Doubleday's Children. A novel

Chapter I. Our Family

We were three : Nicholas ; Doris, who was usually called Dolly ; and Basil — myself. The youngest of a family is, alternately, a pet and a victim. He is viewed as the baby for a very considerable period : no later born dispossessing him of that title, or promoting him by coming after him. To his brothers and sisters who have effected an earlier entrance into the world, he long remains a subordinate creature — beneath them in knowledge and judgment, as in stature and physical strength. Nicholas and Doris were firm and close friends — somewhat to the exclusion of myself from their alliance. Oftentimes they indulged, but oftentimes they oppressed, me : under rating me, and assuming to themselves the vol. I. B right to rebuke and chastise me. I did not so much object to the punishments they adminis tered, although occasionally these seemed to be very capriciously prescribed, and of undue severity ; but I felt it hard to be denied admis sion to their intimacy and confidence, especially on the score of immaturity of intelligence.

A child forms a sanguine and indeed overweening estimate of his own powers of comprehension, as of the other forces at his command. He thinks he can reach to greater heights, lift heavier weights, strike harder blows than nature really permits him. It was mortifying to be addressed by my brother in such stern terms as, " Be off, child ; you can't be expected to understand what we're talking about ;" and to hear my sister Doris say to me, " Bun away, little one. We don't want you here, you know; you're only in the way ; and I've something particular to say to Nick." But I had to endure such observations. I was younger than Dolly by two years, and younger than Nick by four. But if sometimes I felt rather as a third rate actor may be supposed to feel, in the presence of two performers of the first class, it must not be assumed that there was any dis tinct division, or enduring unhappiness, amongst us.

We were, I conceive, much as other children in that respect. A strong affection, born of nature, or of that second nature, habit, bound us together, and was not really disturbed or weakened by any of those differences of opinion or outbursts of temper, that convulse, at intervals, the best disciplined of nurseries. Perhaps, in our case, there was reason why we should be more closely united than children commonly are. AVe were left very much to ourselves. The advantages of rule, and govern ance, and protection were extended to us, only after a partial and intermittent fashion. A soft shadow of a pallid lady, with long bright-coloured ringlets, and thin, soft, white hands — that is my whole recollection of my mother, who died when I was very young. Nor did her other children retain of her much more precise memory.

We thought of her tenderly, always, if vaguely, as an angel in heaven — a saintly being, far removed from us for awhile, but some day to be brought near to us again. In truth she had not survived to influence much the forming of our characters, or to leave other than a very faint impression upon the method of our lives. We cherished a notion that she was very beautiful ; my father, indeed, often stating as much, while frankly adding his opinion that his children were sadly inferior to her in point of comelib ness, as, indeed, in many other matters. But this was said — so Dolly always alleged, saucily tilting up her sharp chin — not simply because of its truth, but that our inclinings towards vanity might be promptly checked. My father, as I first remember him, was a pleasant-looking gentleman, with arched eyebrows, very blue eyes, a fresh-coloured, smooth shaven face, and long, untidy, iron-gray locks that swept the collar of his coat.

He wore spectacles, but rather, as it seemed, to look over them than through them ; it was thus, perhaps, he had acquired so frequent an expression of bland meditation and kindly sagacity. He had a light, melodious voice, and a habit of humming little scraps and snatches of songs ; but he was really without musical science ; and these utterances were therefore to be ascribed rather to his natural cheeriness of disposition, and the special power he possessed of abstract ing his mind from disagreeable topics. And his fragmentary songs were assuredly represen tative of the man. He never seemed quite so much in earnest as were other people. Some how all he did was done with a sketchy, amateurish, incomplete air. He played with work ; the result naturally proving to be of an unremunerative character.

He had not pros pered by any means. He was wont to say that he had been " in difficulties " all his life ; that great trouble had even attended his very entrance into the world. His mother had died in giving him birth. We lived in London for the most part ; but my father's varying fortunes — or, perhaps, I should rather say persistent misfortune — led to much shifting of our quarters. We could seldom boast the same address for any length of time. We camped rather than dwelt. We always appeared to be in marching order ; prepared to move on and away at the very shortest notice. But my father always managed to save, from our many household wrecks, certain fondly-prized implements of his craft. He bore about with him, as precious insignia of office, the title-deeds of future fame and good fortune — a brass-plate, setting forth his name at full length, his T-square, drawing-boards and instruments, and sundry framed designs for unfeasible edifices.

