Mr. Heatherley lived in a pair of agreeable rooms on the ground-floor in a street a short distance from the City Road. Here Helen Norman arrived on the following morning, after some little difficulty in discovering the address, and was admitted by a most unusually neat servant girl, the sight of whom impressed her with the feeling that this neatness was directly or indirectly due to Mr. Heatherley’s presence in the house. On entering the parlour she found the clergyman seated at the table, side by side with a very shock-headed youngster of some twelve years old, who appeared to have been reading aloud from an open book before him.
“Well, that will do for this morning, James,” said Mr. Heatherley, after rising and requesting his visitor to be seated. “Rather better than usual, I think. Look over bonus, niger, and tristis again for Monday’s lesson. Good-bye.”
The lad collected his books together and went off at a sort of trot, turning towards Helen, as he went out, a bright though rather ugly face.
“A little pupil of mine,” said the clergyman, by way of explanation. “His parents are unable to give him more than a very poor education, and as he is a sharp little chap I have got into the way of teaching him a little at odd times. On Saturday he doesn’t go to school, so we have our lessons rather later than usual. I am glad we have a fine morning, Miss Norman. I almost think we had better take our walk first of all, then return and discuss your plans with the work fresh in our minds. Do you approve?”
As he spoke, he arranged a few books which he took from the table in their places in a well-filled book-case. Helen replied to his proposition with a cheerful assent, watching him the while.
“Latin, I suppose, you have not attempted to subdue?” he asked, turning a curious face towards his visitor.
“I can read Virgil and Horace with tolerable ease,” replied Helen. “But I am afraid my knowledge of the niceties of the language is very imperfect.”
“And Greek?” said Mr. Heatherley, without affecting surprise.
“Of Greek I have a very trifling knowledge.”
“Young ladies usually devote more attention to modern than to ancient languages, I believe,” said the clergyman.
“And I am no exception to the rule,” replied Helen.
“You know Italian?”
“Pretty well.”
“Ha! I envy you. I have a desperate desire to read Dante in the original — but time, time, time!”
“You would very quickly learn sufficient of the language for that,” said Helen, smiling slightly.
“You think so? Ah, well, I must make an attempt one of these days. In the meantime we have our work before us, Miss Norman. You are ready?”
“Quite.”
“Good. Then we will set out.”
As they issued into the street, Mr. Heatherley consulted a small note-book, in which appeared to be jotted memoranda concerning the poor he visited daily. Conversing agreeably as he walked — always in the same pithy, energetic language, showing considerable information, both as regards books and men, and always such a healthy freedom from mere conventionality that Helen felt herself more and more at home with him — he led his companion by degrees into dark, dirty, narrow streets, where low-browed arches frowned on either side, leading off into courts and alleys of indescribable foulness, and over-running with a population as horrible to view as their own abodes.
“Now,” said the clergyman, as they paused for a moment to gaze down a court not more than three feet wide, the entrance into which was down a flight of broken stone steps, and at the other end of which was just visible another low archway precisely like the entrance to a kennel, “I should neither advise nor permit you, Miss Norman, to venture into places such as that. The worst of these courts are the haunts of such unutterable brutality and wickedness that it is often dangerous for hardy men to venture into them. For a woman to do so would be folly. It would be quite impossible for her to do good there at all adequate to the risk she ran. I trust that you will confine your visits to these wider streets. God knows there is enough wickedness everywhere in this neighbourhood, but you are not so remote from assistance in the open streets. And here we come to our first place of call. If you will follow me I will enter here.”
They stood before a second-hand clothes shop, the front of which was quite open to the street, where an old woman and a young girl sat on the floor amidst heaps of ragged clothing, stitching remnants together to form saleable articles. They looked up as the clergyman entered, and the old woman nodded a palsy-stricken head, the total baldness of which gave her a hideous appearance, and began to mutter unintelligibly between her bare gums.
“What does your grandmother say, Kitty?” asked Mr. Heatherley of the young girl.
The latter bent her ear close to the old woman’s mouth before replying.
“She says she’s better today. She’s been a wearin’ the flannel you giv’ her for her rheumatics, and she thinks as how it done her good.”
“That’s right. I’m glad to hear it. Is your mother in, Kitty?”
“She’s gone to the station,” replied the girl.
“What now? More trouble between her and your father?”
“Father come ‘ome this mornin’ drunker than ever,” said the girl, in a matter of fact way, continuing her stitching as she spoke. “Mother got up, and they begun to ‘ave words; an’ then father ‘it her on the ‘cad with his boot-heel, as he’d just took horff. And mother’s ‘ead bleeded — my! how it did bleed! An’ so she’s gone to the station for another summons, you see.”
