Part 27 (2/2)

In this wretched place, the language of true grat.i.tude was still to be heard, thanking the good-natured cook for a little spoonful of gravy thrown in for nothing--and here, humble mercy that had its one superfluous halfpenny to spare gave that halfpenny to utter dest.i.tution, and gave it with right good-will. Amelius spent all his s.h.i.+llings and sixpences, in doubling and trebling the poor little pennyworths of food--and left the place with tears in his eyes.

He was near the end of the street by this time. The sight of the misery about him, and the sense of his own utter inability to remedy it, weighed heavily on his spirits. He thought of the peaceful and prosperous life at Tadmor. Were his happy brethren of the Community and these miserable people about him creatures of the same all-merciful G.o.d?

The terrible doubts which come to all thinking men--the doubts which are not to be stifled by crying ”Oh, fie!” in a pulpit--rose darkly in his mind. He quickened his pace. ”Let me let out of it,” he said to himself, ”let me get out of it!”

BOOK THE SIXTH. FILIA DOLOROSA

CHAPTER 1

Amelius found it no easy matter to pa.s.s quickly through the people loitering and gossiping about him. There was greater freedom for a rapid walker in the road. He was on the point of stepping off the pavement, when a voice behind him--a sweet soft voice, though it spoke very faintly--said, ”Are you good-natured, sir?”

He turned, and found himself face to face with one of the saddest sisterhood on earth--the sisterhood of the streets.

His heart ached as he looked at her, she was so poor and so young. The lost creature had, to all appearance, barely pa.s.sed the boundary between childhood and girlhood--she could hardly be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. Her eyes, of the purest and loveliest blue, rested on Amelius with a vacantly patient look, like the eyes of a suffering child. The soft oval outline of her face would have been perfect if the cheeks had been filled out; they were wasted and hollow, and sadly pale. Her delicate lips had none of the rosy colour of youth; and her finely modelled chin was disfigured by a piece of plaster covering some injury.

She was little and thin; her worn and scanty clothing showed her frail youthful figure still waiting for its perfection of growth. Her pretty little bare hands were reddened by the raw night air. She trembled as Amelius looked at her in silence, with compa.s.sionate wonder. But for the words in which she had accosted him, it would have been impossible to a.s.sociate her with the lamentable life that she led. The appearance of the girl was artlessly virginal and innocent; she looked as if she had pa.s.sed through the contamination of the streets without being touched by it, without fearing it, or feeling it, or understanding it. Robed in pure white, with her gentle blue eyes raised to heaven, a painter might have shown her on his canvas as a saint or an angel; and the critical world would have said, Here is the true ideal--Raphael himself might have painted this!

”You look very pale,” said Amelius. ”Are you ill?”

”No, sir--only hungry.”

Her eyes half closed; she reeled from sheer weakness as she said the words. Amelius held her up, and looked round him. They were close to a stall at which coffee and slices of bread-and-b.u.t.ter were sold. He ordered some coffee to be poured out, and offered her the food. She thanked him and tried to eat. ”I can't help it, sir,” she said faintly.

The bread dropped from her hand; her weary head sank on his shoulder.

Two young women--older members of the sad sisterhood--were pa.s.sing at the moment. ”She's too far gone, sir, to eat,” said one of them. ”I know what would do her good, if you don't mind going into a public-house.”

”Where is it?” said Amelius. ”Be quick!”

One of the women led the way. The other helped Amelius to support the girl. They entered the crowded public-house. In less than a minute, the first woman had forced her way through the drunken customers at the bar, and had returned with a gla.s.s of port-wine and cloves. The girl revived as the stimulant pa.s.sed her lips. She opened her innocent blue eyes again, in vague surprise. ”I shan't die this time,” she said quietly.

A corner of the place was not occupied; a small empty cask stood there.

Amelius made the poor creature sit down and rest a little. He had only gold in his purse; and, when the woman had paid for the wine, he offered her some of the change. She declined to take it. ”I've got a s.h.i.+lling or two, sir,” she said; ”and I can take care of myself. Give it to Simple Sally.”

”You'll save her a beating, sir, for one night at least,” said the other woman. ”We call her Simple Sally, because she's a little soft, poor soul--hasn't grown up, you know, in her mind, since she was a child.

Give her some of your change, sir, and you'll be doing a kind thing.”

All that is most unselfish, all that is most divinely compa.s.sionate and self-sacrificing in a woman's nature, was as beautiful and as undefiled as ever in these women--the outcasts of the hard highway!

Amelius turned to the girl. Her head had sunk on her bosom; she was half asleep. She looked up as he approached her.

”Would you have been beaten to-night,” he asked, ”if you had not met with me?”

”Father always beats me, sir,” said Simple Sally, ”if I don't bring money home. He threw a knife at me last night. It didn't hurt much--it only cut me here,” said the girl, pointing to the plaster on her chin.

One of the women touched Amelius on the shoulder, and whispered to him.

”He's no more her father, sir, than I am. She's a helpless creature--and he takes advantage of her. If I only had a place to take her to, he should never set eyes on her again. Show the gentleman your bosom, Sally.”

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