Possessed of these he. seemed to hold himself fully armed against care— secured from disappointment. " I have my profession," he would say, as though it were always something to fall back upon — a sure source of emolument when all else had failed. It was really nothing of the kind. Neverthe less, my father's view of his profession encou raged general faith in it : he spoke of it always in such a convincing tone, with such pleasant and contented smiles, and graceful demonstra tive wavings of his hands. That he was a successful and gifted architect must have seemed to most people an irresistible conclusion. But he was chiefly occupied in designing castles in the air. No one commissioned, or in any way stimulated, the projection of such works ; they were simply the result of his own industry and fertility.

Their vague, fanciful ness was thus perhaps to be explained ; for his proposed structures were very impracticable — they never even looked habitable. His schemes seemed to need a great deal of room to turn round in, as it were ; his architectural imagin ings were of a peculiarly vast and airy sort. He was always demanding "an opportunity." Given that, he would have moved the world — or reconstructed it — for he desired a very large opportunity. The space cleared by some such catastrophe as the Great Fire, and a commis sion to build London anew, would have suited him very tolerably. But failing employment upon a scale so extensive, he did not accom plish very much. Occasionally, in quest of the means of existence, he was constrained to diverge from architecture. At one time, I know, he avowed himself a general agent, and attempted certain dealings in the wine and coal trades.

For some weeks he figured — mainly in the prospectus — as the secretary of a joint stock company. But he always held these adventures of his to be but as the episodes, or the interludes, of his legitimate professional career. He was not, he maintained, really separable from his precious T-square, his draw ing-boards and instruments, and his plans for impossible fabrics. " I am nothing if not an architect," he was fond of proclaiming. There was no gainsaying the statement. The neediness of a household does not present itself in an alarming hght to children. Their hearts are bbthe ; they possess the bravery of ignorance, and a lively faith in the perma nence of happiness. The cares of existence do not trouble them. They had bread yesterday; why not to-day and to-morrow ? Their parents are to them a providence that cannot fail.

Money, the worth of it, the pleasures of having it, the pains of lacking it — these are matters by no means to be comprehended by them. And then life is to them so mirthful a thing. How we enjoyed — what an exquisite jest we thought it — the cutting off the water supply, as a consequence of my father's neglecting to pay the rates ! And when this happened in the winter season our pleasure was the greater. At any rate, there was an end for the while of the discomfort of washing in cold water. When, for sufficient reasons, a refractory butcher declined to supply my father with any more joints of meat, we deemed the tradesman an exceedingly odious person ; but we blamed him chiefly for troubling poor papa with impertinent and reiterated applications for an interview. We were happy enough to dispense temporarily with animal food, and have bread and treacle for dinner instead — enjoying the novelty, to say nothing of the sweetness and stickiness of that form of food.

The inconveniences of my father's poverty rested very lightly upon us. There was a makeshift, Robinson-Crusoe character about our mode of life that was very enjoyable. Life was a sort of picnic. There was delight in departing from conventional ways — in dispensing with this, and making that serve instead. Discomfort was a joke, and even privation had something droll about it. By neighbours and bystanders we were sometimes described as " three young savages." But this was certainly an exaggeration. Some thing of wildness may have characterised us ; and, no doubt, in our early years we suffered, in a measure, from neglect. We were not always so clean as were other children ; nor so well dressed ; nor, perhaps, so polite of manner. Still they probably enjoyed making dirt-pies, or soiling their best clothes, or getting caught in the rain, or rolling in the snow, not less than we did ; while a liberty of action was permitted us which they must certainly have envied.

And though our system of education was rather uncertain, we could not be charged with any alarming measure of ignorance. We were understood, I believe, to be quick of appre hension, although the fact was rather noted by others than absolutely known to ourselves. We lived for some time, I remember, in The Polygon, Somers Town, a precinct scarcely esteemed even in those days, but still making some pretensions to gentility, if of a pinched and drooping sort. At least we dwellers in The Polygon permitted ourselves almost aristo cratic airs, when contemplating our lowlier countrymen living close at hand, inhabitants of The Brill. Our house was in a dilapidated state, and very indifferently furnished. Some friend, I think, had given my father the re mainder of a lease, with possession of the premises, possibly upon condition that he would execute certain very necessary repairs, to the satisfaction of the superior landlord.

I may venture, to say that if the fact really was as I have suggested, my father did not discharge the duties he had undertaken. Our surname, I should have stated, was Doubleday. Upon our battered and blistered street-door my father had screwed a rather bruised and dinted brass plate, with the inscrip tion : Duncan Doubleday, Architect and Surveyor.

