Innocent Victims: a story of London life and labour

Front matter

A STORY OF LONDON LIFE AND LABOUR BY HUGH DOWNE " O suffering*, sad humanity ! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, and yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried ! " Longfellow. "O yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill." Tennyson. 01l£l0M REMINGTON & CO. PUBLISHERS HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN 1890. [All Sights reserved.] DEDICATION. Across the years strong mem'ries come, That waft my thoughts to other lands, Across the seas, with outstretched hands, I look for messages from home. Loved voices float upon my ears, Loved faces greet my mental view ; I see the friends so kind and true, In visions of the faded years. If o'er the distance I could place A bridge of vision, swift as mind, How many changes I should find In many a well-remembered face.

One constant heart I fain would seek, One face to smile a welcome bright, To show the blush of strange delight, That told the thoughts she could not speak. Warm pressure from a loving hand, Fond welcome from the lips he pressed, Destroy the pangs that filled the breast Of wanderer to a distant strand. Where'er his straying footsteps roam, This thought will rise all else above ; Remembrance in the heart of love Is the poor wanderer's brightest home. FI D. TABLE OF CHAPTERS. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. Troubles at Christmastide ... ... i II. The Skeleton in the Cupboard ... ... 17 III. Christmas Home Pleasures ... ... 34 IV. The President and the Reformers' Club... 50 V. The Club v. Wife and Children ... ... 65 VI. The Lowest Depths of Degradation ... 80 VII. A Street Vocalist 96 VIII. George Elsworth Signs the Pledge ... 109 IX.

Rescued from the River ... ... ... 124 X. Work at the Docks 138 XI. The Strike at the Docks ... ... ... 156 XII. Woman Tempting her Sister ... •••173 XIII. A Friend " in need " 189 XIV. Death — the Turning Point ... ... 204 XV. A Vow of Reform ... 228 XVI. Led into Temptation ... ... ... 243 XVII. The Lawyer's Victory 258 XVIII. Friends till Death 278 XIX. Conclusion

Chapter I. Troubles At Christmastide

" For of fortunes sharpe adversite The worst kind of infortune is this, A man that hath been in prosperite, And it remember, when it passed is." Chaucer. " Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude.'' Shakespeare. 'Twas Christmas Eve ! Fine old Father Christmas, robed in his winter mantle, was doing his duty right manfully. The streets were hard and firm from the grasp of his frozen fingers, while along their margins, not disturbed by the traffic of busy feet, lay great stretches of white glistening snow, here and B there broken by a narrow passage giving access to some frequented thoroughfare. In the parks and gardens, with snow pure and crisp, he had clothed the grass, and the shrubbed borders bowed their heads in mute submission to the covering he threw over them.

Anon the slightest breeze caused some stronger shrub to shake from its droop ing: branches the ice and snow which clung*; there, and, as it fell on the frozen ground beneath, a dull splutter served but to hide the sigh-like motion with which the plant, freed from its Christmas burden, resumed its wonted form. The larger trees stood erect and stately, but only as if patiently waiting for the coming of spring to enable them to give evidence of that life now lying dormant within. The moon, now almost at the full, shining down from the clear sky seemed but to add to the cold biting touch of the air, although it lent a bright sparkling glisten to the snow and ice. 'Twas not a cheerful picture, not that uninterrupted glory of whiteness and purity which such a season gives to a country landscape.

The dwellers in the big city realized only the cheerlessness and eager keenness of the winter, and saw none of the beauties of her snowy mantle. Partially deserted streets were rendered only less cheerless by the brilliantly-lighted rows of comfortable homes and the noise which even the few pedestrians made on the hard frozen pavements. The firm, steady tread of the passing policeman seemed to resound far above the din of the less regular traffic, and to detract from the monotony of the footsteps. The clear, cold air seemed to gather the smoke from many chimneys in the neighbourhood of Stamford Hill, and to carry it in curling masses far above the roofs of the comfortable villas from which it ascended. In front of one of these, situated near Kingsland Road, stood a slender, fragile figure, poorly clad and shivering, which offered a striking contrast to the appearance of warmth and luxury within the houses.

For over an hour, regardless of the bitter air, and apparently oblivious to the feeling of pinching misery of which she formed so strong a picture, Margaret Elsworth had stood silently watching the windows of Chessley House. The blinds were closely drawn, but even these failed to prevent the flood of light from penetrating to the outer air and giving evidence of the abundant warmth and comfort within these spacious walls, while the sound of merry voices falling on the ear of the silent watcher told her that all was joyous life in these well lighted and heated apartments. Was it an envious feeling that stole over the heart of this lonely woman as these sounds broke on her ear? or was it not mingled with fear and doubt as to the usefulness of the mission which had brought her there, a trembling, silent witness of the comfort and happiness which filled Chessley House ?

