HOPES REVIVE

Mr Thomas Balls, butler to Sir Richard Brandon, standing with his legs wide apart and his hands under his coat tails in the servants’ hall, delivered himself of the opinion that “things was comin’ to a wonderful pass when Sir Richard Brandon would condescend to go visitin’ of a low family in Whitechapel.”

“But the family is no more low than you are, Mr Balls,” objected Jessie Summers, who, being not very high herself, felt that the remark was slightly personal.

“Of course not, my dear,” replied Balls, with a paternal smile.  “I did not for a moment mean that Mr Samuel Twitter was low in an offensive sense, but in a social sense.  Sir Richard, you know, belongs to the hupper ten, an’ he ’as not been used to associate with people so much further down in the scale.  Whether he’s right or whether he’s wrong ain’t for me to say.  I merely remark that, things being as they are, the master ’as come to a wonderful pass.”

“It’s all along of Miss Diana,” said Mrs Screwbury.  “That dear child ’as taken the firm belief into her pretty ’ead that all people are equal in the sight of their Maker, and that we should look on each other as brothers and sisters, and you know she can twist Sir Richard round her little finger, and she’s taken a great fancy to that Twitter family ever since she’s been introduced to them at that ’Ome of Industry by Mr Welland, who used to be a great friend of their poor boy that ran away.  And Mrs Twitter goes about the ’Ome, and among the poor so much, and can tell her so many stories about poor people, that she’s grown quite fond of her.”

“But we ain’t all equal, Mrs Screwbury,” said the cook, recurring, with some asperity, to a former remark, “an’ nothink you or anybody else can ever say will bring me to believe it.”

“Quite right, cook,” said Balls.  “For instance, no one would ever admit that I was as good a cook as you are, or that you was equal to Mrs Screwbury as a nurse, or that any of us could compare with Jessie Summers as a ’ouse-maid, or that I was equal to Sir Richard in the matters of edication, or station, or wealth.  No, it is in the more serious matters that concern our souls that we are equal, and I fear that when Death comes, he’s not very particular as to who it is he’s cuttin’ down when he’s got the order.”

A ring at the bell cut short this learned discourse.  “That’s for the cab,” remarked Mr Balls as he went out.

Now, while these things were taking place at the “West-End,” in the “East-End” the Twitters were assembled round the social board enjoying themselves ­that is to say, enjoying themselves as much as in the circumstances was possible.  For the cloud that Sammy’s disappearance had thrown over them was not to be easily or soon removed.

Since the terrible day on which he was lost, a settled expression of melancholy had descended on the once cheery couple, which extended in varying degree down to their youngest.  Allusion was never made to the erring one; yet it must not be supposed he was forgotten.  On the contrary, Sammy was never out of his parents’ thoughts.  They prayed for him night and morning aloud, and at all times silently.  They also took every possible step to discover their boy’s retreat, by means of the ordinary police, as well as detectives whom they employed for the purpose of hunting Sammy up:  but all in vain.

It must not be supposed, however, that this private sorrow induced Mrs Twitter selfishly to forget the poor, or intermit her labours among them.  She did not for an hour relax her efforts in their behalf at George Yard and at Commercial Street.

At the Twitter social board ­which, by the way, was spread in another house not far from that which had been burned ­sat not only Mr and Mrs Twitter and all the little Twitters, but also Mrs Loper, who had dropped in just to make inquiries, and Mrs Larrabel, who was anxious to hear what news they had to tell, and Mr Crackaby, who was very sympathetic, and Mr Stickler, who was oracular.  Thus the small table was full.

“Mariar, my dear,” said Mr Twitter, referring to some remarkable truism which his wife had just uttered, “we must just take things as we find ‘em.  The world is not goin’ to change its course on purpose to please us.  Things might be worse, you know, and when the spoke in your wheel is at its lowest there must of necessity be a rise unless it stands still altogether.”