Chapter II. Queer Street

We were very ill-provided with a playground. At the back of the house was a confined yard, containing paving-stones, a dustbin, a water-butt, and a stunted lilac-tree. The means of recreation thus afforded were of a limited character, and readily exhausted. It will be considered, I fear, in these times, a very degrading confession, but — we took to playing in the streets. My father did not object. He was often wholly ignorant, I think, of ourproceedings, both within the house and without. He was absorbed in the projection of his Aladdin's palaces, while we played marbles or hopscotch on the pavement. If he particularly desired peace within doors, he would sometimes open wide the portals of his house, and bid us begone for the space of an hour or two. Nothing loath, we departed, and busied ourselves as seemed good to us.

There is, as everyone knows, a fashion in children's games, as in other matters. Toys come into vogue and go out again, obedient to the mysterious influences that rule likewise the shapes and colours of attire ; the method of wearing the hair ; the forms of familiar speech; and, generally, the economy of civilised life. We oftentimes left Somers Town some distance behind us ; trund ling our hoops in more removed quarters ; flying kites or playing cricket, trap-bat or rounders, in the waste lands to the eastward and north of our abode — for, as yet, Copen hagen Fields wore something of a rural aspect, and the approaches to the heights of Hampstead and Highgate were still green with grass. Doris had acquired skill in all kinds of boyish games, and always accompanied us on all these ramblings.

Indeed, I should rather say that I was permitted to be the companion of Nick and Doris. At first there were various objections to be overcome. I was too young, too little, I was not strong enough ; I could not walk so far or so fast as they could. It was a proud day for me, when I first journeyed with them some two miles from home. They patronised me a good deal, teased me with questions as to whether I was not overcome with fatigue, and made an annoying point of shortening their walk, expressly on my account. But I felt when the day was done, that I had made a very decided advance to the condition of maturity, force, and activity enjoyed by my elders. It must not be supposed that we were mere " street children," or that we so deemed or comported ourselves. We were perhaps too familiar with the pavement, yet our pretensions to gentility were not absolutely forfeited.

We were of The Polygon, and our clothes, however well worn, yet, in regard to device and sub stance, distinguished us from the children of The Brill — even constituting us, in their eyes, something of an aristocracy. We never sought playfellows among their ranks ; we did not, indeed, associate with them at all ; they were always, to our thinking, inferiors — a lower and grosser class, negligent of dress, addicted to tattered suits of corduroy, and refraining, too systematically, from the use of brushes and combs, soap and water. On their side they accounted us their natural enemies ; they ob jected to our exclusiveness and lofty airs ; they j eered at and even cuffed us. We were roused to retaliation, and conflicts often ensued, in which I could take but small part. Nick, however, bore himself resolutely and valiantly, and was well seconded by Doris, whose courage, in the presence of the enemy, was never ques- DOUBLEDAY'S CHILDBEN. 14 tionable for a moment.

I rendered such help as I was able, but I was scarcely entrusted with more important duty than was comprised in holding Nick's cap and jacket, while he engaged in pugilistic encounter with a leader of the adverse party, or in supplying Dolly with stones to fling at the foe. Often we were overpowered by superior forces, and constrained to seek safety in flight, always endeavouring to rally and renew the combat when circumstances would permit. It was not, I think, after one of these en gagements, although it might have been, but rather, as I believe, by reason of too earnest attendance upon a street exhibition, that I happened one day, for the first time in my life, to be lost. On a sudden I found myself in a strange street, a considerable distance — so much I knew for certain — from my home ; and of the way back I was wholly ignorant.

Should I turn to the right, or to the. left ? Should I go ou straight, or should I endeavour to retrace my steps ? It was in vain I asked myself such questions. But a moment ago, and Nick and Dolly were beside me. Now they were nowhere to be seen. " Nick ! Dolly !" I cried to them. For a while I hoped — how I hoped ! — that they were but jesting, playing with my fears and my tears, and that promptly they would emero-e laughing, from some hiding-place, an arched passage or a deep doorway. But no ! If they heard me I knew that they would now appear, the time had fully come for them to disclose themselves dramatically, and I felt that there was an appealing agony in the tone of my voice that they could not have resisted. My heart was throbbing painfully; my mouth was twitch ing ; my eyelashes were wet ; the scene around me seemed to be dim and swimming, veiled in a mist of tears.

I was but a mite — a little curly-headed thing, with bare arms and legs. I was not by nature especially timid, but still my situation seemed to me really appalling. A lost child is lost indeed. Did you ever try to conceive the poor little creature's feelings under such cir cumstances ? Home is gone from it ; and home is heaven to a child. It is bereft of everything dear to it — the means and objects of life — and it is cast upon a strange world, cold and pitiless. It has known, perhaps, only kindly faces and tender voices ; now not one of these is near to it. It is among people who mean charitably enough, very likely, but they speak an unintelligible language, they assail with numberless questions, and altogether fail to comprehend the terrified and bewildered answers they elicit. And then how deeply the infantile imagination is stirred ; what pictures it draws of a future of desolation and despair, without a nursery, or bread and butter, or a kiss before going to bed, or, indeed, a bed to go to !

