CHAPTER XI.

Little Prue.

Who Roxy was, what was his occupation, and whether he lived in a bygone age or was living at the present day, are matters which are not pertinent to our story, the course of which brings us, in a remote and indirect manner, to the knowledge that such a being once existed, or exists now. That he was responsible for the miserable dozen tenements known as "Roxy's Rents" may be accepted, as may be also the undoubted reason for his giving them the eccentric name they bore; the rents of the hovels he erected being lawfully his, if he could find tenants to occupy them.

A stranger to the wretched ways of life of thousands upon thousands of poor people in such a city as London might reasonably have doubted the wisdom of spending money in the erection of such hovels; but Roxy knew what he was about when he went into the speculation. A comprehensive knowledge of humanity's outcasts had taught him that the more dismal and wretched the habitations, the more likely it was that there would be numerous applicants for the shelter they afforded; and his wisdom was proved by the result, not a room in Roxy's Rents ever being empty longer than a day or two. The narrow blind alley lined by the hovels, half a dozen on each side, may be found to-day in all its desolation or wretchedness in the south of London, by any person with a leaning to such explorations. It is well known to the police, who seldom have occasion to go there, because, strangely enough, it is chiefly tenanted by people who work hard for a living, often without obtaining it.

Roxy himself, or his agent, who collects the rents regularly every Saturday night from eight o'clock till past midnight, is very particular in his choice of tenants, which he is able to be by reason of the delectable tenements being in demand. There are numbers of landlords in more favored localities who would like to stand in Roxy's shoes in this respect. The alley is some eight feet wide, and its one architectural embellishment is a kind of hood at its entrance, the only use of which is to deepen its darkness by day and night. There is no public lamp in Roxy's Rents, nor near it in the street, very little wider than the alley, in which it forms a slit; therefore the darkness is very decided in its character on foggy days and moonless nights. This has never been a subject of complaint on the part of the residents or the parish authorities--officers who, as a rule, have an objection to stir up muddy waters: by which inaction they show their respect for an ancient proverb, the vulgar version of which is, "Let sleeping dogs lie." To one of the hovels in Roxy's Rents the course of our story takes us.

The room is on the ground floor, the time is night, the persons in it are a woman and her child. The woman's name is Flower; the name of her child, a girl of eight or nine, is Prue, generally called "Little Prue." The apartment is used for every kind of living purpose--working, cooking, eating, and sleeping, It is furnished with an ordinary stove, one bed on the floor in a corner (a bedstead being a luxury beyond the means of the family), two wooden chairs, a child's low chair, the seat of which once was cane but now is hollow, a deal table, a few kitchen utensils, and very little else. On the mantelshelf are two or three cracked cups and saucers, a penny, and a much-faded photograph of two young women, with, their arms round each other's waists. There is a family likeness in their faces, and one bears a faint resemblance to Mrs. Flower. The paper on the walls hangs loose, and the walls themselves reek with moisture; the plaster on the ceiling has dropped in places, and bare rafters are visible. Not a palatial abode, but the Flowers have lived there for years, and it forms their Home--a mocking parody on a time-honored song. Mrs. Flower is standing at the table, ironing clothes. She takes in washing when she can get it to do, having but few garments of her own to wash.

Mrs. Flower was working with a will, putting her whole soul into the iron. The apartment was chiefly in shadow, the only light being that from one tallow dip, twelve to the pound. The candle was on the table, being necessary for the woman's work, and its rays did not reach Little Prue, who sat in the low hollow-seated chair by the bed. Mrs. Flower enlivened her toil by singing, or rather humming with bated breath, a most lugubrious air for which she was famous in her maiden days, but then it used to be given forth with more spirit than she put into it now. Occasionally she turned to her child, who was sitting quite still with her eyes closed. There was a faint sickly smell of scorching in the room, proceeding from a wisp of carpet on the floor before the fire, upon which Mrs. Flower tested her hot irons. It had served this purpose so long that it was scorched almost to tinder. Presently the woman broke off in her melancholy singing, and called softly:

"Prue!" No answer coming, she called again, "Prue!"

"Yes, mother," said the child, opening her eyes. Her voice was weak, as might have been expected from a child with a face so pale and limbs so thin.

"I thought you were asleep, Prue."

"So I was, mother. Why didn't you let me be?"

"Dreaming of things?"

