Part 63 (2/2)
”But, my goodness! (I can still swear on that, you see, and not be forsworn!) 'What's the odds if you're jolly?--and I allus is!' How's your dog? Mine would write you a letter, only her heart is moribund, and if things go on as they are going she must set about making her will. In fact, she is now lying at the foot of my bed thinking matters out, and bids me tell you that after various attempts to escape Home Rule, not being (like her mistress) one of those natures made perfect through suffering, she is only 'kept alive by the force of her own volition,' in this house that is full of old maids and has nothing better in it than one old cat, and he isn't worth hunting, being dest.i.tute of a tail.
Naturally she is doing her best (like somebody else) to keep herself unspotted from that world which is a source of so much temptation, but she's bound to confess that a little 'divilment' now and then would help her to take a more holy and religious view of life.
”I 'wish you happy' in your new enterprise; but if you are going in for being the champion of woman in this world--of her wrongs--I warn you not to be too pointed in your moral, for there is a story here of a handsome young curate who was so particular in the pulpit with 'Lovest thou me'
that a lady followed him into the vestry and admitted that she did.
Soberly, it is a great and n.o.ble effort, and I've half a mind to love you for it. If men want women to be good they _will_ be good, for women dance to the tune that men like best, and always have done so since the days of Adam--not forgetting that gentleman's temptation, nor yet his excuse about 'the woman _Thou gavest_ me,' which shows he wasn't much of a husband anyway, though certainly he hadn't much choice of a wife.
”My love to dear old London! Sometimes I have half a mind to skip off and do my wooing myself. Perhaps I should do so, only that Rosa writes that she would like to come and spend her summer holiday in Peel.
Haven't I told you about Rosa? She's the lady journalist that Mr. Drake introduced me to.
”But let's to bed, Said Sleepyhead.
”Glory.
”P.S.--IMPORTANT. Ever since I left London I have been tormented with the recollection of poor Polly's baby. She put him out to nurse with the Mrs. Jupe you heard of, and that person put him out to somebody else.
While the mother lived I had no business to interfere, but I can't help thinking of the motherless mite now and wondering what has become of him. I suppose that like Jeshurun he waxeth fat and kicketh by this time, yet it would be the act of a man and a clergyman if anybody would take up my neglected duty and make it his business to see that there is somebody to love the poor child. Mrs. Jupe's address is 5a, The Little Turnstile, going from Holborn into Lincoln's Inn Fields.”
VIII.
It was on a Sat.u.r.day morning that John Storm received Glory's letter, and on the evening of the same day he set out in search of Mrs. Jupe's.
The place was not easy to find, and when he discovered it at length he felt a pang at the thought that Glory herself had lived in this dingy burrowing. As he was going up to the door of the little tobacco shop a raucous voice within was saying, ”That's what's doo on the byeby, and till you can py up you needn't be a-kemmin' 'ere no more.” At the next moment a young woman crossed him on the threshold. She was a little slender thing, looking like a flower that has been broken by the wet. He recognised her as the girl who had nursed the baby in Cook Lane on the day of his first visit to Soho. She was crying, and to hide her swollen eyes she dropped her head at pa.s.sing, and he saw her faded ribbons and soiled straw hat.
A woman of middle age behind the counter was curtsying to his clerical attire, and a little girl at the door of an inner room was looking at him out of the corner of her eyes, with head aslant.
”Father Storm, I think, sir. Come in and set you down, sir.--Mind the shop, b.o.o.boo.--My 'usband 'as told me about ye, sir. 'You'll know 'im at onct, Lidjer,' 'e sez, siz 'e.--No, 'e ain't 'ome from the club yet, but 'e might be a-kemmin' in any time now, sir.”
John Storm had seated himself in the little dark parlour, and was looking round and thinking of Glory. ”No matter; my business is with you, Mrs. Jupe,” he answered, and at that the twinkling eyes and fat cheeks, which had been doing their best to smile, took on a look of fear.
”Wot's the metter?” she asked, and she closed the door to the shop.
”Nothing, I trust, my good woman,” and then he explained his errand.
Mrs. Jupe listened attentively and seemed to be asking herself who had sent him.
”The poor young mother is dead now, as you may know, and----”
”But the father ain't,” said the woman sharply, ”and, begging your parding, sir, if 'e wants ter know where the byeby is 'e can come 'isself and not send sembody else!”
”If the child is well, my good woman, and well cared for----”
”It _is_ well keered for, and it's gorn to a pusson I can trust.”
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