I remember now, it was certainly a troop of itinerant tumblers that I had followed, their performances being loudly enlivened by the music of drum and Pan-pipes. A troop of tumblers, in fleshings and spangled drawers, with red worsted fillets binding their well anointed locks ; jugglers and balancers, flinging golden balls high in the air, as high (or so it seemed to me) as the house-tops, and catching them again in cups affixed to their foreheads, and bearing a ladder, upon which a donkey, the spectators being liberal, was to mount, and be poised aloft upon the chin of the chief or most muscular artist ; was it surprising that I should be enthralled by so curious an exhibi tion ? that I should dog from street to street these gifted people, endowed with truly magical powers ? that I should strive to witness again and again their marvellous feats, until I lost sight of Nick and Doris, who certainly had been with me at the outset of my adventure, and next perceived myself to be — a lost child ?

There was a crowd about me. Hands not specially clean in every case, and usually much bitten as to the nails, were pressed upon my shoulders — with no intentional harshness, how ever — and I was twisted and turned this way and that. I was crying, quietly at first, then my sobs became more longdrawn and violent, until they seemed quite to convulse me. Then interrogation increased my alarms. My grief assumed its most clamorous and open-mouthed form. Strange visions oppressed me — drawn from stories told or picture-books studied by the fireside at home — of little boys stolen by gipsies ; of little boys wrecked on cannibal islands, and suffering accordingly ; of little boys consumed by bears, or torn limb from limb by other wild beasts. Someone was telling me to " Be a man. Someone was demanding " What was the matter 1" Someone was telling me not to cry.

Someone was asking me my name. Now I knew that my name was Basil Doubleday, but Basil had been much corrupted by nursery pronunciation and by the process of inarticulate utterance, in which extreme affection is prone to indulge. I informed my questioners that my name was "Buppy Double day," my voice very tremulous the while, shaken by tearful sobs. VOL. i. c " Buppy Doubleday " was not well received by the crowd. " What ? " sounded sharply on all sides, like so many pistol-shots. I repeated " Buppy Doubleday." An opinion prevailed that " It warn't English." A wondering went round as to " what lingo I might be talking ? " The general view was that I was a very lost little boy in deed. Just then came a stir in the throng — an opening in the circle round me. A policeman stood beside me. I cried afresh.

The police force had been often represented to me as an engine specially designed for the punishment of erring and straying little boys. Moreover, we of The Polygon had sometimes offended the authorities by unruly, unlawful conduct in the public streets. Nick and Doris had frequently expressed their supreme contempt for the con stabulary; and it came upon me now as a very poignant recollection that I had myself been in the habit of standing on a chair in our front-parlour window, and, so securely placed, of "making faces" at the policeman as he passed upon his beat. " Now, my little man, what is it ?" I was desperately frightened. Still, I noted that, for a constable, he owned rather a pleasant face, that a good-natured and good-sized smile formed a band of union between his bushy whiskers, and that there was a cheery, musical tone in his voice.

I should mention that I am writing of a past period, when the police-constable was, perhaps, rather more human than he is at present. He had been but lately instituted, and still bore about him traces of the ranks from which he had been promoted. He com ported himself meekly, and exercised authority almost apologetically. He did not set up for being of a superior caste ; he seemed glad, in deed, to claim kindred with men of ordinary mould. He assumed no military airs in those days ; he was unversed in the goose-step ; in his wildest moments he had never even dreamed of a helmet. His aspect was at once Cockney and idyllic. He wore white trousers in the summer-time, a swallow-tailed coat, and a tall black beaver hat, topped with oilskin to protect it from the weather. He was of use and value ; but he boasted then homely characteristics which he has since disdained.

" Where do you live, my little man ?" was his second inquiry ; his first having altogether failed of effect. c I was bewildered, scared, giddy. I felt uncertain. I had for the moment forgotten where I did live. " Queer Street ! " I said ; knowing, as I said it, that it was not right ; and yet possessed with a sense that the name was very familiar to me. " What ? Queer Street ? Do you mean Vere Street ? Beer Street ? " And various other streets were mentioned with names of corresponding sound. In truth, I had often heard my father speak of his being " in Queer Street." It was his way of describing his pecuniary difficulties, and his embarrassed condition generally. By some strange freak of the mind the words had forced themselves from my lips, to the prejudice of the proper answer, which, at the moment, I could by no means persuade myself to utter.