Twice during the wretched term of her weary waiting had Margaret essayed to approach and ring the bell that was fixed so invitingly near the large doorway. Twice had her courage failed her, and she had slunk back again to her place of watching. Presently the murmur of life within was hushed, and the chords of a rich, full-toned piano vibrated with the notes of a well-known song. A voice young, sweet, and clear followed, and Margaret heard every word of the well-remembered lines, every note of the much-loved tune. As the last echo of the song died away and the final chords of the accompaniment were struck, a throb of bold ness took possession of the poor trembling watcher, and she had rushed forward and pulled the bell before any time was allowed her for a reaction of feeling. Ah ! how she trembled as the sound she had raised vibrated through the house ; how she trembled as the noise of approaching footsteps told her that her too peremptory summons was being in stantly obeyed.

Even as she heard it she would fain have turned and fled from the house, but the memory of the song she had just lis tened to, linked with strong recollection of the home she had left several weary hours before, nerved her to the task on which she was now embarked. Suddenly the door opened, and the strong light from the brilliant hall lamp almost dazzled the pale, shivering ringer. It was some moments before she had gained ■courage or composure sufficient to murmur in low, trembling tones to the robust servant who stood before her — " I wish to speak with Mr. Alston ; I must see him at once." " Must ! Master is particularly engaged." The tone of the reply was unmistakable — it was addressed to a visitor who did not bear in her white face and poor thin garments those characteristics which are too often the symbols that command the respect of the British menial.

The rubicon being passed, however, Margaret was not to be so easily re pulsed. " Tell Mr. Alston that Mrs. Elsworth desires to see him," she said, this time in a voice firm and distinct, so firm, indeed, that the servant immediately motioned her to a chair in the wide, well-furnished hall, and closing the door, left her to her meditations with the remark — " Very well, ma'am, but I'm sure master won't be disturbed." This estimate of his visitor's claim on Mr. Alston was, however, doomed not to be veri fied, and ere Margaret had been left long to contemplate in silence the rich surroundings into which she had been introduced, her train of thought was disturbed bv the announce ment — " Master will see you in his study, ma'am. This way, if you please, ma'am." Silently and with steps enfeebled by the long walk and longer fast that had preceded the period of waiting, which alone would have made a stronger frame than hers tremble with fatigue, Margaret followed through a well lighted corridor and was ushered into Mr. Alston's study.

" Master will be in immediately," so saying her conductor left her again to her own thoughts and the contemplation of those evidences of wealth and well-being which surrounded her on every side. Who can tell what memories were conjured up in the breast of this frail woman by what she saw ? Who can estimate the feelings which surged through her aching heart at the sight of splendours and comforts to which she had long been a stranger ? Whatever were the first of these memories or feelings, Margaret sat for some minutes without giving any evidence of their existence, but at length her lips parted and the involuntary murmur escaped her — ■ " Oh, God, that it should come to this ! But there is no other way ; there is no other way." Then she relapsed into silence, and for the remainder of her waiting for the coming of the master of the house she gave no indication of the thoughts which possessed her, albeit these were thoughts of bitterness and memories of sadness amounting almost to misery.

From the feeling of almost numbed lethargy into which the reaction of warmth and rest, after her cold and fatigue, threatened to throw her, Margaret was aroused by the approach of Mr. Alston as he hurried into the room with short, quick steps and stood before the chair from which she slowly arose to receive him. For a moment he stood gazing at the pale, pinched face before him — a moment fraught with reproachful memories, which, however, gave no trace of their import on the cold, passionless face of the man. Then he spoke — " You wish to see me — what is it ? " The question was simple and the words few. Still, there was in the tone in which these few words were uttered, and about the aspect of the man who used them, something so harsh and repellent that the weak woman felt for a moment unable to reply.

The pause was not a very agreeable one to the questioner, and he was about to follow up his inquiry by a further remark when Margaret spoke — " Oh, Mr. Alston, forgive me for disturbino you to-night, but I have come to vou in terrible extremity." " Terrible extremity ?" The coldness of his tone grated painfully on her ear, but she continued — " The bailiffs are in the house. Oh, sir, you will do something for my husband, will you not ? " " Do something for him ? How often have I assisted him already ? How long have I kept him in employment, after he had done everything possible to forfeit my confidence and respect ? " " Mr. Alston, give him one more chance. Oh, sir, it is humiliating to have to beg for this favour, after what we have been ; but who could I go to in my distress if not to you ?

