Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery

by B. L. Farjeon

  CHAPTER XVII.

  THE LITTLE WASHERWOMAN.

  Had Dick timed his visit to Draper's Mews a couple of hours earlier hewould have had a second instance in one day of female hands at thewash-tub--in this case not a wash-tub but a cracked and leaky basin,from the sides of which the soapy water dripped upon a very thin pairof female legs. In the second instance it would not have been a womanwhom he would have seen, but a child--none other than little Gracie,who, with all the importance of budding washerwoman thick upon her(although, humanly speaking, her prospects of arriving at that stageof distinction appeared to be remote) was washing her brothers' andsisters' clothes. The garments were few and in woeful condition, thebrothers and sisters were many, more or less in a state of nudity.There were Eddie, nine years of age, Bertie, eight, Nellie, six,Connie, five, Louie, three, Geordie, eighteen months. Six children,who, with Gracie, the eldest, comprised the young shoots of thegenealogical tree belonging to the family of the Deaths. Their homecomprised two small rooms, with holes in the wall that divided them.

  All the children, with the exception of Gracie, were in bed, huddlingtogether for warmth, and waiting for the drying of their clothes,which Gracie hung upon a line stretching from wall to wall, afterwringing them out. The youngsters were not unhappy; the ten shillingsfrom the poor box which the benevolent magistrate had given to Mrs.Death dropped upon her like manna from heaven. On their way home sheand Gracie had spent fifteen pence, and the children had had a fullmeal. What cause for unhappiness when their little stomachs werefilled? That is the test stone. Think of it, comfortable ones of theearth. Fifteen pence to make seven children happy!

  Gracie alone recognised what was meant by the disappearance of theirfather, the breadwinner, their father with his anxious face andthreadbare clothes. The other children could not understand. It wasmerciful. Father had gone away; he would come back again with a littlepaper bag of brandy balls for them to suck. Abel Death was fond of hischildren, and once a week he gave them this treat. How they lookedforward to it--how they watched for his coming--how their faces wouldlight up when he pulled the bag out of his pocket! Brandy balls are aneconomical sweet; there is a magic in the very name. Brandy balls!They are hard, not to say stony, and if they are sucked fair they lasta long time. Eddie once bolted one whole. He never forgot it; thetaste of the physic he was made to swallow, the shaking and theslapping, made him very repentant; but he thought of it everafterwards with a fearful joy, as of one who had performed a rash anddaring deed, and came out of it alive. Sometimes the children were inrivalry as to which brandy ball would last the longest. Sad to relate,the exultation of the victor made the others cry. The way ofconquerors is always watered with tears.

  On this afternoon Gracie was the mistress of the house. Mrs. Death hadheard of a half day's washing-up of plates and dishes at a German clubin the neighbourhood where a festival was being held; and she darednot neglect the opportunity of earning ninepence. She left carefulinstructions that if father _should_ happen to come back during herabsence Gracie was to run like lightning to the club and fetch herhome. She had no hope of it, but she had read of miracles in theBible.

  So the child stood at the wash-tub, soaping poor little petticoats andstockings with zeal and diligence, holding each garment up to thelight and criticising its condition with the eye of an expert. Now andthen she shook her head, as though in answer to a question whetherthis or that tattered article of clothing could be mended; and, thepoint being settled, plunged it into the wash-tub again for an extrasoaping to make up for tatters. And the marvellous patience with whichshe pursued her task, the absence of anything in the shape ofrebellion or protest that she, so young in years, should be set to it!If ever suffering mortal deserved a medal for duty done in the teethof adverse circumstance, against odds so terrible that the coldestheart must have been moved to pity to witness it, Gracie surely hadearned it. But there is no established order on earth for the bestowalof honours in such a cause. Crosses and broad ribbons and sparklingstars are for deeds far different from the devoted heroism shedisplayed. But a record is kept in Heaven, Gracie, and angels arelooking down upon you. How astonished would she have been to know it!She suffered--ah, how she suffered! Every few minutes she wascompelled to stop and fight the demon in her chest that scraped andscraped her brittle bones with fiendish cruelty--tearing at her,choking her, robbing her of breath, while she stamped her feet andbeat her hands together.

  "Oh, I say! Gracie's going it," observed Bertie, the low comedian andmimic of the family, and as is the case with better known lowcomedians when they give utterance to nothing particularly witty, theyoung audience began to laugh.

  "Show us, Bertie," they cried. "Do it!"