“You’re right, Mr Twitter.  I always said so,” remarked Mrs Loper, adopting all these sentiments with a sigh of resignation.  “If we did not submit to fortune when it is adverse, why then we’d have to ­have to ­”

“Succumb to it,” suggested Mrs Larrabel, with one of her sweetest smiles.

“No, Mrs Larrabel, I never succumb ­from principle I never do so.  The last thing that any woman of good feeling ought to do is to succumb.  I would bow to it.”

“Quite right, ma’am, quite right,” said Stickler, who now found time to speak, having finished his first cup of tea and second muffin; “to bow is, to say the least of it, polite and simple, and is always safe, for it commits one to nothing; but then, suppose that Fortune is impolite and refuses to return the bow, what, I ask you, would be the result?”

As Mrs Loper could not form the slightest conception what the result would be, she replied with a weak smile and a request for more sausage.

These remarks, although calculated to enlist the sympathies of Crackaby and excite the mental energies of Twitter, had no effect whatever on those gentlemen, for the latter was deeply depressed, and his friend Crackaby felt for him sincerely.  Thus the black sheep remained victorious in argument ­which was not always the case.

Poor Twitter!  He was indeed at that time utterly crestfallen, for not only had he lost considerably by the fire ­his house having been uninsured ­but business in the city had gone wrong somehow.  A few heavy failures had occurred among speculators, and as these had always a row of minor speculators at their backs, like a row of child’s bricks, which only needs the fall of one to insure the downcome of all behind it, there had been a general tumble of speculative bricks, tailing off with a number of unspeculative ones, such as tailors, grocers, butchers, and shopkeepers generally.  Mr Twitter was one of the unspeculative unfortunates, but he had not come quite down.  He had only been twisted uncomfortably to one side, just as a toy brick is sometimes seen standing up here and there in the midst of surrounding wreck.  Mr Twitter was not absolutely ruined.  He had only “got into difficulties.”

But this was a small matter in his and his good wife’s eyes compared with the terrible fall and disappearance of their beloved Sammy.  He had always been such a good, obedient boy; and, as his mother said, “so sensitive.”  It never occurred to Mrs Twitter that this sensitiveness was very much the cause of his fall and disappearance, for the same weakness, or cowardice, that rendered him unable to resist the playful banter of his drinking comrades, prevented him from returning to his family in disgrace.

“You have not yet advertised, I think?” said Crackaby.

“No, not yet,” answered Twitter; “we cannot bear to publish it.  But we have set several detectives on his track.  In fact we expect one of them this very evening; and I shouldn’t wonder if that was him,” he added, as a loud knock was heard at the door.

“Please, ma’am,” said the domestic, “Mr Welland’s at the door with another gentleman.  ’E says ’e won’t come in ­’e merely wishes to speak to you for a moment.”

“Oh! bid ’em come in, bid ’em come in,” said Mrs Twitter in the exuberance of a hospitality which never turned any one away, and utterly regardless of the fact that her parlour was extremely small.

Another moment, and Stephen Welland entered, apologising for the intrusion, and saying that he merely called with Sir Richard Brandon, on their way to the Beehive meeting, to ask if anything had been heard of Sam.

“Come in, and welcome, do,” said Mrs Twitter to Sir Richard, whose face had become a not unfamiliar one at the Beehive meetings by that time.  “And Miss Diana, too!  I’m so glad you’ve brought her.  Sit down, dear.  Not so near the door.  To be sure there ain’t much room anywhere else, but ­get out of the way, Stickler.”

The black sheep hopped to one side instantly, and Di was accommodated with his chair.  Stickler was one of those toadies who worship rank for its own sake.  If a lamp-post had been knighted Stickler would have bowed down to it.  If an ass had been what he styled “barrow-knighted,” he would have lain down and let it walk over him ­perhaps would even have solicited a passing kick ­certainly would not have resented one.

“Allow me, Sir Richard,” he said, with some reference to the knight’s hat.

