She lived in Jones's Alley. She cleaned offices, washed, and nursed from daylight until any time after dark, and filled in her spare time cleaning her own place (which she always found dirty--in a "beastly filthy state," she called it--on account of the children being left in possession all day), cooking, and nursing her own sick--for her family, though small, was so in the two senses of the word, and sickly; one or another of the children was always sick, but not through her fault.

She did her own, or rather the family washing, at home too, when she couldn't do it by kind permission, or surrept.i.tiously in connection with that of her employers. She was a haggard woman. Her second husband was supposed to be dead, and she, lived in dread of his daily resurrection.

Her eldest son was at large, but, not being yet sufficiently hardened in misery, she dreaded his getting into trouble even more than his frequent and interested appearances at home. She could buy off the son for a shilling or two and a clean shirt and collar, but she couldn't purchase the absence of the father at any price--_he_ claimed what he called his "conzugal rights" as well as his board, lodging, washing and beer. She slaved for her children, and nag-nag-nagged them everlastingly, whether they were in the right or in the wrong, but they were hardened to it and took small notice. She had the spirit of a bullock. Her whole nature was soured. She had those "worse troubles" which she couldn't tell to anybody, but bad to suffer in silence.

She also, in what she called her "spare time," put new cuffs and collar-bands on gentlemen's shirts. The gentlemen didn't live in Jones's Alley--they boarded with a patroness of the haggard woman; they didn't know their shirts were done there--had they known it, and known Jones's Alley, one or two of them, who were medical students, might probably have objected. The landlady charged them just twice as much for repairing their shirts as she paid the haggard woman, who, therefore, being unable to buy the cuffs and collar-bands ready-made for sewing on, had no lack of employment with which to fill in her spare time.

Therefore, she was a "respectable woman," and was known in Jones's Alley as "Misses" Aspinall, and called so generally, and even by Mother Brock, who kept "that place" opposite. There is implied a world of difference between the "Mother" and the "Misses," as applied to matrons in Jones's Alley; and this distinction was about the only thing--always excepting the everlasting "children"--that the haggard woman had left to care about, to take a selfish, narrow-minded sort of pleasure in--if, indeed, she could yet take pleasure, grim or otherwise, in anything except, perhaps, a good cup of tea and time to drink it in.

Times were hard with Mrs Aspinall. Two coppers and two half-pence in her purse were threepence to her now, and the absence of one of the half-pence made a difference to her, especially in Paddy's market--that eloquent advertis.e.m.e.nt of a young city's sin and poverty and rotten wealth--on Sat.u.r.day night. She counted the coppers as anxiously and nervously as a thirsty dead-beat does. And her house was "falling down on her" and her troubles, and she couldn't get the landlord to do a "han'stern" to it.

At last, after persistent agitation on her part (but not before a portion of the plastered ceiling had fallen and severely injured one of her children) the landlord caused two men to be sent to "effect necessary repairs" to the three square, dingy, plastered holes--called "three rooms and a kitchen"--for the privilege of living in which, and calling it "my place," she paid ten shillings a week.

Previously the agent, as soon as he had received the rent and signed the receipt, would cut short her reiterated complaints--which he privately called her "clack"--by saying that he'd see to it, he'd speak to the landlord; and, later on, that he _had_ spoken to him, or could do nothing more in the matter--that it wasn't his business. Neither it was, to do the agent justice. It was his business to collect the rent, and thereby earn the means of paying his own. He had to keep a family on his own account, by a.s.sisting the Fat Man to keep his at the expense of people--especially widows with large families, or women, in the case of Jones's Alley--who couldn't afford it without being half-starved, or running greater and unspeakable risks which "society" is not supposed to know anything about.

So the agent was right, according to his lights. The landlord had recently turned out a family who had occupied one of his houses for fifteen years, because they were six weeks in arrears. He let them take their furniture, and explained: "I wouldn't have been so lenient with them only they were such old tenants of mine." So the landlord was always in the right according to _his_ lights.

But the agent naturally wished to earn his living as peacefully and as comfortably as possible, so, when the accident occurred, he put the matter so persistently and strongly before the landlord that he said at last: "Well, tell her to go to White, the contractor, and he'll send a man to do what's to be done; and don't bother me any more."

White had a look at the place, and sent a plasterer, a carpenter, and a plumber. The plasterer knocked a bigger hole in the ceiling and filled it with mud; the carpenter nailed a board over the hole in the floor; the plumber stopped the leak in the kitchen, and made three new ones in worse places; and their boss sent the bill to Mrs Aspinall.

She went to the contractor's yard, and explained that the landlord was responsible for the debt, not she. The contractor explained that he had seen the landlord, who referred him to her. She called at the landlord's private house, and was referred through a servant to the agent. The agent was sympathetic, but could do nothing in the matter--it wasn't his business; he also asked her to put herself in his place, which she couldn't, not being any more reasonable than such women are in such cases. She let things drift, being powerless to prevent them from doing so; and the contractor sent another bill, then a debt collector and then another bill, then the collector again, and threatened to take proceedings, and finally took them. To make matters worse, she was two weeks in arrears with the rent, and the wood-and-coalman's man (she had dealt with them for ten years) was pushing her, as also were her grocers, with whom she had dealt for fifteen years and never owed a penny before.