"Oh, of sech things, mother! I was 'aving a feast of sheep's trotters." Mrs. Flower sighed. "There was a 'ole pile of 'em, and the 'ot pie man was giving pies away. I was just reaching out my 'and for one."

"Never mind, never mind," said Mrs. Flower, rather fretfully. "You talk as if I could get blood out of a stone."

"Do I, mother? I didn't know. I _am_ 'ungry!"

"What's the use of worriting? Didn't I promise you should have some supper? I'm going to ask Mrs. Fry to pay me for the washing when I take it home. I do hope she won't say there's anything missing. She always does; and when I ask her to look over the things again, she sends word she can't till the morning. That's how she puts me off time after time; but I'll be extra particular to-night. Three dozen at one and nine--that's five and three. She don't often give out so much; that's luck for us, Prue."

"I say, mother?"

"Well?"

"D'yer think father'll come 'ome? I 'ope he won't."

"He won't come home while he's got a copper in his pocket, that you may depend on. Go to sleep again, child, till I've finished."

But Little Prue, now wide awake, made no attempt to obey. Rising to her feet, she stealthily drew one of the large wooden chairs to the mantelshelf, and, mounting, craned her neck. The shelf was high, and Prue was a very small child. It was only by tiptoeing, and running the danger of tumbling into the fire, that she ascertained what she wished to know. Stepping down like a cat, she crept to her mother's side.

"There's a penny on the mantelpiece, mother."

"Don't worry; how can I get on with my work if you do? It's father's penny, for his supper beer; he put it there before he went out, so that he couldn't spend it till he came home." Aside she said, with a sidelong look of pity at Prue, "I daren't touch it!"

"I'm so 'ungry, mother!" pleaded Prue, plucking her mother's gown. "My inside's grinding away like one o'clock."

Mrs. Flower was seized with a fit of irresolution, and she muttered, "If I look sharp, I shall be back with the washing money before he comes in." Stepping quickly to the fireplace, she took the penny from the mantel, and thrust it into Prue's hand. "There; go and get a penn'orth of peas-pudding."

"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Little Prue joyfully, and was running out, when the door was blocked by the form of her father, who had returned sooner than he was expected.

Mr. Flower was slightly intoxicated--his normal state. However much he drank, he never got beyond a certain stage of drunkenness; by reason, probably, of his being so thoroughly seasoned.

"Hallo, hallo!" he cried, grasping his little girl by the shoulder. "Is the house on fire? Where are _you_ off to in such a hurry?"

"Nowhere, father," replied Prue, slipping her hand with the penny in it behind her back.

"Nowhere, eh? You're in a precious pelt to get there. What have you got in your hand?"

"Nothink, father!"

"Nothink, father!" he mocked, eyeing Prue with something more than suspicion.

"No, father. Wish I may die if I 'ave!"

Without more ado, Mr. Flower seized the little hand and, wresting the tightly-clenched fingers open, extracted the penny. Looking toward the mantelshelf, he said:

"Stealing my money, eh, you young rat? Who learnt you to tell lies?"

"You did!" replied Mrs. Flower, stepping between them. She had finished her washing, and was putting it together while this scene was proceeding. "You did, you drunken vagabond!"

"You shut up! As for you," he said, throwing Prue violently on the bed; "you stop where you are, or I'll break every bone in your body!"

"Lay a finger on her," cried Mrs. Flower fiercely, "and I'll throw the iron at your head! Don't mind him, Prue; I'll soon be back."

"Ah, you'd better!" said Mr. Flower, with a brutal laugh at his wife, who was looking at him in anger. "What are you staring at?"

"At you."

"Well, and what do you make of me?"

"What I've made of you ever since the day I married you."

"For better or worse, eh?"

"For worse, every minute of my life," she retorted. "I wonder why the Lord allows some people to live."

"Here, that's enough of your mag, with your Lord and your Lord! What's your Lord done for me? Off you go, now!"

But Mrs. Flower was not so easily disposed of.

"Have you brought home any money?" she asked.

"Money! How should I get money?"

"Why work for it, like other men, you----" She repressed herself, and, with a flaming face, arranged the clothes she had washed.

"Work for it!" he cried, with a laugh, and immediately afterward turned savage. "Well, ain't I willing?"

"Yes, you show yourself willing," said Mrs. Flower, bitterly; "hanging round public-houses, and loafing from morning to night!"

"Think I'm going to work for a tanner an hour?" demanded Mr. Flower. "Not me! I'll have my rights, I will!"

"While we starve!"