“Hush, Stickler!” said Mrs Twitter.

The black sheep hushed, while the bustling lady took the hat and placed it on the sideboard.

“Your stick, Sir Richard,” said Stickler, “permit ­”

“Hold your tongue, Stickler,” said Mrs Twitter.

The black sheep held his tongue ­between his teeth, ­and wished that some day he might have the opportunity of punching Mrs Twitter’s head, without, if possible, her knowing who did it.  Though thus reduced to silence, he cleared his throat in a demonstratively subservient manner and awaited his opportunity.

Sir Richard was about to apologise for the intrusion when another knock was heard at the outer door, and immediately after, the City Missionary, John Seaward, came in.  He evidently did not expect to see company, but, after a cordial salutation to every one, said that he had called on his way to the meeting.

“You are heartily welcome.  Come in,” said Mrs Twitter, looking about for a chair, “come, sit beside me, Mr Seaward, on the stool.  You’ll not object to a humble seat, I know.”

“I am afraid,” said Sir Richard, “that the meeting has much to answer for in the way of flooding you with unexpected guests.”

“Oh! dear, no, sir, I love unexpected guests ­the more unexpected the more I ­Molly, dear,” (to her eldest girl), “take all the children up-stairs.”

Mrs Twitter was beginning to get confused in her excitement, but the last stroke of generalship relieved the threatened block and her anxieties at the same time.

“But what of Sam?” asked young Welland in a low tone; “any news yet?”

“None,” said the poor mother, suddenly losing all her vivacity, and looking so pitifully miserable that the sympathetic Di incontinently jumped off her chair, ran up to her, and threw her arms round her neck.

“Dear, darling child,” said Mrs Twitter, returning the embrace with interest.

“But I have brought you news,” said the missionary, in a quiet voice which produced a general hush.

“News!” echoed Twitter with sudden vehemence.  “Oh!  Mr Seaward,” exclaimed the poor mother, clasping her hands and turning pale.

“Yes,” continued Seaward; “as all here seem to be friends, I may tell you that Sam has been heard of at last.  He has not, indeed, yet been found, but he has been seen in the company of a man well-known as a rough disorderly character, but who it seems has lately put on the blue ribbon, so we may hope that his influence over Sam will be for good instead of evil.”

An expression of intense thankfulness escaped from the poor mother on hearing this, but the father became suddenly much excited, and plied the missionary with innumerable questions, which, however, resulted in nothing, for the good reason that nothing more was known.

At this point the company were startled by another knock, and so persuaded was Mrs Twitter that it must be Sammy himself, that she rushed out of the room, opened the door, and almost flung herself into the arms of Number 666.

“I ­I ­beg your pardon, Mr Scott, I thought that ­”

“No harm done, ma’am,” said Giles.  “May I come in?”

“Certainly, and most welcome.”

When the tall constable bowed his head to pass under the ridiculously small doorway, and stood erect in the still more ridiculously small parlour, it seemed as though the last point of capacity had been touched, and the walls of the room must infallibly burst out.  But they did not!  Probably the house had been built before domiciles warranted to last twenty years had come into fashion.

“You have found him!” exclaimed Mrs Twitter, clasping her hands and looking up in Giles’s calm countenance with tearful eyes.

“Yes, ma’am, I am happy to tell you that we have at last traced him.  I have just left him.”

“And does he know you have come here?  Is he expecting us?” asked the poor woman breathlessly.

“Oh! dear, no, ma’am, I rather think that if he knew I had come here, he would not await my return, for the young gentleman does not seem quite willing to come home.  Indeed he is not quite fit; excuse me.”

“How d’you know he’s not willing?” demanded Mr Twitter, who felt a rising disposition to stand up for Sammy.