She waylaid the landlord, and he told her shortly that he couldn't build houses and give them away, and keep them in repair afterwards.

She sought for sympathy and found it, but mostly in the wrong places. It was comforting, but unprofitable. Mrs Next-door sympathized warmly, and offered to go up as a witness--she had another landlord. The agent sympathized wearily, but not in the presence of witnesses--he wanted her to put herself in his place. Mother Brock, indeed, offered practical a.s.sistance, which offer was received in breathlessly indignant silence.

It was Mother Brock who first came to the a.s.sistance of Mrs Aspinall's child when the plaster accident took place (the mother being absent at the time), and when Mrs Aspinall heard of it, her indignation cured her of her fright, and she declared to Mrs Next-door that she would give "that woman"--meaning Mother Brock--"in char-rge the instant she ever _dared_ to put her foot inside her (Mrs A.'s) respectable door-step again. She was a respectable, honest, hard-working woman, and---" etc.

Whereat Mother Brock laughed good-naturedly. She was a broad-minded bad woman, and was right according to _her_ lights. Poor Mrs A. was a respectable, haggard woman, and was right according to _her_ lights, and to Mrs Next-door's, perfectly so--they being friends--and _vice versa_.

None of them knew, or would have taken into consideration, the fact that the landlord had lost all his money in a burst financial inst.i.tution, and half his houses in the general depression, and depended for food for his family on the somewhat doubtful rents of the remainder. So they were all right according to their different lights.

Mrs Aspinall even sought sympathy of "John," the Chinaman (with whom she had dealt for four months only), and got it. He also, in all simplicity, took a hint that wasn't intended. He said: "Al li'. Pay bimeby. Nexy time Flyday. Me tl.u.s.t." Then he departed with his immortalized smile. It would almost appear that he was wrong--according to our idea of Chinese lights.

Mrs Aspinall went to the court--it was a small local court. Mrs Next-door was awfully sorry, but she couldn't possibly get out that morning. The contractor had the landlord up as a witness. The landlord and the P.M. nodded pleasantly to each other, and wished each other good morning.... Verdict for plaintiff with costs... Next case!... "You mustn't take up the time of the court, my good woman.".. "Now, constable!".."Arder in the court!"... "Now, my good woman," said the policeman in an undertone, "you must go out; there's another case on-come now." And he steered her--but not unkindly--through the door.

"My good woman" stood in the crowd outside, and looked wildly round for a sympathetic face that advertised sympathetic ears. But others had their own troubles, and avoided her. She wanted someone to relieve her bursting heart to; she couldn't wait till she got home.

Even "John's" attentive ear and mildly idiotic expression would have been welcome, but he was gone. He _had_ been in court that morning, and had won a small debt case, and had departed cheerfully, under the impression that he lost it.

"Y'aw Mrs Aspinall, ain't you?"

She started, and looked round. He was one of those sharp, blue or grey-eyed, sandy or freckled complexioned boys-of-the-world whom we meet everywhere and at all times, who are always going on towards twenty, yet never seem to get clear out of their teens, who know more than most of us have forgotten, who understand human nature instinctively--perhaps unconsciously--and are instinctively sympathetic and diplomatic; whose satire is quick, keen, and dangerous, and whose tact is often superior to that of many educated men-of-the-world. Trained from childhood in the great school of poverty, they are full of the pathos and humour of it.

"Don't you remember me?"

"No; can't say I do. I fancy I've seen your face before somewhere."

"I was at your place when little Arvie died. I used to work with him at Grinder Brothers', you know."

"Oh, of course I remember you! What was I thinking about? I've had such a lot of worry lately that I don't know whether I'm on my head or my heels. Besides, you've grown since then, and changed a lot. You're Billy--Billy---"

"Billy Anderson's my name."

"Of course! To be sure! I remember you quite well."

"How've you been gettin' on, Mrs Aspinall?"

"Ah! Don't mention it--nothing but worry and trouble--nothing but worry and trouble. This grinding poverty! I'll never have anything else but worry and trouble and misery so long as I live."

"Do you live in Jones's Alley yet?"

"Yes."

"Not bin there ever since, have you?"

"No; I shifted away once, but I went back again. I was away nearly two years."

"I thought so, because I called to see you there once. Well, I'm goin'

that way now. You goin' home, Mrs Aspinall?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll go along with you, if you don't mind."

"Thanks. I'd be only too glad of company."

"Goin' to walk, Mrs Aspinall?" asked Bill, as the tram stopped in their way.

"Yes. I can't afford trams now--times are too hard."

"Sorry I don't happen to have no tickets on me!"

"Oh, don't mention it. I'm well used to walking. I'd rather walk than ride."

They waited till the tram pa.s.sed.

"Some people"--said Bill, reflectively, but with a tinge of indignation in his tone, as they crossed the street--"some people can afford to ride in trams.

"What's your trouble, Mrs Aspinall--if it's a fair thing to ask?" said Bill, as they turned the corner.

This was all she wanted, and more; and when, about a mile later, she paused for breath, he drew a long one, gave a short whistle, and said:

"Well, it's red-hot!"

Thus encouraged, she told her story again, and some parts of it for the third and fourth and even fifth time--and it grew longer, as our stories have a painful tendency to do when we re-write them with a view to condensation.

But Bill heroically repeated that it was "red-hot."