"Let's see," I says again, "she wants fresh air. We'll go up the hill, and through Hampstead;" and I touches Kangaroo on the flank, and away we goes, and I picks out all the nicest bits I could, and when I comes across a pretty bit of view I pulls up, and pretends as there's a strap wanted tightening, or a hoof picking, or a fresh knot at the end of the whip, and so on. Then I goes pretty quickly along the streety bits, and walks very slowly along the green lanes; and so we goes on for a good hour, when the old lady pushes the lid open with her parasol, and tells me to turn back.

"All right, mum," I says; and takes 'em back another way, allers following the same plan; and at last pulls up at the house where I supposed they was lodgers, for that's a rare place for lodgings about there.

I has the young lady leaning on my arm when she gets out, and when she was at the door she says, "Thank you" again, so sweetly and sadly that it almost upset me. But the old lady directly after asked me the fare, and I tells her, and she gives me sixpence too much, and though I wanted to pocket it, I wouldn't, but hands it back.

"Thank you, cabman," she says; "that's for being so kind and attentive to my poor child."

"G.o.d bless her, mum," I says, "I don't want paying for that."

Then she smiles quite pleasant, and asks me if it would be worth my while to call again the next afternoon if it was fine, and I says it would; and next day, just in the same way, I goes right off past Primrose Hill, and seeing as what they wanted was the fresh air, I makes the best o' my way right out, and then, when we was amongst the green trees, Kangaroo and me takes it easy, and just saunters along. Going up hill I walks by his head, and picks at the hedges, while them two, seeing as I took no notice of 'em, took no notice o' me. I mean, you know, treated me as if we was old friends, and asked me questions about the different places we pa.s.sed, and so on.

Bimeby I drives 'em back, and the old lady again wanted to give me something extra for what she called my kind consideration; but "No, Stevey," I says to myself; "if you can't do a bit o' kindness without being paid for it, you'd better put up the shutters, and take to some other trade." So I wouldn't have it, and the old lady thought I was offended; but I laughed, and told her as the young lady had paid me; and so she had, with one of her sad smiles, and I said I'd be there again nex' day if it was fine.

And so I was; and so we went on, day after day, and week after week; and I could see that, though the sight of the country and the fresh air brightened the poor girl up a bit, yet he was getting weaker and weaker, so that, at last, I half carried her to the cab, and back again after the ride. One day, while I was waiting, the servant tells me that they wouldn't stay in town, only on account of a great doctor, as they went to see at first, but who came to them now; and, last of all, when I went to the house, I used always to be in a fidget for fear the poor gal should be too ill to come out. But no, month after month she kep' on; and when I helped her, used to smile so sweetly, and talk so about the trouble she gave me, that one day, feeling a bit low, I turned quite silly, and happening to look at her poor mother a-standing there with the tears in her eyes, I had to hurry her in, trod get up on to my seat as quick as I could, to keep from breaking down myself.

Poor gal! always so loving and kind to all about her--always thanking one so sweetly, and looking all the while so much like what one would think an angel would look--it did seem so pitiful to feel her get lighter and lighter, week by week--so feeble, that, at last, I used to go upstairs to fetch her, and always carried her down like a child.

Then she used to laugh, and say, "Don't let me fall, Stephen,"--for they got to call me by my name, and to know the missus, by her coming in to help a bit; for the old lady asked me to recommend 'em an honest woman, and I knowed none honester than my wife. And so it was with everybody-- it didn't matter who it was--they all loved the poor gal; and I've had the wife come home and sit and talk about her, and about our f.a.n.n.y as died, till she's been that upset she's cried terribly.

Autumn came in werry wet and cold, and there was an end to my jobs there. Winter was werry severe, but I kep' on hearing from the missus how the poor gal was--sometimes better, sometimes worse; and the missus allus shook her head werry sadly when she talked about her.

Jennywerry and Feberwerry went by terribly cold, and then March came in quite warm and fine, so that things got so forrard, you could buy radishes wonderful cheap in April; and one night the wife comes home and tells me that if it was as fine nex' day as it had been, I was to call, and take the old lady and her daughter out.

Nex' day was splendid. It was as fine a spring day as ever I did see, and I sticks a daffy-down-dilly in on each side of Kangaroo's head, and then spends twopence in a couple o' bunches o' wilets, and pins 'em in on the side where the poor gal used to sit, puts clean straw in the boot, and then drives to the place with the top lid open, so as to sweeten the inside, because swells had been smoking there that morning.

"Jest run yer sponge and leather over the ap.r.o.n a bit, Buddy," I says to our waterman, afore I left the stand.