“Because I heard him say so, sir.  I went into the place where he was, to look for some people who are wanted, and saw your son sitting with a well-known rough of the name of North, who has become a changed man, however, and has put on the blue ribbon.  I knew North well, and recognised your son at once.  North seemed to have been trying to persuade your boy to return,” ("bless him! bless him!” from Mrs Twitter), “for I heard him say as I passed ­`Oh! no, no, no, I can never return home!’”

“Where is he?  Take me to him at once.  My bonnet and shawl, Molly!”

“Pardon me, ma’am,” said Giles.  “It is not a very fit place for a lady ­though there are some ladies who go to low lodging-houses regularly to preach; but unless you go for that purpose it ­”

“Yes, my dear, it would be quite out of place,” interposed Twitter.  “Come, it is my duty to go to this place.  Can you lead me to it, Mr Scott?”

“Oh! and I should like to go too ­so much, so very much!”

It was little Di who spoke, but her father said that the idea was preposterous.

“Pardon me, Sir Richard,” said Mr Seaward, “this happens to be my night for preaching in the common lodging-house where Mr Scott says poor Sam is staying.  If you choose to accompany me, there is nothing to prevent your little daughter going.  Of course it would be as well that no one whom the boy might recognise should accompany us, but his father might go and stand at the door outside, while the owner of the lodging might be directed to tell Sam that some one wishes to see him.”

“Your plan is pretty good, but I will arrange my plans myself,” said Mr Twitter, who suddenly roused himself to action with a degree of vigour that carried all before it.  “Go and do your own part, Mr Seaward.  Give no directions to the proprietor of the lodging, and leave Sammy to me.  I will have a cab ready for him, and his mother in the cab waiting, with a suit of his own clothes.  Are you ready?”

“Quite ready,” said the missionary, amused as well as interested by the good man’s sudden display of resolution.  Mrs Twitter, also, was reduced to silence by surprise, as well as by submission.  Sir Richard agreed to go and take Di with him, if Giles promised to hold himself in readiness within call.

“You see,” he said, “I have been in similar places before now, but ­not with my little child!”

As for Loper, Larrabel, Crackaby, Stickler, and Company ­feeling that it would be improper to remain after the host and hostess were gone; that it would be equally wrong to offer to go with them, and quite inappropriate to witness the home-coming, ­they took themselves off, but each resolved to flutter unseen in the neighbourhood until he, or she, could make quite sure that the prodigal had returned.

It was to one of the lowest of the common lodging-houses that Sam Twitter the younger had resorted on the night he had been discovered by Number 666.  That day he had earned sixpence by carrying a carpet bag to a railway station.  One penny he laid out in bread, one penny in cheese.  With the remaining fourpence he could purchase the right to sit in the lodging-house kitchen, and to sleep in a bed in a room with thirty or forty homeless ones like himself.

On his way to this abode of the destitute, he was overtaken by a huge man with a little bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole.

“Hallo! young feller,” exclaimed the man, “you’re the chap that was livin’ wi’ Ned Frog the night I called to see ’im ­eh!  Sam Twitter, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” said young Sam, blushing scarlet with alarm at the abruptness of the question.  “Yes, I am.  T-Twitter is my name.  You’re the man that gave him the Bible, are you not, whom he turned out of his house for tryin’ to speak to him about his soul?”

“The same, young feller.  That’s me, an’ Reggie North is my name.  He’d ’ave ’ad some trouble to turn me out once, though, but I’ve given up quarrellin’ and fightin’ now, havin’ enlisted under the banner of the Prince of Peace,” replied the man, who was none other than our Bible-salesman, the man who contributed the memorable speech ­“Bah!” and “Pooh!” at the Gospel-temperance meeting.  “Where are you going?”

Sam, who never could withhold information or retain a secret if asked suddenly, gave the name of the common lodging-house to which he was bound.

“Well, I’m going there too, so come along.”

Sam could not choose but go with the man.  He would rather have been alone, but could not shake him off.

Entering, they sat down at a table together near the kitchen fire, and North, pulling out of his pocket a small loaf, cut it in two and offered Sam half.