Mr. Heatherley glanced at Helen to see the effect of this city-idyl upon her. She was rather paler than usual, but listened attentively to what was said.
“And where’s your father?” pursued the clergyman.
“Well, father got mad like, you see, at some words as mother used to him about ‘Arry as used to lodge ’ere. She said as ‘ow he’d have been a better ‘usbin to her than father ever was. So father got mad like, an’ he said as he’d go and murder ‘Arry this mornin’. An’ he’s gone to do it.”
The calm na?veté with which the girl uttered these last words chilled Helen’s very blood. The clergyman, more accustomed to such remarks, reassured her with a look, and proceeded with the conversation.
“Any new lodgers yet, Kitty?”
“Yes, there’s one — a young woman in the third floor back. Leastwise so mother tell’d me. I ain’t seen her.”
“What does she do?”
“Don’t do nothink, mother said.”
“How does she pay for her lodging then?”
“Don’t know.”
“I suppose she’s out now?”
“No; she ain’t comed out this mornin’ yet, cos I’s been here sen’ seven o’clock.”
“Is she ill?”
“Very like.”
“Could we go up to see her?”
“Why not? Don’t suppose as you’ll steal nothink, Mr. ‘Eatherley!”
Leave thus graciously granted, Mr. Heatherley led the way through the shop into a pitch-dark passage, where he was obliged to strike a match, a box of which he fortunately carried in his pocket, before he could venture to lead Helen up the mouldy staircase. The walls, Helen observed, had once been papered, but they now so reeked with damp that only an old strip or two still hung loose to indicate where the paper had been. She could feel the stairs often bend beneath her feet, so rotten were they. On reaching the third floor they tapped at the back-room door, and received permission to enter, delivered in a shrill, childish voice.
In a garret, empty but for a small iron bedstead and a wooden stool, sat, upon the latter article, a child, whose age the visitors at first put down for some twelve years. She was dressed in rags which scarcely concealed her nakedness, and on her lap lay an infant sleeping. The elder child’s face was thick with grime, the only places where the original colour of the skin could be discovered being narrow streaks from the corners of the eyes, a sufficient indication that she cried long and frequently. She seemed frightened at the entrance of the strangers, and quickly stood up, gathering the infant carefully in her arms.
Mr. Heatherley instinctively yielded place to Helen. She seemed the more suitable person to commence the conversation.
“They told us down-stairs,” said Helen, “that there was a lodger here who was in want of employment. Is it you, my poor child?”
“Yes, mum. I’s got no ‘ployment. I on’y wish I ‘ad.”
“But are you quite alone here?”
“Yes, mum.”
“Have you no father or mother?”
“Both doin’ six weeks, mum.”
Helen looked interrogatively at Mr. Heatherley, who whispered that she meant to say her parents were both in prison for six weeks.
“But how do you feed your little sister? Is it sister or brother?”
“It’s my child, mum,” said the little creature, with perfect simplicity, without a trace of shame.
“What! your child!”
“Yes, mum,” returned the other, surprised at the astonishment her remark had excited.
“But — but how old are you?” asked Helen, blushing as she spoke.
“Turned fifteen, mum.”
Here Mr. Heatherley came forward.
“If you will speak to this poor child for a few minutes, Miss Norman,” he said, “I will return directly. There is another lodger below I should like to see.”
He left the room, and Helen, after a brief pause, continued her questions.
“Are — are you married?” she asked.
“No, mum, not yet,” returned the child.
“Does the father of your child support you now?”
“No, mum, not yet.”
“Who is he? What does he do?”
“He’s a butcher-boy, mum.”
“Does he mean to marry you?”
“Some day, mum. When he gets fifteen shillin’ a week, that is.”
“How much does he get now?”
“Nine an’ six, mum.”
“But how are you going to live for the present?” asked Helen, bending down to stroke the miserable little baby’s face, at which a look of pleasure and pride lit up the young mother’s countenance.
“He’s big for his age, an’ he grows every day, mum, he does,” she remarked.
Helen could scarcely restrain the tears from rushing to her eyes.
“How are you living now?” she repeated.
“I’ve got four shillin’s as mother give me the night afore she was locked up, mum, an’ that’ll last me a few days. And when that’s gone, I — I — oh, I really don’t know what I’ll do, mum!”
Here, for the first time, her fortitude broke down, and she wept bitterly. The baby set up a piercing shriek out of sympathy, and Helen’s tears at length refused to be held back. At this moment Mr. Heatherley again entered the room.
“Are you quite well?” asked Helen, hastily brushing away her tears with a handkerchief.
“Yes, mum, thanke, mum.”