"Got a wedding on?" he says, seeing how pertickler I was.

"There, look alive!" I says, quite snappish; for I didn't feel in a humour to joke; and then, when I'd got all as I thought right, I drives up, keeping the lid open, as I said afore.

When I draws up, I puts the nose-bag on the old horse, for him to amuse himself with, and so as I could leave him, for he wouldn't stir an inch with that bag on, to please all the pleacemen in London. Then I rings, and waits, and at last gets my orders to go and help the young lady down.

I takes off my hat, wipes my shoes well, and goes up; and there she was waiting, and smiled so pleasantly again, and held out her hand to me, as though I'd been a friend, instead of a rough, weather-battered street cabman. And do you know what I did, as I went in there, with my eyes all dim at seeing her so, so changed? Why, I felt as if I ought to do it, and I knelt down and took her beautiful white hand in mine, and kissed it, and left a big tear on it; for something seemed to say so plainly that she'd soon be where I hoped my own poor gal was, whom I always say we lost; but my wife says, "No, not lost, for she is ours still."

She was so light now, that I carried her down in a minute; and when she was in the cab and saw the wilets, she took 'em down, and held 'em in her hand, and nodded and smiled again at me, as though she thanked me for them.

"Go the same way as you went first time, Stephen," she says.

And I pushed over all the quieter bits, and took her out beyond Hampstead; and there, in the greenest and prettiest spot I could find, I pulls up, and sits there listening to the soft whispers of her voice, and feeling, somehow, that it was for the last time.

After a bit I goes gently on again, more and more towards the country, where the hedges were turning beautiful and green, and all looked so bright and gay.

Bimeby I stops again, for there was a pretty view, and you could see miles away. Of course, I didn't look at them if I could help it, for the real secret of people enjoying a ride is being with a driver who seems no more to 'em than the horse--a man, you see, who knows his place. But I couldn't help just stealing one or two looks at the inside where that poor gal lay back in the corner, looking out at the bright spring-time, and holding them two bunches o' wilets close to her face.

I was walking backwards and forwards then, patting the horse and straightening his harness, when I just catches the old lady's eye, and saw she looked rather frightened, and she leans over to her daughter and calls her by name quickly; but the poor girl did not move, only stared straight out at the blue sky, and smiled so softly and sweetly.

I didn't want no telling what to do, for I was in my seat and the old horse flying amost before you could have counted ten; and away we went, full pace, till I come up to a doctor's, dragged at the bell, and had him up to the cab in no time; and then he rode on the footboard of the cab, in front of the ap.r.o.n, with the shutters let down; and he whispered to me to drive back softly, and I did.

The old lady has lodged with us ever since, for I took a better place on purpose, and my missus always attends on her. She's werry fond o'

talking with my wife about their two gals who have gone before; but though I often, take her for a drive over the old spots, she never says a word to me about such things; while soon after the funeral she told Sarah to tell me as the wilets were not taken from the poor gal's hand, same time sending me a fi-pun note to buy a suit o' mourning.

Of course, I couldn't wear that every day, but there was a bit o' rusty c.r.a.pe on my old shiny hat not such a werry long time ago; and I never buy wilets now, for as they lie in the baskets in spring-time, sprinkled with the drops o' bright water, they seem to me to have tears upon 'em, and make me feel sad and upset, for they start me off thinking about "My Fare."

CHAPTER NINE.

SPOTS ON LIFE'S SUN.

In educating myself a bit, it seems to me like getting up a high mountain; and after going on at it for years and years, I've come to the idea that there never is any getting up atop, for no sooner do I get up one place than there's another; and so it is always the same, and you've never done. It's being thick-headed, I suppose; but somehow or another I can't get to understand lots of things, and I know I never shall. Now just look here: suppose I, as a working man, go into my neighbour Frank Brown's garden, cuts his cabbages, digs up his potatoes, and takes 'em home--"annexes" 'em, you know; then larrups Frank till he's obliged to cut and run; then I takes a werry loving fancy to all his furniture, clothes, and chaney, and moves 'em into my premises. "Don't do that,"

says his wife. "There, hold _your_ tongue," I says, "I'm 'annexing'

'em; and you may be off after your husband;" and then I turns her out and locks the door.