"Starve! When you can get washing to do, and live on the fat of the land! If I was a woman, I'd rejoice in such clean work."

"And don't I do it? Haven't I sat up night after night, wearing my fingers to the bone for you?"

"For me? Oh, oh! I like that!"

"Yes, for you," repeated Mrs. Flower, thoroughly roused. "And what's the good of it all? You drink away every penny I earn, you sot; and you call yourself a man!"

"I'll call you something, if you don't cut your stick! I wonder what I married you for?"

"I'll tell you. You married me to make me work for you; and you're not the only one that speaks soft to a woman till he's got her in his clutches. There ought to be a law for such as you."

"Law! Talk of what you understand. There was your sister Martha. Ah, she was a girl! Such eyes--such skin--such lips!" He smacked his own, in his desire to further aggravate her. "I was real nuts on her; and I'd have had her instead of you, if she hadn't took up with a swell. I hope she's found out her mistake by this time."

"I dare say she has. We all do, whether we're married or not." She turned to Little Prue, who sat dumb during the scene, which presented no features of novelty to her; from her earliest remembrance she had been a witness of such. "I shan't be gone long," she whispered, kissing the child, "and then you shall have some supper."

"Mind you get the money for the washing, and bring it straight home!"--called Mr. Flower after her as she left the room. "Selfish cat!" He slammed the door to. "Never thinks of anyone but herself--never thinks of me! What are you sniveling at?" Prue, now that her mother had gone, began to cry. "Come here; I've got something to say to you. Ain't I your father?"

"Yes, father."

"And a good father?"

"Yes, father."

"And a kind father?"

"Yes, father."

"Very well, then. How old are you?"

"I don't know, father."

"You don't know, father! You're old enough to get your own living, and here you are passing your days in idleness and plenty. D'you see these!" He pulled some boxes of matches from his pocket.

"Yes, father."

"What are they?"

"Matches, father."

"Count 'em. D'you hear me? Count 'em." The child was reeling, and he shook her straight. "Count 'em."

"One--two--three--four--five--six."

"Six it is. Now, you've got to go out with these six boxes of matches, and bring home tenpence for 'em. How are you going to do it, eh?"

"I don't know, father."

"Don't give me any more of your don't knows. You've got no more sense than your mother; but I'm not going to let you grow up as idle and selfish as she is--not if I know it, I ain't. Stop your blubbering, and listen to me. You go to Charing Cross Station, you do, where all the lights are, and where everybody's happy. What are you shaking your head for?"

"I don't know--I mean, I can't find my way, father."

"I shall have to take you there; I'm only fit to be a slave. There you'll stand, with the lights shining on you. That'll be nice, won't it?"

"Yes, father."

"Nice and warm; and you get it for nothing, all for nothing. There's a treat I'm giving you! You stand in the gutter, mind that; and you ain't to look happy and bright. You're to try all you know to look miserable and hungry. Do you hear?"

"I'll try to, father."

"Ah, you'd better, or it'll be the worse for you! When an old gent or an old lady gives you a penny, don't you offer 'em a box; there's a lot of mean beasts that'd take it. You hold the boxes tight, and you bring me back not less than a bob for the six--not less than a bob, mind!"

"Yes, father."

"Here, I'll give you a lesson. Blest if we don't have a rehearsal! Stand there, in the gutter, and look miserable. I'm a gent. Hold out your hand. 'Here's a penny for you, little girl.' Take it--quick! and hold on tight to the matches. The gent goes away. I'm an old lady. 'My poor child, what brings you out at such an hour?' What do you say to the kind old lady?"

"Father sent me out, please; and told me to stand in the gutter----"

"Shut up! You're a born fool! What you say is this. Just you repeat after me. 'Kind lady----'"

"'Kind lady!'"

"'Father's dead----'"

"'Father's dead!'"

"'And mother's laying ill of a fever----'"

"'And mother's laying ill of a fever!'"

"'And baby's dying----'"

"'And baby's dying!'"

"''Cause we ain't had nothing to eat since yesterday----'"

"''Cause we ain't 'ad nothink to eat since yesterday!'"

"That's more like it. And then you can begin to cry. Have you got that in your head?"

"Yes, father."

"Come along, then, and step out. I'll keep my eye on you to see how you do it."

Taking Little Prue by the hand, he led her out of Roxy's Rents into the wider thoroughfares, to play her part in the sad drama of poverty that runs its everlasting course from year's end to year's end in this City of Unrest.