“Take this, then, for the present,” she said, pressing two half-crowns into the child’s dirty palm, “and buy better food. Would you like me to come and see you again in a day or two to see how the little baby gets on?”
“0 yes, mum; I should, please, mum!” exclaimed the child, a radiant look upon her dirty face which Helen felt to be a heavenly reward for her little kindness.
“I will do so then. And I will tell the people below to find some clothes to fit you, as soon as possible, and some for the baby, too. Have you no wash-hand basin?”
“No, mum.”
“Where do you wash, then?”
“The tap in the wash’us, mum.”
“If I send you a jug and basin you will promise me to use it twice a day till I come again?”
“I’d be glad to, mum.”
“Very well. Good-bye for the present, then.”
And, bending once more to pat the baby’s check, she left the room, followed by Mr. Heatherley. On reaching the shop she soon made arrangements with regard to the clothing and the utensils, after which they bade the old woman and her grand-daughter good-bye, and issued again into the street.
“I must warn you, Miss Norman,” said the clergyman, as they walked on, “against being too easily caught by affecting stories. I believe this is a really deserving case, but you will often be seriously imposed upon. I should advise you never to give much money at once. In any cases where you think more extensive relief desirable we will always appoint a meeting at the chapel with the people. It is often easier to arrive at a correct judgment of the poor when they are away from their ordinary horrible surroundings.”
After this they paid many visits, passing from one haunt of abominations to another, from one scene of heart-rending sufferings to another, till the morning had worn away. Everywhere Helen admired Mr. Heatherley’s kindness and readiness of speech, his thorough acquaintance with the circumstances of those he visited, his broad charity when faults seemed to call for reprobation, his entire devotion to the work of alleviating wretchedness. When she began to feel weary and weak in consequence of the long walk and the excessive pressure upon her sympathies wherever they went, she admired and envied, too, the robustness of frame which rendered such a morning as this but child’s play to her guide.
On their return to Mr. Heatherley’s, they found a light lunch ready laid for them. Helen did not disguise her need of rest and refreshment, and frankly accepted the clergyman’s friendly attentions. For a time she was very silent, her thoughts busy with the morning’s experiences, and with the devising of plans for future efforts. The clergyman was the first to commence the conversation.
“When we remember our Poor Laws, our hospitals, all our great efforts of public charity and private benevolence, one who had not visited these poor neighbourhoods could scarcely believe that such misery existed.”
“It is an all-sufficing proof,” returned Helen, “that neither the public nor the private charity is well conducted. And yet it is, perhaps, unjust to speak so of the latter. In the midst of a social chaos, such as ours, individual effort must necessarily be poor in results. Is it not a disgrace to our civilisation, Mr. Heatherley, that such exertions as ours should be needful?”
“It used to be a favourite mental exercise with me,” replied the clergyman, smiling, “to originate schemes of future Utopias. But I fear I now see only too clearly the futility of all such dreams. The powers of Government are slight, Miss Norman, when weighed in the balance against human passions.”
“Then you cannot hope for a state of society in which disgraceful poverty, such as that we have witnessed this morning, will no longer exist, in which the will to earn a respectable livelihood shall be equivalent to success?”
“My hopes are unbounded,” replied Mr. Heatherley, rather sadly, “but my expectations, when confined to this life, arc of the most modest character.”
The phrase “this life” jarred terribly on Helen’s cars. Enthusiastic as she was for the future of humanity, she could scarcely restrain a hasty answer; but good taste withheld her from rudely shocking the clergyman’s ears.
“Well,” she replied, with a smile and a slight sigh, “it is this life in which I am principally interested, and doubtless you would laugh at me if I expressed to you all my expectations regarding it. When in Germany I thought and read much on social matters, and in the end formed my own theories as to the future constitution of society. But as such hopes have by no means reference to any immediate future, I may say that my stand-point is one with your own, Mr. Heatherley, in all practical matters. Whilst I know that even at this moment history is bringing about such changes for us as we cannot dream of, I am content in the meantime to do my little utmost towards rendering the transition somewhat easier. I have not much patience with those who look so much to the future, and stop their ears against the groans of the present. I tell you this, Mr. Heatherley, that you may understand more clearly the source of my eagerness to be a worker, that you may feel more convinced that my conduct is something beyond mere caprice, as you expressed it yesterday.”
The clergyman watched Helen calmly as she spoke, and then sank once more into thought. He seemed to be endeavouring to get at the bottom of her character, and the task appeared to be a troublesome one.
“You have studied in Germany, Miss Norman?” he asked at length.
“For about two years; I only returned a little more than a fortnight ago. I think,” she continued, after a short silence, “that I ought to give you some slight information with regard to myself; I am sure you think me somewhat bizarre; perhaps you even condemn me for being too forward.”