"That's a rum game," you'll say. Very good; so it is; and when the thing's showed up, where am I? stole the vegetables, a.s.saulted Frank Brown, insulted and abused his wife, and plundered his house. What would Mr Payne, or Mr Bodkin, or Mr Knox say to me, eh? Why, of course, I must serve my time in gaol to make amends. But that's what I can't understand, and I want to know why I mayn't do it retail, when my betters do it wholesale. Here we are: here's the King of Prussia turned out the King of Hanover and his wife, and, I s'pose, some more of 'em; and I mean to say it's precious hard; and then again he's been thrashing the Austrians, as perhaps deserved it, and perhaps didn't, while no end of homes have been made desolate, and thousands upon thousands of G.o.d's creatures slaughtered, let alone the tens of thousands as have been mutilated and will bear the marks of the battles to their graves. Ah!

I've sat aside a man as was on the battle-fields, and heard him describe the "glory" of the war, the anguish of the wounded, the fearful distortion of the dead, the smashed horses, and, above all, that horrible slaughterhouse stench of blood that fouled the air with its sickening, disease-bringing, cholera-sowing taint. And then the King says "Hurray," and they sing the "Te Deum."

There, I suppose I'm very ignorant, but I can't understand it at all; and in my simple fancy it seems blasphemous. Say we had an invading army coming against us--same as in the days of good Queen Bess--and we drive 'em off. Those who fall do it in defence of their country, and die like heroes; well, then, let's sing the "Te Deum," and thank Him for letting us gain the victory. Say we go to help an oppressed country fairly and honestly. Good again--let's return thanks; but when it's for the sake of getting land, and for more conquest, why, then, if it must be done, the less that is said afterwards the better. And besides they must be having a grand festival, and bring fifty of the prettiest maidens in the city to meet the King and present him with laurel wreaths. Better have taken him c.r.a.pe bands for the hats of all his party, and to distribute amongst the fatherless! Some pictures there were in the 'l.u.s.trated papers, too, of the laurel-crowned damsels, and the grand religious festival with panoply and priests; but the artist gave one grim rub to the whole thing--one as tells, too--for here and there, in undress uniform, he sketched out wan-looking men with their arms in slings, or limping with sticks, crippled perhaps for life; and then no doubt they'll give you some of their ideas of glorious war.

Illuminations, too, under the Lindens at Berlin; grand enough, no doubt; but it seems as though the heavens wept to see it, for the rain's streaming down at a fine rate.

But, there, I suppose I don't understand these sort of things, and like a good many more get talking about what I should hold my tongue on; but somehow or another, whenever I hear the word _war_, I can't see regiments of gay soldiers, and bands of music, and prancing horses, but trampled, muddy, and blood-stained fields, with shattered bodies lying about; or dim rooms turned into hospitals, with men lying groaning in their great agony--hopeless, perhaps, of ever rising from the rough pallet where they lie.

But, there, let's get on to another kind of war--war _with_ the knife-- knife and fork, you know--the battle of life for a living; for there's no mistake about it, there is a regular battle going on for the daily bread, and if a man hasn't been well drilled to it in his apprenticeship, it's rather a poor figure he'll cut in amongst the rest.

Ah, you come across some rum fellow soldiers, too, in the course of your life; here's one chap is asked to do a little extra job, and, as he does it, goes on like our old s.e.xton used down in the country when he put up the Christmas holly in the church. "Ah!" he says to me--"Ah! you see, I don't get nothing for doing this--_only my salary_." Men are so precious frightened of making work scarce. Why, I remember soon after I came up to London going into Saint Paul's for a gape round, when they were going to fit up the seats for the Charity Children's Festival; and do what I would I couldn't help having a hearty laugh to see how the fellows were going it. Perhaps it was a scaffold pole wanted lifting; when about a score of chaps would go crawling up to it, and have a look; then one would touch it with his foot, and then another; then one would stoop down and take hold on it, and give a groan, and then let go again; next another would have his groan over it; then they'd look round, as if they thought being in a grand church a miracle war going to happen, and that the pole would get up of itself and go to its place.

It didn't though: so at last, groaning and grunting, they managed to get it on their shoulders--the whole score of 'em trying to have a hand in it; but puzzled sometimes how to manage it, for the short 'uns couldn't hitch their shoulders up high enough to reach, and had to be content with walking under it like honest British workmen as had made up their minds to earn every penny of their money; while the tall chaps carried the pole, and it didn't seem to hurt them much as they took it to its place and groaned it down again; when they was all so faint that they had to knock off for some beer.