Several men were disputing in the box or compartment next to them, and as they made a great noise, attracting the attention of all around, North and his friend Sam were enabled the more easily to hold confidential talk unnoticed, by putting their heads together and chatting low as they ate their frugal meal.

“What made you leave Ned?” asked North.

“How did you know I’d left him?”

“Why, because if you was still with him you wouldn’t be here!”

This was so obvious that Sam smiled; but it was a sad apology for a smile.

“I left him, because he constantly offered me beer, and I’ve got such an awful desire for beer now, somehow, that I can’t resist it, so I came away.  And there’s no chance of any one offering me beer in this place.”

“Not much,” said North, with a grin.  “But, young feller,” (and there was something earnestly kind in the man’s manner here), “if you feel an awful desire for drink, you’d better put on this.”

He touched his bit of blue ribbon.

“No use,” returned Sam, sorrowfully, “I once put it on, and ­and ­I’ve broke the pledge.”

“That’s bad, no doubt; but what then?” returned North; “are we never to tell the truth any more ’cause once we told a lie?  Are we never to give up swearin’ ’cause once we uttered a curse?  The Lord is able to save us, no matter how much we may have sinned.  Why, sin is the very thing He saves us from ­if we’ll only come to Him.”

Sam shook his head, but the manner of the man had attracted him, and eventually he told all his story to him.  Reggie North listened earnestly, but the noise of the disputants in the next box was so great that they rose, intending to go to a quieter part of the large room.  The words they heard at the moment, however, arrested them.  The speaker was, for such a place, a comparatively well-dressed man, and wore a top-coat.  He was discoursing on poverty and its causes.

“It is nothing more nor less,” he said, with emphasis, “than the absence of equality that produces so much poverty.”

“Hear! hear!” cried several voices, mingled with which, however, were the scoffing laughs of several men who knew too well and bitterly that the cause of their poverty was not the absence of equality, but, drink with improvidence.

“What right,” asked the man, somewhat indignantly, “what right has Sir Crossly Cowel, for instance, the great capitalist, to his millions that ’e don’t know what to do with, when we’re starvin’?” (Hear!) “He didn’t earn these millions; they was left to ‘im by his father, an’ he didn’t earn ’em, nor did his grandfather, or his great-grandfather, and so, back an’ back to the time of the robber who came over with William ­the greatest robber of all ­an’ stole the money, or cattle, from our forefathers.” (Hear! hear!) “An’ what right has Lord Lorrumdoddy to the thousands of acres of land he’s got?” (`Ha! you may say that!’ from an outrageously miserable-looking man, who seemed too wretched to think, and only spoke for a species of pastime.) “What right has he, I say, to his lands?  The ministers of religion, too, are to be blamed, for they toady the rich and uphold the unjust system.  My friends, it is these rich capitalists and landowners who oppress the people.  What right have they, I ask again, to their wealth, when the inmates of this house, and thousands of others, are ill-fed and in rags?  If I had my way,” (Hear! hear! and a laugh), “I would distribute the wealth of the country, and have no poor people at all such as I see before me ­such as this poor fellow,” (laying his hand on the shoulder of the outrageously miserable man, who said `Just so’ feebly, but seemed to shrink from his touch).  “Do I not speak the truth?” he added, looking round with the air of a man who feels that he carries his audience with him.

“Well, mister, I ain’t just quite clear about that,” said Reggie North, rising up and looking over the heads of those in front of him.  There was an immediate and complete silence, for North had both a voice and a face fitted to command attention.  “I’m not a learned man, you see, an’ hain’t studied the subjec’, but isn’t there a line in the Bible which says, `Blessed are they that consider the poor?’ Now it do seem to me that if we was all equally rich, there would be no poor to consider, an’ no rich to consider ’em!”