" Why, it's little Doubleday, as I'm alive ! What on earth has brought the child so far from home ?" A small-sized, elderly gentleman was the speaker ; with something of the figure, some thing even of the voice, and a good deal of the face, of the Punch of the puppet-shows. His nose was especially Punch-like — long, drooping, aquiline — with a look of a lobster-claw about it ; and his chin was of an accordant pattern. He was dressed in black, however — in lieu of scarlet and yellow — and from his fob-pocket depended a bright green watch-ribbon, with a heavy bunch of seals and keys. My eyes were fascinated by the ribbon and seals. Punch laid hands upon me, and took possession of me. What was about to become of me ? Punch and the Constable ! I found myself incon tinently transferred from one to the other.

What next ? Was I to be confronted by a yet more awful figure, taking a prominent share in the street drama of Punch and Judy ? I was, if that were possible, even more terrified than before.

Chapter III. Venus And Cupid

Mr. Punch had an easy off-hand manner, and was not, I observed, in the slightest degree afraid of the policeman. Altogether I felt much reassured by the presence of Mr. Punch — I had always admired his exhibition, hailing it with hearty laughter if unable to bestow upon it any pecuniary recognition. I stole my hand into his and held him tightly. He entered into a colloquy — partly serious, partly jocose — with the constable, tendering his card, and, I think, half-a-crown. The crowd dwindled and dispersed. I was left alone with Mr. Punch. He called a passing coach, lifted me in, and we were driven away. " You're not going home ; not yet, little one," Mr. Punch said to me in the coach. " Are you frightened ? " "No," I said. "I was frightened; but I'm not now," for I felt very safe with him. " Let me see.

Why you must be the youngest. And your name is ? " " Buppy Doubleday," I repeated. He sur veyed me in some amazement. " I don't think that can be quite right, you know. It's not very material, perhaps, but it's handy to have a name that can be laid hold of. I wouldn't call myself much out of my name, I think, if I were you. Let me see, the eldest Was ? " Nick," I interposed. Right. The second was— — ? " " Dolly." " And the third ? " " Buppy Doubleday.' " Just so." But he shook his head, and looked rather perplexed. " You've forgotten me ! You don't know my name ? " It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I knew him perfectly, that I should have recognised him anywhere, and that he was Mr. Punch, a personage of world-wide celebrity. Still I felt that there might be some incon venience about so explicit a statement.

And though he was Mr. Punch, it was with a difference. The Punch I knew so well was a Punch of the wood ; now this was a Punch of the flesh. I looked at him again. Did I know this human, life-sized Punch ? My eyes again con templated curiously his bright watch-ribbon and seals. " Ah ! you remember that ? And the watch that was held to your ear, that you might listen to tick-tick ? " As he spoke he produced from his fob— with some difficulty, for he was tightly girt, and of corpulent form — a large gold watch, so large, indeed, for a watch, that it might fairly have been described as a small clock. " You remember ? '* Assuredly I had some vague recollection of that watch. " It wasn't so long ago," he went on. " But it was late at night. You were brought down from your bed at my particular desire.

You were terribly sleepy. The Dustman was in your eyes : that's what you call it. You listened to the tick-tick, however. You see I did not forget you. I've an eye for faces, that's how it is. I should have known you again anywhere. And I did pick you out of that crowd in a moment ; not in the least expecting to find you there. It was the merest chance. I'd been out Battle Bridge way, to see after a Miss Biddy Molloy, who, they tell me, is a very fine model. She sits for the figure. But I didn't find her at home. Then I came upon you, my small friend. You're the only one that's got a look of your mother. Doris hasn't, at least I can't see that she has — no more has Nick — though Doris is an uncommon good looking girl, to be sure, and Nick's a smart, straight-backed, strong-limbed lad. But you're really like poor Phillis ; an ugly likeness, mind you, for your mother was a beauty, Ah ! my boy, you little know what a narrow escape you've had."

I thought he referred to my being lost. But he continued : " You were very nearly having me for your father. And it wasn't my fault, let me tell you, that you didn't." This was to me a very mysterious piece of information. I did not fully comprehend it. " Though, of course, if I had been your father, you would not have been yourself, exactly. At least, probability points to that conclusion. But I'm content with you as you are. I don't know that in any case I could have wished you to be different. You might be better-looking, certainly, but then you certainly are like Phillis, and altogether a decent sort of little chap. Though why they called you Basil — for that's your name, I'm clear about it now— heaven only knows ! Why Basil ? But then, why Doris ? Why Nicholas ? My name's Richard — Richard Leveridge.