  Whereupon, with his own vocal organs, Bertie reproduced Gracie'sracking cough. The other children attempted the imitation, but nonewith success, and he accompanied the cough, moreover, with such anexpression of woe upon his face, that the children were lost inadmiration. Spurred to greater efforts by their approval he wound upwith so faithful a reproduction of Gracie in the last exhausting stageof a paroxysm that it brought down the house.

  "Is that like it, Gracie?" he asked.

  "Yes," she answered, with unmoved face, "that's like it."

  One of the children, burning with envy at her brother's histrionictriumph, expressed her feelings with her legs.

  "Connie's kicking me, Gracie," cried Bertie, at the same timereturning the kicks beneath the bedclothes.

  "If you don't leave off," said Gracie, impassively, "I'll come andslap you."

  She had to be very careful with the children's underclothing. So fullof holes and rents were they that the least violence would havewrought irremediable havoc among them--and where was mother to get themoney from to buy new ones?

  "There," she said, hanging the last garment on the line, and wipingher hands and arms on her wet apron, "that job's done."

  The children raised a cheer, and simultaneously sat up in bed in astate of eager expectation. Six little heads nestling close, six eagerfaces turned towards Gracie. They had not a clear view of her, becausenight was coming on.

  "Wait a bit," she said, "we must have a light, and I must make up thefire."

  It was a very small fire, the capacity of the stove beingcircumscribed by a large brick on either side, placed there for thesake of economy. Gracie put on half a dozen little pieces of coal withmiser-like care, taking as much pains to arrange them as if they wereprecious stones, as indeed they were. A tiny flame shot out and shoneupon her face; with her black eyes and black hair she looked like agoblin beneath this fitful illumination. Then she rose and lighted atallow candle, placing it on a deal table, which she drew close to thebed. The table was bare of covering, and presented a bald white space,Gracie having given it a good scrubbing before she commenced herwashing. Seating herself on a wooden chair she took from a drawer somebroken ends of chalk of different colours, yellow, green, andvermilion being the predominant hues. The excitement of the childrengrew to fever height.

  Gracie had a gift which comes by nature. She was magnetic, and couldtell a story in such a manner as to absorb the attention of herhearers. It is true that she only told stories to her brothers andsisters, who might have been considered a partial audience, but thatshe was capable of taking their imaginations captive and leading themin any direction she pleased--through gilded hall or dismal dungeon,through enchanted forest or dark morass--may be accepted as a tokenthat, grown to womanhood and appealing to a more experienced audience,her success would be no less complete. To look at that apparentlyinsensible face and at that coal black eye, unillumined by the fire offancy, and to listen to that listless voice when she discoursed uponmundane affairs, no one would have imagined that it was in her powerto rivet the attention, to fascinate and absorb. It is, however, justthose faces which go towards the making of a great actor. A blankspace waiting to be written upon, ready for the kindling of the sparkwhich unlocks the gates of imagination an
d lays all the world of fancyopen to the view. Then do merry elves peep out from beds of flowers,and fairy forms dance in the light of moon and stars; then doenchanted castles gleam in the eye of the sun, and gloomy caverns openwide their jaws and breathe destruction on all who venture withintheir shadowed walls.

  Many such romances had Gracie told the children, with appropriatepictorial illustration in colours, but she came down to earthoccasionally, and condescended to use materials more modern; but eventhese familiar subjects were decorated with flowers of quaint fancyand invested by her with captivating charm. Sometimes she mingled thetwo together, and produced the oddest effects.

  The secret of the coloured chalks was this. Not long ago there livedin the house an artist who strove to earn a living by painting on thepavements of the city the impossible salmon and the equally impossiblesunset. But though he used the most lurid colours he did not findhimself appreciated, and, taking a liking to Gracie, he poured intoher ears tales of disappointed ambition and unrecognised genius, towhich she listened with sympathetic soul. Emulous of his gifts shecoaxed him into giving her a few lessons, and in a short time couldalso paint the impossible salmon and the equally impossible sunset.One day he said, "Gracie, I am leaving this wretched country, which isnot a country for artists. I bequeath to you my genius and my stock ofcoloured chalks. But do not deceive yourself; they will bring you onlydisappointment, and do not blame me if you die unhonoured, and unwept,and unsung." With these despairing words he bade her an affectionate,if gloomy, farewell. Gracie did not share his despair, and had littleunderstanding of the words in which it was expressed. The legacy was aGod-send to her and to the children whom she would enthral with herflights of imagination, with coloured illustrations on the deal table.