" " To me ! It is to me that all your troubles have come ; to me that your husband has always brought the righting of his ill-doing." Margaret felt the sting of these words, but she dared not resent them. The success of her mission meant too much to her and her little ones to take offence at any cruel, ill natured speech from the man whose aid she had now forced herself to seek. " Oh, Mr. Alston, I have walked all the way here to implore you to take my husband back again into your office. Say you will do so, sir, and I shall bless you for the words." " The bailiffs are in your house, you say ? " He paused, and looked pointedly at Mar garet, who merely murmured an affirmative. " What for ? " was his next inquiry. " For rent." " Yes, but how much — what is owing ? " Margaret did not reply in words.

She had left nothing to chance in this, her first, visit to Mr. Alston's house. From her poorly furnished handbag she took a document — half printed, half written — which she handed to her questioner. "Ah! the warrant of distress. I see the amount, with expenses, is £3 18s. Have you no money ? " " Only a few shillings," and again Margaret afforded proof beyond her word by opening her bag and holding it out before the eyes of Mr. Alston. She knew that she was dealing with a hard, unsympathetic man of business, and therefore did not ask him to accept her bare statement for anything. " That is all you have ? Where is your husband to-night ? " " I left him in the house.' "Sober?" The question cut her to the heart. She could not truthfully answer yes, and dared not disclose the true state of affairs when she was supplicating work for her husband.

" He was not very well, sir." TROUBLES AT CHRIST M A STIDE. 11 "Ah, I see; and it is for a man like that you would have me find a place in my office." "Oh! Mr. Alston, give him one more chance. Remember the season, sir, and help him." " Um — ah — well, let me see. You must get rid of the bailiffs to-night at all events. They are not the most agreeable Christmas companions. Let me see — " " Oh, thank you, Mr. Alston ; you shall never regret your kindness.' ' Without regarding her interruption he con tinued, speaking more to himself than to her — " Three pounds eighteen ! Here," he con tinued, taking a bank-note from a drawer in his writing table, " this will do that and leave you enough to get a Christmas dinner for the children ; but remember vou mustn't tell your husband I gave it you, and see that none of it goes in drink."

" Mr. Alston, that is just the favour I would ask of you — that you will not tell George I have been to you. Don't let him know that I asked you to take him on again ; he might refuse to come." " Refuse to come ! The drunken sot ought to be too glad to get the chance." There was something in the speaker's tone which seemed beyond the power of human endurance, and Margaret felt the full extent of the sting. Forgetting herself for a moment, she retorted — " He was not always like this, Mr. Alston. You ought to think and speak more kindly of the man who did so much for you." " So much for me ! — did so much for me ! I fear you have listened to some absurd romancing on his part. I had to help myself from the moment I entered his office ; that I did so successfully is not due in any degree to him."

" Your heart would tell a different tale, Mr. Alston, if you allowed the truth to be spoken." " Then let the truth be spoken. Envious ears have ever given credence to the story that I obtained your husband's practice by methods other than honourable ; but it is not my fault if while I rose, he fell — if for every step I took upward he took another down ward, until the clerk of ten years ago is now the flourishing lawyer, and the lawyer of those days is a drunkard and a sot." " You do well to cast these things in the face of the wife of the miserable man by TROUBLES AT CHRISTMASTIDE. 13 whose fall you have risen. It is manly to sneer at the wretched wreck whose good nature served alike to raise you and lower himself." Margaret was now thoroughly aroused to the injustice of the remarks to which she had been forced to listen.

She would have resented them more emphatically, but as her hand closed firmly over the note she had just received from Mr. Alston she felt that there were some things she must learn to endure, if not entirely in silence, at least with some show of patience. Alas ! how much the touch of that same bank-note serves to disguise or dispel the true feelings of humanity in its many phases of daily life. " So, so," returned the proud lawyer, re pressing his resentment with a strong effort, "you turn upon me as soon as you have gained your end, and instead of thanks would give me reproaches." " If your wretched money is to give you the right to speak in such terms of my husband, to use such words to me, take it back, and take with it the contempt of the unhappy woman you have insulted." With these words Margaret cast upon the table near where she stood the creased and crumpled note, whose folds had a moment before lent a feeling of warmth to the thin, trembling hand which grasped it.