“You interest me much, Miss Norman,” replied Mr. Heatherley, in his frank way, “but, as yet, I have seen nothing in your conduct to warrant condemnation.”
“The truth is,” pursued Helen, “I have always lived a rather solitary life, my only companions being people very much older than myself. My father was a clergyman; he died nearly four years ago. I have never been to a school in the ordinary way, but have studied privately with tutors and professors. For several years before my father’s death I lived with him in the south of France. We hardly mixed with society, and saw rarely anyone except one or two literary friends. In Germany, too, I made very few acquaintances, and those were grave, thoughtful people. These influences may, in some degree, explain to you, my habit of mind.”
“Was your father a clergyman of the English Church?”
Helen replied affirmatively, and there was again silence.
“There is also another matter,” resumed Helen, “not without importance at present. My father left me at his death considerable wealth, and, though I am still a ward, my guardian allows me great freedom in disposing of this. I mention this, not for its own sake, but because I am bent upon carrying out one or two rather extensive schemes. I could not be satisfied with merely relieving a few individual cases of distress; when my means enable me, I trust, to do much more.”
“Would you let me hear a few of your plans?”
“Naturally they are at present mere outlines,” pursued Helen, her eyes glowing with pleasure, and her tones becoming more rapid as she unfolded her thoughts. “I shall depend very greatly upon your suggestions in the practical details. First of all, then, I shall visit these haunts of poverty day after day, and do my best to become acquainted with the most pressing needs, and to learn the best ways of meeting them. I shall endeavour to gain the personal confidence of these poor people, so that they will freely impart to me their difficulties, and allow me to help them in the most effectual way. Then, as I am firmly convinced that no radical change for the better can take place in these people’s condition till they are educated, I shall endeavour to establish a free evening school for girls, principally for those who are engaged in earning their living, and who have never had the opportunity of being taught anything. Then, again, it has seemed to me that some good provision might be made for those suffering from illness. You tell me that the public hospitals are by no means sufficient to deal with these wants, so I would suggest something of this kind. Suppose I were to establish a good dispensary in the centre of this district, and to find one or two earnest physicians, who would be willing to attend there for certain hours every day — of course receiving adequate compensation for their work — the poor who wished to avail themselves of the dispensary could then apply either to you or to me, and we, if we thought fit, would give them tickets entitling them to gratuitous advice and medicine. The physicians would report to me any especially noticeable cases, and I should then be able to provide needful things which would be beyond the people’s own power to purchase. Do you think this a practicable scheme, Mr. Heatherley?”
“With care I think it might be made so,” replied the clergyman, after a moment’s thought, his tone and countenance showing that he derived much pleasure from these suggestions.
“I fear I shall burden you with work,” went on Helen, “if you are good enough to undertake to assist me. But, above all, I wish everything to be done with the utmost quietness. Publicity of my efforts would be the very last thing I should desire; for, of course, they will be nothing more than efforts for a long time. But I should like to lose no time in putting my theories into practice. Doubtless you could at once name several girls who could be induced to attend an evening class?”
“I think I could,” replied Mr. Heatherley, cautiously; “but the hour would necessarily have to be late. I should think eight o’clock would be the earliest practicable. Your pupils would, for the most part, be engaged in work-rooms, and they rarely regain their liberty before half-past seven.
“Oh, I would arrange for any hour, of course. And do you think I could find a physician to undertake the dispensary work?”
“I do not myself know of one,” replied the clergyman, reflecting. “Probably we should be obliged to have recourse to advertisement. In the nature of things it would not be a very difficult matter.”
“Then I may conclude that you approve these two plans?”
“I do, heartily; and will help you with my utmost power, Miss Norman.”
“Thank you, thank you,” returned Helen, fervently. “Oh,” she continued, “I have many more plans, some even more extensive still, but at present they are too immature; I must gain experience. But, in the meantime, promise me, Mr. Heatherley, that you will never let a deserving case of poverty go unrelieved as long as I have the means of charity. Charity! I hate the word! It is justice to these poor sufferers to share my wealth with them! What right have I to such a superfluity?”
The conversation lasted for some half hour longer, during which many plans were discussed and some details of work arranged. When at length Helen rose to go, Mr. Heatherley, on shaking hands with her, said, solemnly —
“Miss Norman, though you deny the authority of Christ, you nevertheless are eager in His service.”
It was with a joyous heart that the noble girl returned home. The same evening she wrote to her friend, Dr. Gmelin, a long account of her plans in a letter where every word throbbed, as it were, with fine enthusiasm. When she retired late at night it was only to spend many long wakeful hours, rendered restless by impatient longing for the new day.