  She related to them now some weird tale of a beautiful youngprincess--(behold the beautiful young princess, with vermilion lipsand cheeks, green eyes starting out of her head, and yellow hairtrailing to her heels)--and a gallant young prince--(behold thegallant young prince, with vermilion lips and cheeks, staring greeneyes, and yellow hair carefully parted in the middle)--mounted on afiery steed--(behold the fiery steed, its legs very wide apart, alsowith green eyes, vermilion nostrils, and a long yellow tail)--who,with certain wicked personages, went through astounding adventures,which doubtless would all have come right in the end had Gracie notbeen seized with a fit of coughing so violent that she fell back inher chair, spasmodically catching and fighting for her breath.

  Two persons mounted the stairs at this crisis, a man and a woman, andboth hastened their steps at these sounds of distress. Mrs. Deathflung the door open and hastened to Gracie's side not noticing Dick,who followed her.

  "My dear child--my dear child!" said Mrs. Death, taking her clammyhand and holding the exhausted girl in her motherly arms.

  "I'm all right, mother," gasped Gracie, presently, regaining herbreath. "Don't you worry about me. There--I'm better already!" She wasthe first to see Dick, and she started up. "Mother--look! Thegentleman from the police station! Have you found father, sir?"

  "I beg your pardon for intruding," said Dick to the woman. "I came tospeak to you, and when I was wondering which part of the house youlived in I heard your little girl coughing, and I followed youupstairs." He gazed in amazement at the astonishing pictures on thetable. "Did Gracie draw these?"

  Six little heads popped up from the bed, and six young voices piped,"Yes, she did. Ain't she clever? And she was telling us such abeautiful story!"

  "Be quiet, children," said Mrs. Death; and turning anxiously to Dick,"Have you any news of my husband, sir?"

  "I am sorry to say I have not," he replied; "but your visit to themagistrate is in the papers, and good is sure to come of it. Have yougot a teaspoon?"

  With a pitying remembrance of Gracie's cough he had purchased a bottleof syrup of squills, a teaspoonful of which he administered to thechild, who looked up into his face with gratitude in her soul if notin her eyes.

  "It's nice and warm," she said, rubbing her chest. "It goes right tothe spot."

  "Let her take it from time to time," said Dick to Mrs. Death. "I willbring another bottle in a day or two. Now can I have a few words withyou about your husband?"

  "Yes, sir, if you'll step into the next room."

  "I like brandy balls," cried Connie.

  "So do I--so do I!" in a clamour of voices from the other children.

  "And so do I," said Dick. "You shall have some."

  "Hush, children!" said Mrs. Death. "I'm ashamed of you! I hope you'llexcuse them, sir. Keep them quiet, Gracie, while the gentleman and Iare talking. It doesn't do, sir,"--this in a low tone to Dick as hefollowed her into the adjoining room--"to speak too freely beforechildren about trouble. It will come quickly enough to them, poorthings!"

  Dick nodded. "I wish you to believe, Mrs. Death, that I earnestlydesire to help you out of your trouble, and that I may be of moreassistance to you than most people. I say this to satisfy you that Iam not here out of mere idle curiosity."

  "I am sure you are not, sir, and I'm ever so much obliged to you forthe kindness you've shown. The syrup of squills has done Gracie a lotof good already; but I don't see how you can help us."

  "It may be in my power, if you will give me your confidence."

  "I'd be sorry to throw away a chance, sir. What is it you want toknow?"

  "I want you to tell me the reason why Mr. Samuel Boyd discharged yourhusband."

  "There's not much to tell, sir. Where shall I commence?"

  "On Friday morning, when your husband went to the office: and don'tkeep anything back that comes to your mind."

  "I won't, sir. He went away as usual, and it was our belief that hehad given Mr. Boyd every satisfaction. I told you at the policestation how we had hopes that Mr. Boyd would lend us a few pounds toget us out of our difficulty with the moneylender. I'm afraid everyminute of the home being sold over our heads. We've only got a fewbits of sticks, but we shouldn't know what to do without them. Mr.Boyd's a hard master, sir, and regularly every Saturday, when he paidmy husband his wages, he grumbled that he was being robbed. My poorhusband worked for him like a slave, and over and over again was keptin the office till ten and eleven o'clock at night without getting asixpence overtime. It wasn't a bed of roses, I tell you that, sir;nothing but finding fault from morning to night, and he was always onthe watch to catch my husband in some neglect of duty. On Fridayafternoon, when he went out of the house on some business or other,his orders to my husband were that he was not to stir out of theoffice; if people knocked at the street door let them knock; he wasn'tto answer them, but to keep himself shut up in the office. Those werethe orders given, and my husband was careful to obey them. Two orthree hours after Mr. Boyd was gone there came a knock at the streetdoor, and my husband took no notice. The knock was repeated two orthree times, but still he took no notice. Presently he heard a step onthe stairs, and he thought it was Mr. Boyd come back, and who hadknocked at the door to try him. It wasn't Mr. Boyd, sir. The gentlemanwho came into the room was Mr. Reginald."