Margaret had been standing throughout the interview with Mr. Alston. To impress his visitor with the strong necessity for brevity, he had not requested her to sit down ; and as she stood now, erect and defiant, she presented a strong contrast to the bowed, prematurely-aged, and cowering man who faced her from across the room. " Come, come, Mrs. Elsworth," he said at length, " you will do well to take that money ; you are tired and excited, and should not notice fancied insults. I shall give your husband another trial in the office. You must take some refreshment before you go home ; I'm sure you need it. I'll send Simp son to you here ; sit down and wait," with which remark he bowed stiffly and quitted the room, glad to get away from what might be an impending storm ; glad to free himself from what might be a recalling of events he would fain bury deep in the oblivion of the past ; glad to remove from his sight a face whose sad, sad lines bore in its every expression a strong, stinging reproach, and a TROUBLES AT CHRIST MAST IDE . 15 reminder of what had been ; glad to be beyond the reach of a voice whose trembling tones told him what he would give worlds never to remember, but which unfailing memory brought vividly before him, no matter what distraction he dipped into to produce forgetfulness.

Left alone with her own thoughts, Mar garet's first impulse was to rush from the house and leave the money where she had thrown it. Better judgment, however, prevailed, and after silently contemplating the fatal note for a moment, she took it up, and with trembling fingers slowly placed it be side the few silver coins in her bag. Her brow was flushed with indignation, but in her bosom that feeling was tempered with strong thankfulness that she had at least the means of ridding her home of the hated presence of the man who had been the primal cause of the visit she had been compelled to pay to Mr. Alston — an ordeal that appeared quite as formidable after its accomplishment as it had seemed when it loomed so large in her imagination under the extra glare of fierce anticipation. Then in obedience to the request of the proud lawyer, delivered with so much formal deference as he left her, Margaret seated her self to await the appearance of the servant he had declared his intention to send to her.

Very shortly, the same servant who had ad mitted her to the house entered the room, and conducted her to a small apartment on a lower floor, where she had set before her a welcome meal. Of this she partook gladly, though with reluctance and humility, so far had her physical needs conquered the feeling of resentment which burned fiercely within her bosom.

Chapter II. The Skeleton In The Cupboard

" The soul of music slumbers in the shell Till waked and kindled by the master's spell, And feeling hearts, touch them but rightly, pour A thousand melodies unheard before." Rogers. No stronger contrast could possibly be con ceived than that upon which Margaret Elsworth entered as she crossed the threshold of her own home. Where she had left in Chessley House warmth and cheerfulness, there now greeted her wearied presence the opposite — the extreme of poverty and priva tion. True, she could look back on days of affluence and comfort, and though the descent from that to this had been swift and decisive, it had at least been gradual, and, as far as it could be, softened by coming little by little, C so that it was not until the strong contrast had been presented to her mind, and the vivid memory awakened, as it had been that night, that she fully realized the depth to which she had fallen — or the height from which that fall had been begun.

Poverty, with its cold, cruel clutch, had laid hands gradually upon the family of George Elsworth, and to the poor, struggling wife and mother, its grasp had come with a deadening influence, which had seemed to numb her keener feelings and make her, in a degree, oblivious to her wretched surroundings. Something of the rude awakening, consequent on the presence of the dreadful man who had executed the distress for rent, was necessary to bring vividly to her mind the realities of her position, and to rouse her to a correct estimate of the straits to which her husband's neglect and faults of omission and commission had reduced her and her children. As she entered the wretched home, now rendered doubly wretched by the memory of what she had just seen, George Elsworth was sitting beside the table ; his legs were stretched out, while his head lay over on his left arm, which rested upon the cloth.

In his right hand, which dangled by his side, he held the pipe he had been smoking before the sleep which now dulled his sense of cold and shame had overtaken him. The noise made by Margaret's entrance awoke the sleeper, but not to complete con sciousness, and he broke out into a muddled song — Not enjoyment and not sorrow Is our destined end or way, But to act that each to-morrow Finds us further than to-day. " Ha ! ha ! my dear, is that you ? So you've got back, have you ? I hope you've enjoyed yourself." Margaret made no reply, but hurried away to remove her bonnet and shawl. While so doing she took a glance at each of the three children, and found they were all asleep, happily oblivious of their surroundings, and haply dreaming of the blessings in store for them during the present festive season.

Providence had been kind to poor Margaret in one respect at least, for during her reverse of fortune no addition had been made to her family. The three children, all girls, varied in age from nine to five years, and were beyond that stage when their care is a serious drag upon the energies of the poor mother who has the whole responsibilities of the household on her single shoulders or in her one pair of hands. As she stood gazing upon the fair face of the eldest girl, now almost on the verge of the years which would disclose to her the full extent of those passions which sway the world and exert their influence for weal or woe upon every individual, whose fate must come under their direction, the fond mother could not repress the thoughts which rose in her breast at the sight. Would her young girl be reserved for a life of misery and pinching poverty, or would maternal love be able to so shield the growing years of the younger Margaret as to avoid the lessons of that cruel world, only too prone to instil evil into young and receptive minds.