There was a considerable guffaw at this, and the argumentative man was about to reply, but North checked him with ­

“’Old on, sir, I ain’t done yet.  You said that Sir Cowley Cross ­”

“Crossly Cowel,” cried his opponent, correcting.

“I ax your pardon; Sir Crossly Cowel ­that ’e ’ad no right to ’is millions, ’cause ’e didn’t earn ’em, and because ’is father left ’em to ’im.  Now, I ’ad a grandmother with one eye, poor thing ­but of coorse that’s nothin’ to do wi’ the argiment ­an’ she was left a fi’ pun note by ’er father as ‘ad a game leg ­though that’s nothin’ to do wi’ the argiment neither.  Now, what puzzles me is, that if Sir Cow ­Cross ­”

A great shout of laughter interrupted North here, for he looked so innocently stupid, that most of the audience saw he was making game of the social reformer.

“What puzzles me is,” continued North, “that if Sir Crossly Cowel ’as no right to ’is millions, my old grandmother ’ad no right to ‘er fi’ pun note!” ("Hear, hear,” and applause.) “I don’t know nothin’ about that there big thief Willum you mentioned, nor yet Lord Lorrumdoddy, not bein’ ’ighly connected, you see, mates, but no doubt this gentleman believes in ’is principles ­”

“Of course I does,” said the social reformer indignantly.

“Well, then,” resumed North, suddenly throwing off his sheepish look and sternly gazing at the reformer while he pointed to the outrageously miserable man, who had neither coat, vest, shoes, nor socks, “do you see that man?  If you are in earnest, take off your coat and give it to him.  What right have you to two coats when he has none?”

The reformer looked surprised, and the proposal was received with loud laughter; all the more that he seemed so little to relish the idea of parting with one of his coats in order to prove the justice of his principles, and his own sincerity.

To give his argument more force, Reggie North took a sixpence from his pocket and held it up.

“See here, mates, when I came to this house I said to myself, `The Lord ‘as given me success to-day in sellin’ His word,’ ­you know, some of you, that I’m a seller of Bibles and Testaments?”

“Ay, ay, old boy. We know you,” said several voices.

“And I wasn’t always that,” added North.

“That’s true, anyhow,” said a voice with a laugh.

“Well.  For what I was, I might thank drink and a sinful heart.  For what I am I thank the Lord.  But, as I was goin’ to say, I came here intendin’ to give this sixpence ­it ain’t much, but it’s all I can spare ­to some poor feller in distress, for I practise what I preach, and I meant to do it in a quiet way.  But it seems to me that, seein’ what’s turned up, I’ll do more good by givin’ it in a public way ­so, there it is, old man,” and he put the sixpence on the table in front of the outrageously miserable man, who could hardly believe his eyes.

The change to an outrageously jovial man, with the marks of misery still strong upon him, was worthy of a pantomime, and spoke volumes; for, small though the sum might seem to Sir Crossly Cowel, or Lord Lorrumdoddy, it represented a full instead of an empty stomach and a peaceful instead of a miserable night to one wreck of humanity.

The poor man swept the little coin into his pocket and rose in haste with a “thank ’ee,” to go out and invest it at once, but was checked by North.

“Stop, stop, my fine fellow!  Not quite so fast.  If you’ll wait till I’ve finished my little business here, I’ll take you to where you’ll get some warm grub for nothin’, and maybe an old coat too.”  Encouraged by such brilliant prospects, the now jovially-miserable man sat down and waited while North and Sam went to a more retired spot near the door, where they resumed the confidential talk that had been interrupted.

“The first thing you must do, my boy,” said North, kindly, “is to return to your father’s ‘ouse; an’ that advice cuts two ways ­’eaven-ward an’ earth-ward.”

“Oh! no, no, no, I can never return home,” replied Sam, hurriedly, and thinking only of the shame of returning in his wretched condition to his earthly father.

It was at this point that the couple had come under the sharp stern eye of Number 666, who, as we have seen, went quietly out and conveyed the information direct to the Twitter family.