  Taken by surprise at this unexpected piece of information, Dick cried,"Mr. Reginald!"

  "Mr. Boyd's son, sir. He and his father had a quarrel a long whileago, and Mr. Boyd turned him out of the house."

  "But if the street door was not opened to Mr. Reginald, how did he getin?"

  "He had a latchkey, which he told my husband he had taken with himwhen his father turned him off."

  A light seemed to be breaking upon Dick; all this was new to him. "Atwhat time did you say Mr. Reginald entered his father's house?"

  "It must have been about six o'clock. When he heard that his fatherwas not at home he said he would wait; but my husband begged him notto, and asked him to go away. He seemed so bent upon seeing hisfather--he used the word 'must,' my husband told me--that it was hardto persuade him, but at last he consented, and said he would callagain at ten o'clock, when Mr. Boyd would be sure to be alone."

  The light grew stronger, and it was only by an eff
ort that Dick wasable to suppress his agitation. He recalled the conversation he hadhad with his uncle the previous night at the police station, and theremark that towards the elucidation of the mystery there were manydoors open. Here was another door which seemed to furnish a pregnantclue, and it terrified him to think that it might lead to a discoveryin which all hopes of Florence's happiness would be destroyed.

  "Yes," he said, "at ten o'clock, when Mr. Boyd would be sure to bealone."

  "Then my husband, remembering the caution given him by Mr. Boyd thatnobody was to be allowed to enter the house during his absence, askedthe young gentleman not to mention to his father that he had alreadypaid one visit to the house. You see, sir, my husband feared that hewould be blamed for it, and be turned away, as the other clerks hadbeen, for Mr. Boyd is of that suspicious nature that he doesn'tbelieve a word any man says. The young gentleman gave the promise andwent away."

  "Did Mr. Reginald say why he wanted to see his father?"

  "Not directly, sir; but my husband gathered that the young gentlemanhad come down in the world, and was in need of money."

  "Ah! Go on, please."

  "When Mr. Boyd came back he asked if any one had called; my husbandanswered no. 'Then no person has been in the house while I was away?'he said, and my husband said no person had been there. Upon that myhusband was surprised by his being asked to put his office slippers onthe table, and was still more surprised to see Mr. Boyd examining thesoles through a magnifying glass. Oh, but he is a cunning gentleman isMr. Samuel Boyd! And when the examination was over he gave my poorhusband his discharge, without a single word of warning. My husbandwas dumbfounded, and asked what he was being sent away in that mannerfor. Then the hardhearted gentleman said he had set a trap for him;that before he left the house he had put on the stairs eight littlepieces of paper with bits of wax on the top of them, so that any onetreading on them would be sure to take them up on the soles of hisboots; and that when he came back six of the eight pieces were gone.It was an artful trick, wasn't it, sir? My poor husband did then whathe ought to have done at first; he confessed the truth, that Mr.Reginald _had_ been there. When Mr. Boyd heard that his son had beenin the house he got into a fearful rage, and said that Mr. Reginaldand my husband were in a conspiracy to rob him, which, of course, myhusband denied. He begged Mr. Boyd to take back the discharge, but hewould not listen to him, and the end of it was that he came homebrokenhearted. You see our home, sir; wasn't the prospect of not beingable to earn bread for us enough to break any man's heart?"

  "Indeed it was," said Dick. "And that is all you can tell me?"

  "It is all I know, sir."

  "I think you said last night that it was about half-past nine when Mr.Death went to Catchpole Square the second time."

  "As near as I can remember, sir."

  "Within half an hour," he thought, "of Mr. Reginald's second visit.""Thank you, Mrs. Death," he said; "you may depend upon my doing mybest to clear things up, and you shall soon hear from me again. I maycall upon you without ceremony."

  "You will be always welcome, sir, but it's a poor place for you tocome to."

  "I don't live in a palace myself," he said, with an attempt at gaiety.Taking his rope and grapnel, still wrapped in the evening paper, heheld out his hand to wish her good-night (with the kind thought in hismind of sending a doctor to Gracie), when a man's voice was heard inthe passage, inquiring in a gentle voice whether Mrs. Death livedthere.