I have heard an old workman say how many bricks he'd lay in a day in his best times, and it was a precious many; and I've seen old Johnny Mawley lay 'em too, and he'd have been just the chap to suit some of our London men, who look sour at you if you lay into the work tight. Old Johnny used to build little walls and pigsties down in Lincolnshire, and had his boy, young Johnny, with him. There the old chap would be tapping and pottering about over his work, with no necessity for him to stand still till the mortar set at the bottom, for fear of the building giving way or growing top-heavy--there he'd be, with the work getting well set as he went on; for after getting one brick in its place and the mortar cleared off, he'd drawl out very slowly, as he stood looking at his job--"Johnny, lad, wilt thou bring me another brick?" And Johnny used to bring him another brick; and old Johnny would lay it; and work never got scarce through him.

Men are so precious frightened of interfering with one another. I s'pose it's all right; but it seems so queer for the plasterer to knock off because a bit of beading wants nailing on or taking off, and the carpenter has to be fetched to do it, when half a dozen taps of the hammer would have set all right. Bricklayer's setting a stove, and he can't turn a screw, but must have the smith; whilst the carpenter knocks off because a bit of brick wants chipping out of the wall; and so they go on; and so I go on grumbling at it, and fault-finding. But the most I grumble at is this--the number of public-houses there is about London waiting with their easily-swinging doors to trap men. There's no occasion to knock; just lean against the door, and open it comes; and there's the grandly fitted-up place, and a smart barman or barmaid to wait on you, and all so nice, and attractive, and sticky, that there's no getting away again; so that it seems like one of those catch-'em-alives as the fellows used to sell about the streets--and we poor people the flies.

Nice trade that must be, and paying; to see the glitter and gloss they puts on, and the showy places they build in the most miserable spots-- gilt, and paint, and gas, and all in style. And then the boards and notices! "Double brown stout, 3 pence per pot in your own jugs; sparkling champagne ales; Devonshire cider; cordial gin, and compounds; Jamaica rum;" while at one place there was a chap had up in his window "Cwrw o' Cymru," which must be an uncommon nice drink, I should think; but I never had any of it, whatever it is. But how one fellow does tempt another into these places, and how the money does go there--money that ought to be taken home; and it isn't like any other kind of business: say you want a coffee-shop, or a baker's, you'll have two or three streets, perhaps, to go down to find one; but there's always a public at the corner all ready. And, you see, with some men it is like it was with a mate of mine--Fred Brown--easy-going, good-hearted chap.

"Come and have half a pint, Fred," one'd say to him; and then Fred would shake his head, and be going on, till they began to banter him a bit, when he'd go in and have his half-pint same as lots of us do, and no great harm neither; but then this beer used to make him thirsty for more, and then more, and more, when the end of it used to be that what with treating, and one thing and another, Fred used to go home less seven or eight shillings in his pocket, and all of a stagger, to make his wife miserable, and the little things of children stare to see him look such a brute.

I lost sight of the poor chap for about five years; and then, when we met, I shouldn't have known him if he hadn't spoken in a rough, husky voice, while his face looked bloated and pasty.

"Can't help it, mate," he'd say. "Can't eat now, and if it warn't for the drop o' drink I couldn't live."

Strange words them for a young man of five-and-thirty; but I believe they were true, and he almost lived upon beer and gin. But I thought it couldn't last long, and living as I did close by him, and often dropping into his miserable room, I knew how matters went with him; and at last he was down and unable to go to work.

Fortunately for him, in spite of all trouble, his wife had kept the club money paid up, or they would have been in a queer fix, for they were proper badly off, as you could see at a glance when you went in: ragged sc.r.a.p or two of carpet, half worn-out chairs, ricketty table, and very dirty-looking old bedstead in the same room, while where his poor wife and children managed to creep of nights I don't know. Second floor back room it was, and when I got up there his wife made me a sign not to make a noise, for he was asleep; and she was doing all she could to hush the baby in her arms.

Poor woman! only a few years ago healthy, bright-eyed, and good-looking; but now only half-dressed, sunken-cheeked, and pale, as numbers of other poor neglected wives we see every day in the streets. Two more children were playing on the floor, while another lay with arms round its father's neck, and there, just peeping at me above Fred's rough black whiskers, were the two bright eyes.

I hadn't been there long before he woke; and then in that half-hour that followed I saw sorrow, misery, and horrors enough to make any man thoughtful for the rest of his life. A strong, able workman, with his mind completely overthrown by drink, imagining all sorts of strange creatures were in the room and thronging about his bed, while every time he recognised those about him came the constant demand for drink--for the stuff that had brought him down to what he was. His poor wife was that beat out, that I promised to come back and sit up with him that night, so that she could go and lie down at a neighbour's; and about half-past nine I went back, and soon after there I was alone with poor Fred, and him lying in a sort of dose.