Coming as she did direct from the touch of the hard, cruel hand of that world, as repre sented in the person of John Alston, Margaret might well pray that her child should be spared such merciless contact, and pour out her soul in unexpressed longings for a brighter future than seemed offered to her mental vision. In the midst of these thoughts came the recollection of the wretched present, and with a. feeling of thankfulness that she had the power to grapple with the worst that this presented to her, Margaret left the room in which her sleeping treasures lay, and silently entered the apartment occupied by her husband. George Elsworth had again fallen asleep, in the same position as Margaret had found him on returning home. The candle which had illumined the room when she passed through had burned down to the socket of the candlestick, and as its dying struggles now and then lent a fitful gleam to the cheerless apartment she looked around for the figure of the man she wished, yet dreaded, to see.

All was still, and nowhere could any sign of the bailiff be seen. A throb of hope animated her. Had the execution been withdrawn ? Alive with this thought, she hurried to her own room, and quickly returned with a lighted candle, which she placed on the table near her husband's head, at the same time casting a hurried glance around the room as if fearful lest the hated presence of the bailiff should now be disclosed, and her hopes be dashed to earth. No, he was not there ! Impelled by a strange feeling, Margaret hastened to her husband's side, and, placing her hand firmly upon his shoulder, shook him gently. The action awoke the sleeper, whose first words were mumbled — "Yes, lan'lo'd. What d'ye want? I'm going, I'm going. Oh, it's you!" he con tinued, as he became aware of his wife's presence.

" Well, what d'ye want with me?" "George, where is the — is the — " she could not bring herself to articulate the dreadful word. " The what ? " he asked. " The ' bum ' do you mean ? If you do, he's gone out for some supper. I had nothing to offer him, so he had to go out for it." "Is he coming back to-night?" inquired Margaret, tremblingly. " Why, of course he is. He's in posses sion, isn't he, and must do his duty." " Oh, George, have you nothing by which you could get rid of him ? No money or anything ? " " Money ! money ! where do you think I'd get money ?" " Is there no friend you could go to for help — nobody you could ask?" " Friend ! Do I look like a man with friends? Do friends stick to you when you're down in the world ? Is this like a home where friends would seek you out ? Bah !

Friends ! there's no such word as friendship. It's all self interest, my dear — all self-interest." As he finished speaking, George Elsworth struck the table with such force that the candle, which had been left expiring, had its decease hastened by the blow, and with a last faint flicker went out, while the newly-lighted one rattled on the board, and was forced to change its position. " Hush, George, you will wake the children," whispered the anxious mother. " Let them rest oblivious of their wretched position for this night of all others in the year." " Oblivion ! oblivion ! " came the answering murmur from the half-besotted husband. " Is there any oblivion on this side of eternity ? Oh, curse the thing ! Why will you force these thoughts upon me ? why will you bring up such memories ? " " Forgive me, George — I did not mean to."

" You didn't mean to, but is that any the better? — is it any use trying to remove the injury with an apology ? " " Oh no, George. I know I am careless. I shall try to avoid any such reference in the future." Her husband rose impatiently as Margaret placed her arm lovingly around his neck, and as he shook off her embrace, the chair on which he had been sitting was overturned, nearly tripping him as he stumbled backward on rising. This second noise so near the room of the sleeping children had not so for tunate a result as the first, and immediately the voice of the youngest was heard calling " Mamma, mamma," in tones which became more peremptory at every repetition of the word. " There, now," exclaimed the father, " we are going to have some squalling. I'm in no humour to stand that, I can tell you."

" Don't say that, George. Hilda is a good child and will soon be quiet," and the poor wife and mother became painfully aware of the fact that she had before her the task of pacifying both father and child, and knew not to which she should turn first, or which, being calmed, would serve best to allay the tempest of the other. In this dilemma, the mother's instincts prevailed. " Yes, yes, darling, I'm coming," she called, as she hurried off to obey the summons of little Hilda. The silence which at once followed proclaimed eloquently the influence of a mother's loving presence, and George Elsworth, having no one on whom to vent the remainder of his ill-humour, at once relapsed into disturbed thought. " Confound the thing!" he muttered at length. " I can't stand this ! " and snatching up his hat, he hurried from the room, banging the door behind him ; in his haste nearly overturning the bailiff, whom he met at the front door just about to resume possession of the premises, over which the law of landlord and tenant had given him this control.