by and by, sir, what with sich milk as this, and feedin'-bottles, and p'ramberlaters!'

While she was eating and giving her child to eat, she reverted to Jimmy Virtue.

'You see, sir, he was mad with me 'cause I wouldn't give up Tom; but I couldn't do that, sir, arter all we've gone through. We growed up together, sir. If you knowed all Tom's done for me, you'd wonder 'ow anybody could 'ave the 'eart to arks me to give 'im up. Tom 'as stuck to me through thick and thin, and I'll stick to 'im as long as ever I live! I've 'eerd talk of sich things as 'eart-strings. Well, sir, my 'eartstrings 'd break if I was to lose 'im. Leave Tom! Give 'im up now! No, sir; it wouldn't be natural, and what ain't natural can't be good.'

Blade-o'-Grass cut straight into the core of many difficulties with her unconsciously-uttered truisms. When she and her child had eaten all I had set before them, she opened the business she had come upon. Then it was that I heard the history of the tiger.

'It's inside o' me, sir; I was born with it. When I was little, there was a talk o' cuttin' me open, and takin' the tiger out; but they didn't do it, sir. Per'aps it'd been better for me if they 'ad.'

I attempted to reason her out of her fancy; but I soon saw how useless were my arguments. She shook her head with sad determination, and smiled piteously.

'It don't stand to reason as you can understand it, sir. You ain't got a tiger in your inside! I 'ave, and it goes a-tearin' up and down inside o' me, eatin' me up, sir, till I'm fit to drop down dead. It was beginnin' this mornin', sir, afore I seed you.'

'Did you have any breakfast, my poor girl?'

'Not much, sir; a slice o' bread and some water 'tween me and baby. You see, sir, Tom's not 'ere, and I've 'ad some bad days lately.'

'You don't feel the tiger now?'

'No, sir; it's gone to sleep.'

I sighed.

'I wish,' she continued, 'I could take somethin' as 'd kill it! I tried to ketch it once-yes, sir, I did; but it was no go. I 'adn't 'ad nothink to eat for a long time, and it was goin' on awful. Then, when I got some grub, I thought if I put it down on the table, and set it afore me with my mouth open, per'aps the tiger 'd see it, and come up and fetch it. I was almost frightened out o' my life as I waited for it; for I've never seed it, sir, and I don't know what it's like. But it wouldn't come; it knows its book, the tiger does! I waited till I was that faint that I could 'ardly move, and I was forced to send the grub down to it. I never tried that move agin, sir.'